High Strung (The Road to Rocktoberfest 2024)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

“ H oly shit, could it get any hotter?”

Luka paused in the middle of unpacking his electric cello and looked over at where Kris was fanning herself vigorously. The backstage area was open, but the weather in Richmond was hot for September, even at their location on the riverfront. Whatever slight breeze there was couldn’t reach them through the piles of equipment and speakers that were massed around them. Outdoor gigs weren’t Luka’s favorite for this very reason, but it wasn’t as though the F-Holes were going to turn down an invitation to headline a music festival, even if the weather felt like the ninth circle of hell.

“At least you get to wear less than we do,” he shot back playfully, and Kris stuck her tongue out at him. As the lead singer, she was dressed in a skimpy black dress that showed off her long legs and lean build. The rest of the band was protective of her, both physically and socially. Her unique vocal range was part of their sound, making the F-Holes stand out for something besides simply having cellos. Besides, it was hard enough on her having been born male, so Luka and the other members of the F-Holes were determined to give her as safe a space as possible to do what she did best — sing the fuck out of every song they played.

“If you got it, flaunt it,” she replied, sticking her nose in the air.

Turning on her heel — and honestly, Luka was always impressed she could stand, much less walk, in the five-inch spikes — she sauntered over to where her girlfriend, Jo, was settled in her wheelchair, camera in hand. Jo traveled with them, taking backstage candids of the band at every concert, as well as on their travel bus. She hoped to write a book about them in the next year, now that the F-Holes had gained enough traction to be headliners. Luka was all for it. It probably wasn’t the healthiest attitude, and he knew it, but he found that anything that would rub his success in his mother’s face made him happy, and the thought of having his band the subject of a best-selling book would be a great petty revenge.

Next to him, Dmitri was checking over his own cello. The electric versions were much lighter than the normal, hollow, curved wooden structure that people were used to. Their touring axes were made of carbon fiber, omitting a resonance box in favor of an on-board pre-amp. They looked more like a weird magician’s staff than a musical instrument, and, ironically, didn’t possess the traditional decorative cut-outs for which the band was named. Still, the electric cellos could crank out more sound than the traditional type and do amazing effects, which was another reason Luka loved his. Of course, the fact that he hadn’t been considered “serious enough about music” to be given his grandfather’s Stradivarius might have something to do with his preference as well.

“I’m waiting for her to take a tumble on the stage one day,” Dmitri murmured, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement as he gestured toward Kris. “One of us is going to have to make the ultimate sacrifice to save her, you know.”

“I’ll jump to catch her, and you catch my axe,” Luka said. Their instruments weren’t cheap, but Kris’s unique voice couldn’t be replaced.

They set about tuning up, using noise-canceling headphones since the band on stage at the moment, Midnight Hunt, was shredding it loud and hard. Luka loved their music, but he made himself focus on the task at hand rather than letting himself give in to the lure of jamming right along with them. Truth be told, he felt a bit on edge, since this was their first major gig as headliners, and he knew reviews of this, the start of their tour, could make or break their audience numbers later on. He didn’t want anything to screw it up.

Finally Midnight Hunt came off the stage, and the applause from the crowd out front was deafening. There was no way to be heard over the noise, so he flashed a double thumbs up at them as they headed toward the golf carts that would carry them back to their bus. Their roadies were making fast work of breaking down before the F-Holes’ team came in and started rigging the stage with their setup. Then it was finally time for Luka and his bandmates to take the stage.

“And now the final band of the night, in the first performance of their High Strung tour, please welcome Jett, Andre, Kris, Dmitri, and Luka — the F-Holes!”

The band ran out on stage, where a sea of people were clapping and screaming. Luka felt his pulse speed up as it always did when he caught the energy of the crowd. He waved his bow over his head, eliciting even more yells in reaction, before mounting the raised platform in front of Andre and taking his seat next to Dmitri. It only took them a moment to settle, then Andre rapped out four beats on the rim of his kit and they launched into their first song, a cover of Du Hast by Rammstein. It had been their first major hit, and they always led off with it, like it was a lucky formula they were afraid to change.

Andre set the pace while Jett’s bass came in with a steady rhythm. Dmitri took up a staccato beat of his own, while Luka carried the melody, adding a sinister undertone to Kris’s harshly growled German.

The crowd was pumped, shouting along to the words. Within a minute, Luka felt the sweat beginning to pour down his back and running along his face as he worked his bow across the strings, the short, sharp notes requiring precise bowing even as his left hand flowed up and down along the neck of his instrument. Then the final build crescendoed toward the ending — where everyone else stopped abruptly, leaving Luka to play the last two measures, twenty precise notes in an eerie, electronic tone that rang through silence in a way that no Stradivarius ever could have made.

