2. Paxton
2
PAXTON
“ G et your ass out here,” a low voice grumbles through my earpiece. Surprisingly, it isn’t Judge. It's Dodger. Not surprisingly, he’s even more pissed than Judge would be. Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve been on Judge’s shit-list since I replaced his best friend as lead guitarist. Even so, it’s not my fault Rudy died, now is it? But somehow, the weight of his ire always falls on my shoulders.
Urging me to get my ass in gear, Danny, one of our roadies, hands me my baby. An ebony Gibson Les Paul. She was my first purchase from my first paycheck, and fuck, if I’ve ever loved anything more. Over the years, I’ve collected at least a dozen guitars, hell, maybe two dozen, but this one? This one’s my favorite. I slip the lime green strap over my head, all too aware of the time and how much of it I wasted.
Rolling my shoulders, I let out a slow breath, realizing I didn’t get my smoke.
Fuck. Too late now.
It’s a good thing the girl was cute. If only I’d run into her after I had my smoke. I tap the outside of my thigh, indecision warring through me. I need to be on stage. Scratch that. I needed to be on stage ten minutes ago. Dodger is gonna kill me, and if he doesn’t, Judge will.
I turn to Danny and give him a thumbs up. When he returns it with one of his own, confirming I’m good to go, I traipse onto the stage like I was fucking made for it.
I’ll never get over this rush. The sounds. The lights. The energy.
“Aaaand, here he is. Everyone’s favorite asshole,” Dodger quips.
Laughter ensues from the audience as I move to the microphone set up in front of my spot on the right side of the platform. Adjusting it slightly, I reply, “Pretty sure the title belongs to you, Dodge.”
Another wave of amusement rolls through the crowd, and Dodger shoots me the bird from the center of the stage while Judge—stoic as ever—watches me from the back, hidden behind his drum set as he twirls his drumsticks between his middle and pointer fingers.
Yeah, yeah. I know I’m late.
Then, like the peacekeeper he is, Tuke begins plucking at his bass guitar on Dodger’s opposite side. The low, familiar melody is from one of our biggest hits. I’d like to say I wrote it, but if I did, I’d be lying out of my ass. Nah, writing music has never been my forte. Appreciating it, though? Yeah, that much I can do. As it pulses through the speakers, I lift my head toward the stage lights, basking in the familiarity.
And that’s all it takes. The crowd. The sounds. The lights. It all disappears, leaving nothing but the energy I crave. Like a balm, it slips over my skin, and my fingers find the strings. I start strumming on the fourth measure like clockwork. Sweat already threatens to roll down my spine thanks to the stage lights, and I scan the crowd, feeding off their energy by the end of the first song.
A girl flashes me from the middle of the pit, her tits more than a handful, and her big nipples peaked despite the temperature in the building. She squeals when she realizes I’ve seen her, her plump red lips mouthing, “I love you, Paxton!”
Of course, she does. Everyone here loves me. Well, the idea of me. Of the band. Of the persona IndieCent Vows has created for all its members. Yeah, it’s easy to love a rockstar. The title alone is enough to make most girls fall to their knees.
Everyone but Birthday Girl.
How the hell didn’t she recognize me? I haven’t been able fly under the radar like that in…fuck, I don’t even know how long.
“Marry me!” someone else yells from the mosh pit. A redhead with green eyes and black painted lips. I think it was her anyway. Realizing she has my attention, she grins and screams at the top of her lungs, repeating, “Marry me!”
Yup. Called it.
With a wink, I continue strumming the guitar when Birthday Girl comes into view a few rows toward the front. I almost fuck up the chord but recover at the last instant.
Well, would you look at that. Apparently, she made it.
Jaw unhinged, she stares up at me like I’m a goddamn magician. The lights cast shadows and highlight her heart-shaped face.
Yeah, my little Birthday Girl’s pretty. Thick black hair. Pale skin. Smokey makeup. Like she’s Snow White or some shit. It’s her eyes that do it for me, though. Earlier, they looked…they look so fucking guarded, I couldn’t help but want to sneak a peek at what she’s hiding. Now, though? Now she looks like she’s been knocked on her ass and she doesn’t know what to do about it. Glad I’m not the only one. I’m not sure how she accomplished it, but the girl managed to do the impossible. When I opened the door to have a smoke before the set, she knocked me on my ass, too, and I haven’t been knocked on my ass by a pretty girl since middle school.
