Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
A s the band took the stage to the wild applause of the crowd, Luka tried to focus on the performance, rather than the sensation of Kit’s eyes on him. It was probably the tension making him feel like he was wound too tightly, like an out of tune string in danger of snapping. Being around Kit again was even harder than he’d imagined, especially when he’d seen the hopeful, almost beseeching expression on Kit’s face. Sure, it reminded him a lot of the pain he had felt four years before, but it also brought back almost ten years’ worth of good memories. Especially his first sight of Kit in orchestra class on the first day of high school. The two lonely boys had bonded almost immediately, and Kit became the first close friend Luka had ever had.
He thought Kit was still looking at him, and a quick peek to the side showed he was right, so he glanced away — but not before Kit seemed to catch him looking. Kit offered a hesitant smile, and Luka felt his cheeks flushing even as he turned his attention back to his cello.
“Dude, what the fuck is up with you and Kit?”
The soft question from Dmitri on his right made Luka stiffen, and he grimaced, pretending to focus on his bow. “Nothing.”
“Sure, nothing,” Dmitri said, and Luka raised his head to glare at his bandmate.
Only the fact that Dmitri looked worried, biting his lip, kept Luka from snarling. “It is nothing,” he replied stiffly. But he reminded himself that alienating the real members of the band wasn’t going to help, and he sighed. “Can we just say I don’t like him and leave it at that? I’ll keep things professional as long as he does.”
“Okay.” Dmitri still seemed worried, but then he gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Your business, I guess.”
Fortunately, Andre sounded the beat, and Luka could focus on playing instead of thinking. It was one reason music was as necessary to him as breathing — when he played, there wasn’t room for anything else, not love or hate or loneliness or fear, only the music, and music was how he survived.
The set went much as the one in Richmond had, but since they were the only band playing, it was longer. They featured several songs from the album they had just released, as well as covers of classic metal songs that had everyone singing along. For some reason, people loved cover versions.
But the feature, for Luka, was the cello battle he and Dmitri performed just before the intermission. The song was called “Fuck Off,” and Luka had written it at about the same time he’d founded the F-Holes. It had a driving, intense beat, and then it turned into a round, where the melody flowed between their two instruments as they kept up the frenetic pace of the song. It was probably the most intense piece of music in their repertoire, and Luka went for it hard, with Dmitri there every step of the way, matching his energy and giving it back.
The song appeared on their first album and was a big hit, even without drums or vocals. There were words, but Headcrash had convinced Luka to use it as an instrumental instead, not only because of the dark theme, but because the intensity was enough to make Kris hoarse when she tried to sing them. Luka hadn’t minded, given how personal they were, and gradually, people had forgotten there had ever been lyrics. Yet they resonated within Luka, reminding him of his purpose — though when Kit’s face appeared in his mind’s eye, it was hard to banish.
You say you’re my friend? Well, fuck off.
I sure as hell don’t need a friend like you.
Take what’s mine? Go on, fuck off,
This time I’m going to do what I want to do.
Don’t need your betrayal,
Don’t need your lies,
Don’t need insincere apologies,
Wrapped up in smiles and sad blue eyes.
Betrayer. Judas. Benedict Arnold
In a pretty package of lies and deceit.
I don’t buy your apologies —
How often do I have to repeat?
Fuck off with that,
Fuck off,
Fuck off,
Fuck right off, and
Fuck you.
By the time the song ended, they were both absolutely drenched in sweat, and Luka had to push his hair away from his face to even see. The beat still pulsed through his body, and he was grateful for the custom earplugs that protected him from the roaring ovation of the crowd. He could see them, though, everyone on their feet screaming, pumping fists in the air as the stage lights went down.
Breathing hard, Luka almost stumbled as he made his way offstage, handing his cello off to a roadie who was standing nearby, grinning. He smiled back, as elated as he was exhausted. Mercifully, the back half of the set wasn’t as intense, because keeping up the pace they’d set would have required superhuman energy.
He and Dmitri made it to the green room, where the rest of the band was already ensconced. Kris, ever the caretaker, greeted them with bottles of electrolyte drinks and herded them both to a sofa. Luka pulled out his ear pieces, then shook his hair back from his face while reaching for a nearby towel. Once they’d recovered, both he and Dmitri were going to have to put on dry clothes for the second half of the show.
“That was incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. How in the hell do you keep going like that?”
Luka, who had been in the process of melting into the cushions, immediately stiffened when he heard Kit’s voice.
“Thanks! It takes a lot out of both of us.” Dmitri sounded tired but elated, and Luka covered his own desire to snap by taking a long drink from his bottle. By the time he’d lowered it, Dmitri had taken over the conversation, explaining to Kit all about how they’d worked on the interplay between their instruments, and the lengths they’d gone to in order to sustain the rhythm without killing one or both of them in the process. Fortunately, everyone knew Luka didn’t talk much during intermissions, needing his space, so he was pretty sure Dmitri wouldn’t try to make him join in the conversation. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, while breathing slowly and deeply and trying to forget that Kit was sitting less than ten feet away.
