Backstage Pass (Sinners on Tour 1)

“Show offs,” Malcolm grumbled.

Myrna suppressed the urge to kick him in the shins.

As the song’s solo approached, Brian worked his way down from the platform behind the drums toward the circular outset at center stage. Sed moved back and Brian took his place. During his solo, a ring of fire surrounded his feet. As if he were playing for the devil himself, the flames licked higher and higher as the music built, until she could only see his silhouette. Myrna’s heart squeezed with anxiety. Being surrounded by al those flames must be hot, and if something went wrong…

But the fire died at the end of the solo and Brian stepped back onto the main stage unharmed.

“Wasn’t that cool, baby?” Claire shouted.

Malcolm shrugged.

Myrna suppressed the urge to kick him in the ass.

When the song ended, the crowd yel ed their approval.

“Good evening, Los Angeles!” Sed screamed into the mic. “Are you ready to rock?” He held the mic out toward the crowd. When they weren’t loud enough to satisfy him, he screamed, “I said, are you ready to mother f**kin’ rock?” He punctuated his final words with exaggerated nods of his head and thrust his microphone toward the audience. The crowd responded with greater enthusiasm. Claire cringed. “Does he have to cuss like that?”

“Smal vocabulary,” Malcolm commented, grinning to himself.

Myrna suppressed the urge to kick him in the stomach.

Sed continued on stage, “The hometown crowd looks beautiful from where I stand. What do you think, Jace?” He grabbed Jace in a headlock and pul ed him to the front of the stage.

“Craziest f**kers on the planet,” Jace said quietly into Sed’s microphone.

Myrna grinned. He was so damn cute. Some girl in the audience yel ed, “I love you, Jace!”

Myrna could see the blush spread up his face from where she stood. “I love you, too.”

“Oh hel , no,” Sed growled. “I don’t get any love?” He spread his arms wide, inviting adulation. Thousands of women professed their love for Sed at the top of their lungs. He grinned like a shark.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “As you know, we’re filming the concert tonight, so are you going to raise the roof?”

Yeah, they were. He sure knew how to get them pumped up. Myrna covered her ears to protect them from the roar of the crowd.

“Cuz our producer thought we should film this in f**kin’ Canada.”

Rounds of boos from the audience.

“That’s what I said. Now, don’t make me look bad. I stuck up for you guys. I said no one knows how to rock harder than L.A. What do you say, Master Sinclair?”

“I don’t know, Sed,” Brian said into his microphone, stage left. “Remember the last time we were up North? Those fans are pretty f**kin’ insane.” He paused for the crowd’s negative response. “But I think they were just trying to keep warm.” He rubbed his arms as if cold and hopped up and down like an overly excited fan. Eric drummed a buh-dum-bumb to accompany Brian’s attempt at comedy. Myrna laughed along with everyone else. Except Malcolm. His jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together. Myrna suppressed the urge to kick him in the throat.

What in the hel was Malcolm’s problem? He seemed to be making an effort to not enjoy himself. Claire had wandered off to chatter with a roadie and the lead singer of one of the opening bands, who obviously didn’t realize he was hitting on Brian Sinclair’s mother. Claire didn’t seem to care that her son easily kept ten thousand people entertained with his talent and charm. She paid him no mind.

No wonder Brian desperately needed love and Myrna’s constant approval. Stupid parents. Myrna had the strangest desire to just hug Brian. Hold him. Tel him how wonderful he was. How his father’s approval didn’t matter. He had the approval of hundreds of thousands of fans, but she knew that wouldn’t fil that hole in him she hadn’t recognized until this evening. Only one thing would fil that.

“You know what you should do,” Myrna said to Malcolm as nonchalantly as she could muster. “You should get up there and show these kids where their guitar heroes got their influence.”

He glanced at her, but quickly covered his look of interest with annoyance. “Why are you talking to me?”

Myrna suppressed the urge to kick him in the teeth.

She shrugged. “Wel , if you can’t…”

He grunted, the arms crossed over his chest tightening until his biceps strained the sleeves of his T-shirt. “There’s a difference between can’t and won’t.”

“The outcome is the same.”

The band started the next song. Myrna watched with her usual enthusiasm, pretending to ignore Malcolm, who tapped his toe occasional y and shifted his hands into his pockets during Brian’s solo. This might be easier than she thought. He wanted to be up there with Brian. She knew he did. So why was he holding back? And why did he find it necessary to belittle not only Brian, but his entire band?

The majority of the crowd was a mosh pit—bodies ricocheting off each other in chaos. When the song ended, the audience surged toward the barrier as individuals tried to situate themselves closer to the stage.

“Wild crowd tonight,” Myrna commented. “Ever had a crowd like this one?”

Malcolm snorted. “Ever heard of Woodstock?”

“Oh yeah, you played there when Winged Faith was first starting out. That was what? Forty years ago?”

He scowled. “Yeah, I guess it has been that long. Best four days of my life.”

“I’m betting the days your children were born were right up there with them.”

“I was on tour in Cleveland when Brian was born. New Orleans with Kara.”

“That must’ve been hard. Being on the road and missing your children’s births.”

“Being on the road al the time is hard. I missed a lot. But not being on the road is harder.”

“You could get a little taste of that back tonight. I’m sure Brian would love to play a tribute to Winged Faith with you on stage. He said so himself.” Forgive me for lying, Brian.

Malcolm’s brow furrowed with what Myrna hoped was consideration. He glanced at his wife, who had found several more men to add to her entourage. Myrna counted two drummers, a bassist, and a guitarist, in addition to the lead singer and roadie. Malcolm rol ed his eyes, removed his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms again.

She could tel he wanted to be on stage, but apparently he needed more pushing. “I need to apologize to you for cal ing you a—”