Leaning away from the microphone so I don’t interrupt Dodger’s singing, I mouth, “Surprised?”
As if my attention shakes her from her thoughts, she cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Security, my ass!” Or at least, it’s what I think she says. It’s too loud to actually hear her over the music playing in my earpiece and the buzz from the crowd. Even so, I can’t help but grin. She actually bought that shit. Fuck. I love it.
Her head bobs with the music as I strum my guitar while Dodger breaks into the chorus. The audience feeds off it, belting out the lyrics like they’re tattooed in their minds. I sneak another glance at…what did her friend call her? Tate. That’s right. Everyone but Birthday Girl. Her pouty lips are motionless, even if she does look like she’s enjoying the song.
Huh .
Apparently, she wasn’t kidding about being here for Doomsday. The realization is a blow to the ego but only feeds my curiosity. And damn. If she’s willing to sit through a set she’s never heard, I’m determined to make it my best one yet.
After three more songs, she’s jumping with the rest of the crowd, her best friend bellowing the lyrics beside her. Clearing my throat, I step closer to the mic. Dodger finishes whatever he’s saying, then cocks his head at me, curious. What I’m doing. What I’m about to say. It isn’t in the script, and hell if I know. I’m as clueless as he is.
And then it hits me.
My fingers wrap around the black microphone as I pull it toward my mouth.
“Now, we don’t normally do this, but, uh,”—my attention flicks back to the girl at the edge of the stage—“we have a birthday girl in the house.”
“Woo-hoo!”
“All right!”
“Yay!”
All of the screams twist into a cacophony of elation as I continue. “And this birthday girl isn’t celebrating just any birthday. It’s her twenty-first. And we all know what that means, right? I think we need to do some shots.”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” the audience chants.
“What the fuck you doin, man?” Judge murmurs into my earpiece. I smirk back at him but don’t bother answering. Instead, I crook my finger toward Tate in the crowd. “Herb, wanna escort our Birthday Girl and her friend onto the stage?”
“Are you serious?” Tate mouths from the floor. Or maybe she’s yelling and it’s too loud to hear her over the screaming fans. Not that it matters. “Hey, Danny,” I add into the microphone, addressing the roadie backstage. “Wanna grab us some shots so we can celebrate in style?”
“Yessss!” The crowd goes wild, and I bask in the sound.
“Tate?” I prod, staring down at her like a king on his throne. “You gonna leave us hangin’?”
She doesn’t look scared. Actually, she looks the opposite. Her teeth dig into the inside of her cheek as she bites back her smile when Herb appears beside her. It doesn’t hurt that he knew who he was looking for from their little run-in earlier tonight.
Catching on, Tuke starts the first few notes of the famous birthday song on his bass, and I join in. Two notes later, Judge gives us a solid beat from the kick drum, and I start singing the lyrics. “Ha-ppy birth-day to you…”
With a jerky shake of her head, Tate grabs her best friend, walking up the stairs and onto the stage with her head held high while Baby scurries to keep up on her short legs. It’s adorable, if not a little pathetic. The girl sticks out like a sore thumb. Or maybe it only feels that way when she’s next to Tate. Yeah, Birthday Girl sure as shit knows how to steal the show. That much, I know.
By the time I finish the last few notes of Happy Birthday , Dodger is harmonizing from the center of the stage, and the crowd has their cell phone lights swaying back and forth. Tray in hand, Danny follows behind the girls. Eight shots with clear liquid sit lined up in two rows. Danny offers one for me to take. After I do, he shifts the tray to the girls. Baby waves it off before Tate grabs one of the small glasses. Then, Danny moves to the rest of the band.
“Twenty-one, huh?” I ask away from the mic.
Standing in front of me, she rocks back on her heels and keeps the shot glass pinched between her fingers. “Mm-hmm.”
“So, is this your first shot?”
She clinks the edge of the glass against mine then brings the edge to her lips. “First legal one, sure.”