The applause was so thunderous it made the strings of his cello vibrate in sympathy, and Luka looked at Dmitri with a grin. But he didn’t have much time to savor it, since Jett was already sounding the first chords of their next song, an original piece by Kris that showed off the best parts of her flexible and impressively large vocal range.

One thing Luka enjoyed about playing gigs where they were only one of the acts — even if they were the main one — was that their part of the show was shorter. It meant they could bring more intensity to each song, and instead of having to pace themselves for a two-hour marathon. It also meant that they left the crowd wanting more — as was evidenced by the shouts for them to continue when they left the stage after their “final” number. Of course everyone knew it wasn’t the last one, and they ran back out to cheers to play another cover piece, this one of the Led Zeppelin song “Kashmir,” which was a particular favorite of Luka’s, since it allowed him to wind his melodic line around Kris’s vocals, while the rest of the band kept the beat going sure and strong behind them.

Then it was over, all of them breaking into a cacophony of sound that built and built to a sharp, almost orgasmic conclusion. Kris summoned them all forward for a final bow, before giving their traditional ending line — “We are the F-Holes! Goodnight, everyone, and may all your holes be F’d tonight just the way you want!”

With that, it was over, and Luka, still holding his cello, headed toward the backstage area. It had been a great show, one of their best, and he was riding high on adrenaline, grinning at Dmitri and giving Jo a high five as he passed her.

“That’s how it’s done!” Andre said, clapping Luka on the back.

“You know it,” Luka agreed. He stopped at his case to put away his cello, and he just glanced over toward Dmitri, when, beyond his bandmate, he glimpsed a disaster unfolding.

Jett had already put his electric bass away and had apparently headed down the stairs to get back to their bus before the rest of them. There was a sort of good natured rivalry between all of them about who would get to shower first after a show, and it seemed like Jett, with his typical competitiveness, was determined to steal a march while he could. But there wasn’t much illumination in the backstage area, and between black floors and black cables, Jett didn’t seem to see the hazard. Just before the stairs the end of a cable had been left uncoiled, and, in his hurry, the bassist tripped over it. He stumbled, falling forward, and then took a header down the short flight of steps to the ground.

“Shit!” Luka moved as fast as he could, but Jett was far too far away for him to do anything. He heard Jett cry out, and his heart hammered in his chest as he imagined Jett having broken his neck.

Disdaining the stairs, Luka jumped off the edge of the riser, landing next to where Jett was sprawled on the ground. He rolled over, gasping in pain and clutching his right wrist, his face pale. Luka was more worried about the chance that Jett had given himself a concussion, and he put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, holding him in place.

“My wrist… fuck, it hurts!” Jett grimaced. Sweat stood out on his face, and to Luka, it seemed he was looking faint.

“Don’t move!” Luka told him, and Jett nodded weakly. He reached out with his left hand, and Luka grasped it supportively. “Hang on, dude. Medic! Isn’t there a damned medic around here?”

Apparently there was, since moments later someone was kneeling on Jett’s other side, an older man dressed in a white shirt with a large red cross on it.

“I’ve got this. Everyone stand back now,” the medic said, gesturing for Luka to move away.

Luka gave Jett’s hand a squeeze before releasing it. “You’ll be fine. They’ll take care of you,” he said, aching for the fear he saw in Jett’s expressive brown eyes.

He rose to his feet, stepping out of the way as several more medical personnel hurried up. As he turned, he found the rest of the band behind him, with Jo in her wheelchair looking on anxiously from the back of the stage above.

Everyone was somber, and Luka felt a sickening drop in his stomach as realization set in. A bassist with an injured wrist — be it broken or merely sprained — couldn’t play, and the band had just started their tour. Over and above the tour gigs, they had Rocktoberfest looming only a month away, which would be the biggest event they’d ever played. They had a prime position, too, next to last on Friday, just before the headlining band that night, Warrior Black. But without Jett, how could they perform?

An hour before, it had looked like the F-Holes had finally made it — only now it seemed they had crashed and burned.

“Well, they didn’t waste any time, did they?”

Dmitri swung into the room, then flopped down in the chair next to Luka. It was just like him to be late to a mandatory meeting, then toss out some dry comment. Not that Luka could blame him, really, since the entire band — minus Jett, who was still in Virginia, sidelined with a nasty bump on his head and a wrist that wasn’t broken, but only badly sprained — was feeling uneasy in the wake of the accident two days before. They’d barely had time to deal with the emotions of watching Jett’s accident before their manager, Greg, had hustled them onto their bus in order to make it to Philadelphia for their next show, telling them not to worry because Jett was in good hands.

