I could see a clear picture of Trent Masters in my head, scrawling notes in a dirt-stained notebook. His boots were kicked up, while his band practiced chords and strummed along to their own hearts.
I liked the thought of it.
That’s why, when the private car finally crunched gravel just after 4 o’clock, I was dressed up in my best.
I’d even been waiting for half an hour.
Trent
Turns out, I’d been a little harder up after my brief skirmish with the bikers than I’d thought. As much as I hated to admit it, Old Greg had been right to send me towards a clinic.
My body had been already seriously aching by the time I arrived there, and it was only going to get worse.
The overnight doc who saw me patched me up, nice and well. Turned out that I only had a slight concussion, nothing too major. She commented that whomever had tended my wounds had done a good job of it, but that was small substitute for getting a few bruised ribs checked out.
Still, the place had a pharmacy built in, so I walked away with a bottle of decent painkillers and a smile on my face.
That smile faded when I got back.
The manager of our band, a scrawny, middle-aged fuck named Steven, climbed out of the bus as soon as I pulled up. His hands were up in the air – a classic sign that he was pissed – and his beady little eyes blazing with fury.
“Where the fuck were you, Trent? You can’t just traipse off like that in the middle of the fucking night drunk as shit!”
“I wasn’t drunk,” I commented blandly, tossing him the keys to the rental.
They bounced limply off his chest, and he quickly bent over to scoop them up. When he jumped back up, he followed me back towards the bus.
“You must have been. The others said you were drinking like a fucking camel.”
“The others were too busy with their tongues down some groupies’ throats to have half a rat’s ass of what I was doing,” I corrected him.
“You need to cut the prima donna act, you son of a bitch,” he grumbled angrily. “How the fuck am I supposed to do PR on you fuckers when you scatter to the winds after a show?”
“I don’t know. Figured that’s what you were paid to do.”
“I ain’t your goddamn babysitter.”
“Never said you were. Frankly, I’d hate that. But if you want some advice…” I poked my finger into his chest, “…back the fuck off. The others, I can’t really speak to their maturity. But I haven’t given you shit that you haven’t started first. Trust me. I wanted to clear my head, took a drive. That was it.”
Steven snatched the prescription bag from my hands. Before I could grab it back, he was eying the small, orange bottle inside.
“Just out for a drive, eh? Is that the load of horse crap you’re feeding me? What kind of bullshit is this, then?”
“So, I got into a fight.”
He glowered at me.
“A fucking fight?”
“Yeah. Went to a bar. Stepped aside for a piss. I walk back in, and these biker fuckers were trying to rape the poor bartender. I roughed them up. They outnumbered me, so I took a few hits.”
“Look at you, Mister Hotshot ‘Knight in Shining Armor,’” the manager sardonically told me. “You’re on thin ice, and I’m holding onto these.”
I tugged the bottle back.
“Nice fucking try. The last thing I need is a reprisal of your goddamn pill problem. We’ve only got a few more shows on tour; just keep your shit together and we’ll be home free.”
Steven simmered with mounting anger, but I took the last few steps towards the bus. Being intelligent for once, he didn’t bother to follow me inside, waking up anyone.
As I closed the door behind myself, I wondered why we even had to deal with him. Music labels didn’t usually assign managers out anymore, but this guy was dumped on us as a condition of our contract.
Probably because we’d pissed them off by bringing a decent lawyer along to renegotiate the terms of our royalties and earning potential, because fuck making pennies on the dollar.
I stepped over a few sleeping bodies – it looked my guitarist, Waylon, had barely escorted his pair of sweet little honeys inside before fucking them in our tiny little kitchen.
Well, Papa’s home now.
And Papa says “No bare asses in the kitchen.”
I nudged one of them with my foot. She murmured in her sleep a little, and I persisted. Finally, she rose up, yawning and looking at me in the semi-darkness.
“Time to go, sweetheart. You and your friend. How long did Pound Town last?”
She sighed sleepily. “Not long enough.”
“Yeah, didn’t think so. He talks a tough game, but that’s about it. I think I’ve clocked him at about forty-five seconds before.”
“Well, it was longer than that.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Anyway, you should get going. Need a ride? I can call you a taxi or something, but you need to get gone.”
“Nah, we drove. Thanks though.” She smiled quietly, her sultry little eyes locked onto me. “You want to pick up where he left off?”
I seriously considered that for a moment, but Angel’s face entered my head. My cock twitched a little, but only because of how close I’d been to fucking her.
Nah. I’ve already made my pick.
“Don’t do sloppy seconds.”
“Fair enough,” she muttered.
The groupie woke up her friend, and they bid me goodnight before leaving my sight.
My drummer was asleep with his cougar. I could tell that he was still dressed in his wife beater – he was unusually attached to those. Paired with cargo pants and sweat stains in some interesting places, Dylan usually went with a style that I affectionately called Divorced, Single Nebraskan Dad Chic.
I decided not to bother either of them.
Dylan was a total idiot, but he was a more rational idiot than my impulsive guitarist – although I didn’t like how chummy those two had been getting lately.
The bassist, had already sent his piece of ass away for the night. Lying in bed with a book, Terence gave me a brief nod as I passed by in the hall.
Our bassist didn’t talk much.
He was a thoughtful guy. Reserved.
It made him someone easy for me to work with.
Settling down in bed, I curled my fingers behind my head and waited for sleep to rear its ugly head. Unfortunately, it was a bit busy that night.
Instead, I wound up thinking about Angel.
Those sweet hips of hers.
That nice rack.
Her gorgeous hair.
Those beautiful eyes…
As I’d done so many times in the last few weeks, I rubbed one out to help myself sleep. It was dispassionate, unfeeling, just a burst of chemicals in my head to subdue my thoughts.
My self-loathing.
My lack of emotion.
My private littl
e clusterfuck of imbalances.
I felt filthy. Disgusting. The groupies, the fame, the attention, none of it fucking mattered. But when I saw the way that girl was looking at me…I forgot, briefly.
Forgot how screwed up I was inside.
Huh. Imagine that.
Angel
The driver, a friendly backup tech for the bad, pulled behind the private area behind the main venue. We came to a stop beside a group of other private vehicles. On the other side of a tall wall, I could barely make out the roofs of what were likely the band buses.
“By the way, you’re gonna need this to hang around backstage,” the tech told me.
He tossed me a special, tagged lanyard, which I quickly studied before promptly sliding it into place around my neck.
VIP – Platinum
Trent Masters and the Whiplash, Guest
A tall, beefy stagehand peered through the door after we knocked. Checking my tag, he nodded promptly and let us through. With him in the lead, we navigated a few unorganized corridors and turns, eventually winding up close to the stage itself.
“This is the VIP area,” he pointed out. “Here’s where the after-party usually goes down. Band buses are over that way, just outside.”
It was a reasonably sized dark room, with several other areas behind curtains or separated out from the main floor. Some couches, chairs, and assorted seating were placed seemingly without rhyme or reason. A large bar stood proud along the main wall, with a few servers scurrying around and checking on the details.
“This is where Trent and company decompress after a show,” the tech told me. “Along with the other bands, of course.”
“Other bands?”
I’d actually forgotten all about that.
The tech looked at me funnily. “Yeah, the other performers. Whiplash is one of seven bands playing this venue. There’re one or two smaller outfits, but most of them are household names. Couple of veterans from the Eighties…”
While he droned on, I glanced around. It was easy to imagine several dozen rockers, splitting into their own little cliques, and surrounded by VIPs and groupies.
I wondered where Trent sat.