Holding my attention hostage, she tosses the clear liquid back, and I do the same. As it slides down my throat, a trail of heat coats my esophagus, but I’m too distracted by the tip of Birthday Girl’s tongue sliding across her bottom lip to care.
I’ve played this game a time or two. Pretty sure it comes with the territory when you're a rockstar. But never—and I mean never—have I had to fight the urge to grab someone and kiss them more than in this moment. Sweat beads along my brow and drips down my temple, the heat from the stage lights fucking scorching. Or maybe it’s the look in her gaze leaving me burning as the world disappears around us.
“Happy birthday, Birthday Girl,” I murmur.
“You know, Cooper’s gonna be furious if you keep trying to take Doomsday’s spot as my favorite band.”
“Yeah, I think he’ll live.” I dip forward, my mouth hovering right above her ear, and whisper, “Liar.”
Her mouth lifts into a smile, and since I’m so close, it causes my lips to brush against her cheek. The innocent touch shoots straight to my cock, acting like an inferno just like earlier when she slipped past me into the building. Instead of pulling away, I let my mouth skate across the edge of her jaw. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Thumbing the edge of my guitar strap, she counters, “And what do I have to thank you for?”
“For letting you in the side door.”
“It’s cute you think I wouldn’t have found another way if you hadn’t answered.”
“Cute, huh?” I return.
“We done fucking around?” Dodger calls. “I think our fans are ready for us to finish the set.”
“Well, he’s right about one thing,” Tate murmurs. “You shouldn’t keep your fans waiting.” Her hand drops from my guitar strap. “Thanks for the shot.”
Grabbing Tatum’s wrist, I warn, “Don’t disappear.”
“And where would I go?”
“Not sure even you know the answer to that.” I step even closer, dropping my voice low. “I know a runner when I see one.”
“I thought you said you like the chase?” she volleys back.
The stage lights make her eyes fuckin’ sparkle, but before I have a chance to answer, Dodger bellows into the mic the first lyrics of the next song in the set, and I let her go. Eyes gleaming with a challenge, Tate walks backward toward the edge of the stage. With every step, her gaze never leaves mine.
“Herb!” Dodger calls while Judge and Tuke carry the song all by themselves. “Guide these ladies backstage, yeah?”
Like smoke, Tate’s amusement vanishes, and she glares at my bandmate.
“And make sure they stay there,” he adds. “We gotta celebrate, yeah?”
What the hell?
Tate dodges Herb’s attempted grasp but marches toward the curtains while Rory trails behind, casting a quick wave to Dodger before she disappears from sight. It only fuels my curiosity more. Do they…know each other?
Nah. Not possible.
Is it?
Twenty minutes later, the final notes ring through the air as Dodger belts out the last few lines of the song. They mingle with the crowd while everyone joins in, their phones lifted into the air like when we’d finished playing Happy Birthday to Tate. The familiar buzz ebbs through my veins, and I place my pick between my teeth, giving a few of the girls in the front row my signature smirk before grabbing the pick again and flicking it into the mosh pit. A few people dive for it, but a guy in his early thirties snatches it at the last second. Lifting it into the air, he screams at the top of his lungs while I laugh from the stage, drinking it all in. The sights. The sounds. The smells. Another epic night.
Once we’re finished, we saunter toward the side of the stage when Dodger demands, “How do you know Squeaks and Tatum?”
I shake my head. “Squeaks?”
“Rory,” he clarifies. “The kid you dragged on stage. How’d she get in here?”
I squeeze the back of my neck, feeling guilty, though I have no clue why. “I let them in.”
“You what ?” he snaps. “Pax, she’s underage. Hell, she’s not even eighteen!”
“Back up, Dodge. And I don’t know them,” I add. “They were trying to sneak in the side door, and I thought it was kind of funny, so I let them in. How do you know them?”
“They’re family,” he grunts.
My brows raise.
“From Lockwood Heights.” He hesitates, scanning the back area. “Where are they?”
Good question.
Confused, I search the space, calling, “Danny? Herb?”
The roadie appears from the hall. “The girls were tired of watching from the side of the stage, so I set them up in one of the empty rooms and left Herb by the door to make sure no one bothers them.”
“Good.” Dodger’s head bobs. “Let’s do the encore, then we’ll talk more.”