“Fifteen!”
It was only when Greg’s voice reached him that Luka realized he’d zoned out, and he rose to his feet with reluctance. He located his bag where he’d dropped it off earlier, carrying it to one of the restrooms to change. The facility even had a small locker room, and he regretted not having time to take advantage of the showers, contenting himself instead with stripping down, toweling off, and donning fresh clothes. As he did so, he tried to shed the anger he felt wrapped around his throat like a noose, threatening to choke him. Playing the song he’d written about Kit while Kit was busily inserting himself into Luka’s domain brought back too many of the emotions he’d worked so hard to put behind him. It took several deep breaths, and he firmly told himself it didn’t matter. Kit could only get to him if Luka allowed it, and he wasn’t about to let it happen. This time, Luka was in control, and he meant to keep it.
By the time he rejoined his bandmates, the stage manager was gesturing for them to head for the stage. Luka paused long enough to grab another drink, downing half the bottle as they headed back out. The roadie who’d taken his axe had placed it neatly in its stand next to his chair, along with a new bow across his seat, since Luka had completely shredded the one he’d been using.
Again, he was aware of Kit’s eyes on him, but this time he ignored the sensation and focused on making sure his cello was in tune.
The second half of the show wasn’t as demanding as the first half, at least not for Luka. Dmitri carried much of the melodic line with Kris, while Luka focused on the descant that wove around them. Again, they finished up with “Kashmir,” where Luka once more took the lead.
Then it was over, and Luka stood for bows. He was glad the show had gone well, but he was more than ready for it to be over. But then he stiffened as Kris gave their outro.
“We are the F-Holes — Andre on drums, Dmitri and Luka on cello, the amazing Kit Davies on bass, and I’m Kris! Goodnight, everyone, and may all your holes be F’d tonight just the way you want!”
Luka spun to look at Kris, glaring in anger. Kris met his gaze, staring him down as the lights went out, obviously unrepentant. Furious, Luka slammed his cello into its stand, then stalked away, not waiting for anyone else. He was in no mood to celebrate the successful concert or to listen to the rest of the band fawning over Kit. He’d taken all he was going to for one day, and fuck what anyone else thought.
How could Kris do it? Make Kit seem like an actual part of the band, like he belonged, like he’d worked his ass off to earn a place with them? He was just a stand-in, nothing more — and, in Luka’s opinion, he was an unwelcome addition whom Luka would tolerate only because he had no other choice. Greg had, almost apologetically, made it clear in a few tense words to Luka before they’d gone on stage that Headcrash was within their rights to hire any replacements they deemed necessary to keep the tour functioning, no matter how the band felt about it. And while Luka could protest, short of leaving the band and violating his own contract, he was simply going to have to accept it. He heard the plea in Greg’s voice, and so he’d sucked it up, figuring he could just ignore Kit’s existence and pretend like they were complete strangers. Luka would keep his head low for the next six weeks, so long as no one shoved anything in his face.
But now, even though Carter had claimed Kit wasn’t going to try to grab the spotlight, everyone was going to know that Kit fucking Davies was “part” of the F-Holes! Sure, the concerts would undoubtedly all be sell-outs now, but not because of Luka and the rest of the band. This was the F-Holes’ time to shine, not Kit’s.
It stung. He’d lost so much because of Kit, and it had taken him years to get back to where he’d been before it had all come crashing down. Even if the F-Holes never achieved the mega stardom that Sultana had, at least Luka was still doing what he loved and making the music he needed to make. He didn’t want to have to share the success the band had worked so hard for with an interloper who’d horned in just because he was bored .
Somehow, he made it back to the bus. They were due to travel to Pittsburgh overnight, then check into a hotel before their concert, so Luka grabbed clean clothes and slammed into the bathroom, stripping down and standing under a cold shower until he felt like he had taken the edge of the boiling rage he felt. There was betrayal under it, too, though he didn’t want to think about that. Just like his bandmates in Sultana had sided with Kit, telling Luka to calm down, that it had just been a misunderstanding, it seemed the F-Holes were willing to do the same thing. Once again, Luka was on the outside, watching as something he’d worked his ass off for was being taken from him, and somehow people were going to consider him the villain.
It fucking wasn’t fair . Of course, he’d learned from a young age that nothing in life ever was, but it sure as hell didn’t make the knowledge any easier to take.
He heard everyone come back to the bus, so he hurried to finish and change into sweatpants and a t-shirt. Then he stepped out, not meeting anyone’s eyes, and made his way to his bunk. He slipped into it and pulled the curtain closed with a decisive snap. If everyone knew what was good for them, they’d leave him alone for a while, and give him a chance to cool off. Because if they didn’t, Luka knew himself well enough to be afraid that he might just walk away from everything and never look back.