They’d lucked out that there was a day’s grace between the Richmond show and the Philly one, but the previous day’s practice had reflected the unsettled state of the entire band, and even the roadies had been subdued. Honestly, Luka had expected their label, Headcrash, to cancel the Philly gig and maybe even Pittsburgh and Columbus, too, while they looked for available musicians to take Jett’s place. It wasn’t as though they could slot just anyone into the band on a moment’s notice, except for whatever session musicians might be able to step up. The demands of live performances were very different from playing background in a recording studio, and a lot of session people had their jobs specifically because they didn’t want the stress of touring. So even though there were musicians who were familiar with their song list by dint of having played it for the F-Holes’s newly released album, it wasn’t even a sure thing that they would be available or willing to sub for weeks or even months on tour.

But that morning, Greg had gotten a phone call, so he’d summoned them all to this meeting with the label rep. Luka tried to remain aloof about it, but frankly, he was worried that Headcrash was going to pull the rug out from under them. He knew it was probably baseless, given how much time, effort, and especially money went into setting up something as elaborate as a nationwide tour, but it felt like the sword of Damocles was hanging over them. It made his anxiety spike, especially given all that he had invested as far as time, sweat, and money in getting the band to this point.

The green room of the TD Pavilion was well equipped, with a bar off to one side and a comfortable seating area large enough for an entire symphony — which made sense, given that the Philadephia Orchestra often played there. The six people present — minus Jett but including Jo at everyone’s insistence — were swallowed up in the space, even though Greg had kept them off to one side, perhaps trying to keep things more private and intimate. It didn’t work very well, but it was the best he could have done in the situation.

It seemed it would have to be good enough, since not long after Dmitri’s arrival, Carter Morton, the head Artist and Repertoire representative from Headcrash, entered the room. Carter worked as a liaison between the band and the label, and it was he who had scouted them originally and gotten them their contract with Headcrash. A they could make it without a bassist if they had to. Hell, Luka could play bass himself where it was needed. But if he objected, he’d have to explain why, and that was a can of worms he simply couldn’t bear to open. So he sat frozen in place, mind racing as he frantically weighed up his options. Other than walking away from the band completely, there didn’t seem to be much he could do where he wouldn’t end up having to delve into painful memories he’d thought buried long ago. It had been one of the hardest, most painful things Luka had ever done when he walked away from Sultana, but he wasn’t going to do it again. He wasn’t going to let Kit Davies cost him another band, especially one that Luka had poured even more of himself into.

“Dude, what’s wrong?” Dmitri had stopped his gyrations, apparently having noticed Luka’s lack of reaction. Slowly, everyone turned to look at him, and Luka swallowed hard. What could he say? And, ironically, who would even believe him if he lost his mind and told them the truth? He’d worked hard to forget what had happened, and he had apparently covered up things well enough that none of them had a clue, which was scant help at the moment.

“Nothing,” he finally said. “Just in shock, I guess.”

“Snap out of shock!” Kris scolded him, reaching over to poke him in the shoulder. “Do you know what it means that Kit Davies is willing to sub in for Jett and not even demand top billing? It means we’ve made it! Instead of squeaking through the next six weeks until Jett is better, we’ll actually rock it for all it’s worth! This will be epic!”

“Sure.”

The toneless acknowledgement was the best Luka could do, but thankfully Kris just rolled her eyes and turned away, apparently willing to leave him to his “shock” instead of pressing for more. “Hey Carter, when does he arrive? I can’t wait to meet him and shake his hand.”

“Actually, he’s outside,” Carter said, grinning at the fresh surprise on their faces. “He flew in to be here for tonight’s show.”

“Quick, people, stop acting like giddy fangirls,” Andre said, dropping into a chair, leaning back in a pose that was probably supposed to seem relaxed and unconcerned. “We need to make a good impression before he comes to his senses… er… I mean changes his mind.”

Carter rose, then crossed back to the entrance. Luka closed his eyes, because he’d not seen Kit in over four years, and he didn’t want to see him now. He just didn’t know what to do or how to escape this nightmare without giving himself away. None of the members of the F-Holes knew that Luka Petrov had once been Luke Peterson, co-founder of Sultana. Just like none of them knew that Luka and Kit had gone to high school and college together, and they had been best friends from the time they were fourteen.

None of them knew his past or would ever have any reason to suspect that Kit Davies had been responsible for the biggest betrayal he had ever experienced — as well as being the man who’d broken Luka Petrov’s heart.