Arrogant Brit

Nor did I need the other fans swarming me.

I was supposed to be relaxing, chilling out with the band before our set while they idly strummed and drummed on their practice instruments, not stalking my own guest and undressing her with my eyes from over here.

But goddamn, did she look hot.

The clothes she picked were amusing punk threads – a tight band shirt, a ratty jumper over it, a miniskirt frayed along the edges, long striped socks, and a that pair of Converse again. It was an interesting ensemble – probably improvised at the last second – but it demonstrated that she cared enough to try and look the part.

The only way she could look any more punk to me was if she’d dyed her hair green and added a spiked choker.

But this?

I liked this.

I liked it a lot.

My twitching cock agreed.

Enough distractions, I thought to myself as I pulled my eyes away from her. Within the moment, I’d slipped back out of sight. Retreating towards the group, I walked in on Waylon and Terence, ribbing each other over their playing.

They loved taking the piss at each other.

Dylan, on the other hand, was practicing a few rolls and clashes against a drum kit. He ended each one with a symbol crash, quickly grabbing the edge to silence the ringing sound.

“Hey, how’s your little pet doin’?” Waylon sneered, a sly grin on his face. “She alright in the sidelines, yeah?”

“Told you to not call her that,” I retorted.

Waylon and Dylan shared a look.

Terence simply shrugged.

“Yeah, well, it’s not often that the big guy hands out a free pass to a nice piece of ass,” Waylon smiled, his eyes curious. “It’s just nice to see you with your head back in the game.”

“How do you figure?”

“Maaan, you have been moping hardcore these last few weeks. Turnin’ down ‘tang in a dozen cities. Good to have the fearless leader back is all I’m sayin’.”

I grunted, taking a step towards him. I wanted to smack that shit-eating grin straight off of his face…but I stopped myself.

Last thing I needed to do?

Smack around my guitarist before a show.

And I owed the fans, anyway. RipFest had been sold out for three months. Sure, the other bands were a major draw too, but I wasn’t about to cripple the end-game of the venue lineup because my asshole guitarist was talking shit about my girl.

My girl?

I stepped back outside to clear my head. Where the fuck did THAT come from? Because that wasn’t a possessive thought – it was a surprisingly tender one.

For a brief moment, I considered the idea of waking up beside her, reaching over and kissing her shoulder, and listening for her slight, sleepy murmurs. The picture was so vivid in my head that it made my chest slightly swell.

I bit down angrily, punching one hand into the other palm. I took a couple of deep breaths, and let the tension slip away.

No. I don’t need this right now.

She’s just a nice piece of ass that got yanked out from my grasp at the last second. That’s all she is – a gorgeous little scrap to pull into my bed.

My shoulders relaxed.

That’s right.

A small smile crossed my lips again. The last thing I needed to do was fall for some chick in the middle of fucking nowhere, even if she was really cute…

Had to admit, thought.

That shotgun thing had been pretty awesome.

I turned my attention towards more important things. Specifically, I noticed that the night was winding down. Those old windbags from the olden days were rocking out – and goddamn if I didn’t respect them – but that just meant that we were following up veritable rock legends.

By the time I walked back into our private practice room, my convictions were clear. We were going to rock our goddamn hearts out tonight.

“Alright, fuckers…we’re on in an hour and a half. Let’s make some fucking music happen.”

Chapter 12

Angel

Just like with every other set change, the stage dimmed, technicians for the band quietly dismantled and retrieved instruments, and the next band’s crew came out to mirror the process in reverse.

With the entire stage cloaked in darkness, an impressive drum kit was assembled rapidly in the back while techs brought out amps, connected wires, and tuned guitars.

The crew adjusted the instruments, strummed basic chords, and paused to play with the amp settings. Meanwhile, the drum guy repeatedly ran drumrolls, clashing the symbols and tweaking everything to perfection.

They were silent, focused professionals.

As usual, it took about thirty minutes for the entire process to unfold. These guys worked fast, both the ones for the previous band doing the breakdown, and the ones for the next one doing the reassembly.

But I knew who was last.

Trent Masters and the Whiplash.

The entire crowd awaited with hushed breath as the crew worked in silence, barely acknowledging one another. They simply did their jobs and retreated when the time was right.

Finally, the stage was empty for a few minutes…

And then out they came.

I could barely make out Trent in the semi-darkness, sauntering towards the microphone as the rest of his band assumed their positions. When everyone was in place, the lights flickered back on, and the crowd went wild.

“Well, would you look at that?” Trent called out, addressing his band. “Looks like a hell of a crowd. Think we can bless them with some serious rock?”

The mob roared with excitement.

“I dunno, bruh,” the dreadlocked guitarist chuckled into his own microphone stand. “They don’t look all that pleased to see us…”

“Maybe we should just pack back up, eh?” The drummer laughed.

“You hear that, folks?” Trent told the audience smugly. “What a bunch of dicks, right? I believe in you, though…but I need some hands. Help me show these assholes that you give a shit!”

The crowd exploded with cheering.

“Fuck yeah! Now that’s what drags our tired asses out on stage!” Trent laughed. “Alright boys, looks like these fuckers aren’t exhausted yet. Ready to give ‘em a show?”

The band immediately launched into song.

The guitarist and bassist began rapidly strumming out a furious tune as the drummer beat his kit with a rhythmic fury. Trent, meanwhile, stood tall at the microphone, throwing his hand out towards the band.

“Helloooo, Alabama! I am Trent Masters, and THIS is the Whiplash!”

Even this late, well past midnight, the crowd remained as energetic as ever. I could see them seriously getting into the music as the melody kicked into gear and the band performed their hearts out.

As Trent began singing his lyrics, he dominated the stage with presence that none of the previous singers had.

While some of them stood at the mike and let their belting vocals do the work, and others bounced around or paraded across the stage, Trent owned that space. His sheer charisma and personality overwhelmed the crowd, and every movement – every little swagger of his step or twirl of the microphone – came from a place of improvised purpose.

It was clear how he was so popular.

He was handsome.

His voice was incredible.

And with every cocky ounce that he had in him, he was perfectly in his element in front of a major crowd.

When he sang for me the previous night, he sang tenderly but purposefully. Those same traits were here now, although he was more forceful, belting out the rich baritones and swapping octaves at the right times to take a scowling line of fury to a quiet, sincere one.

And the choruses of his songs were powerful. The other musicians worked well together, complementing each other against the soundscape of his lyrics.

“You try to run or try to hide / From all this emptiness inside / It’s all so clear when out of sight / But you

r darkness defines your light…”

The rest of my little group of side-stage spectators were clearly getting into the music. Every once in a while, Trent would turn to flash a quick, powerful smile our way…

But I knew it was always for me.