Chapter 3 #3
“Long as we play the songs they want us to play first,” Pete noted. “Else Moss will be chewing our asses.”
DJ nodded, his expression carefully relaxed. He cleared his throat. “Tal, when you get done, why don’t you crash in my suite tonight? I have an extra room like I usually do.”
“Thanks. Maybe. But if I practice late, I’ll just sleep here with my drums, until the roadies come pack them up tomorrow.”
As Tal determinedly went back to his kit, he looked to Roy like a person floundering in deep water, about to drown but refusing to grab the life ring.
DJ looked at Pete and Steve again as he spoke.
“Okay, Tal.”
The outdoor festival had a raucous and enthusiastic crowd. There were ten bands scheduled, and Survival was the headliner, coming out to perform once the sun had gone down and the stars came out.
On one dramatic rhythm sequence with the bass and drums, Tal going at his kit like a demon and Pete working his bass like a galloping horseman of the Apocalypse, DJ leaped from one of the stage’s raised platforms back to center stage.
He'd done a similar version of it at the previous show, with an erotic agility that seemed effortless. But that was before he’d been roofied by his bandmate.
Even though the drug’s effect should be out of his system, Roy was certain it caused DJ’s misstep. The move was complicated, and being even slightly off was all it took for it to go wrong.
DJ was supposed to land in a kneeling position, fist to the ground, and then spring up as if the ground was on fire.
Instead, his leg went out from under him, and he landed hard on the shoulder, but he rolled with it, coming up into the kneeling position so it looked planned.
He held there an extra beat, then two. When he lifted his head, he did so slowly, a necessary improvisation.
He’d managed to hold onto his mic so he didn’t miss a note, and the strain in his voice became additional emotion. He dragged himself to his feet.
How do I tell you
I love you
How do I tell you
You are crushing my soul
On the other side of the stage, Roy saw Moss mouth shit. Shaun, standing next to Roy, supplied the info he was missing.
“He dislocated his shoulder,” he told Roy. “It’s happened before. Goddamn, that’s got to hurt like hell.”
Steve, Pete and Tal took over, stretching the song out as DJ backed into the fog billowing across the stage.
Roy was already moving with the tech, and met DJ in the wings. DJ’s face was suffused with pain, his teeth clenched. A burly-looking roadie was at his side. “Just pop it back in,” DJ was telling him.
“Man, I don’t know how to do that.”
“I do,” Roy told him. “Move out of the way.”
The roadie obliged with a look of relief. “Do it fast,” DJ managed. “I gotta get back out there.”
“If I do it fast, it could cause damage. And it’ll hurt like a mother later.”
“Not my first rodeo on this shit.” DJ folded forward. They’d been nearly shouting to hear one another, but now his head bumped Roy’s shoulder, his mouth against his ear, breath on his neck. “Damn it, get it done.”
Roy put his hand on the kid’s nape. His nose brushed the sweat-dampened curly hair. “You want it done, you say please.”
He said it right, and got the desired result—a jolt of sexual adrenaline to provide a needed distraction from the pain. DJ raised his gaze to his and offered a surprising gift in return, a stop-the-world-for-a-moment half-smile. Which became touched with mischief as he mouthed a response.
Please, Sir.
Roy felt around the shoulder. DJ was right. If it wasn’t his first time, putting it back in was less likely to cause the damage which made it preferable for dislocations to be handled by medical professionals.
Giving some brief instructions to the roadie, Roy put his hand on DJ’s shoulder and extended the arm slowly to his side. The roadie steadied the sweating musician and then Roy did the extension and popped it back in place.
A cry broke from DJ’s lips that Roy felt in his own bones, but it was short. As soon as Roy put the arm back right, DJ opened his squeezed-shut eyes and gave him a grateful look.
But that wasn’t all.
Grabbing Roy by the suit lapels, he planted a wet, silky kiss on his mouth. Then he switched his wireless mic back on and bounded onto the stage like a goddamn deer.
The roadie gave Roy a thumbs up and an elbow nudge. “Congrats,” he shouted. “You just got what most girls would kill for.”
DJ finished their festival set with all the energy his fans were hoping to get, including the jam with Blue Mod that Tal had suggested.
The band had preceded Survival on the performance list. While they were considered punk, they had a tendency t0 blend that genre with heavy metal and bluesy Southern rock like Survival, so they put on a good show together.
Since DJ acted as if he was feeling no pain, Roy figured the crowd’s enthusiasm was carrying him. But backstage, Roy noticed he held his injured arm at a casual but careful position at his side.
Once he, Moss and his bandmates were secure inside the limo, ready to depart, Roy ducked into the front seat with the driver. DJ sat in one of the rear seats, facing the front. Roy could glance over his shoulder and check how he was doing.
“Man, it never gets old,” Steve crowed, high-fiving Pete. “That was epic.”
DJ’s eyes sparkled. He was fiddling with two straws, and Tal poured himself a drink from the mini-bar. He started digging in his jeans pocket, but when he saw Roy’s attention, Tal froze, his gaze darting toward DJ.
DJ either missed the exchange or chose to, but when Roy looked his way, DJ had the two straws up his nose, walrus style. He used his upper lip to wiggle them. “Is this what you mean about seeing anything go up my nose, Roy?”
Roy’s lips tugged. Idiot. DJ disposed of the straws before leaning his head back. Moss handed him some aspirin and DJ swallowed it dry.
“Some execs from the label will be meeting us at The Experience,” he noted. “I’ll need you guys to press some flesh with them before scattering.”
“How about the fans who won the guest pass?” DJ didn’t open his eyes.
“We have a private room for you to do a fifteen-minute meet and greet and allow for pictures, hugs, all that thing. Try to keep it to fifteen minutes. You don’t need to know their life story.”
DJ lifted a thumbs up to Moss, then rolled a now open eye toward Roy. “You didn’t shoot any of those fans who tried to rush the barricade. I was impressed.”
“Bullets are expensive. The festival security and Henry’s people had it well in hand.”
“They usually do,” Tal said, shooting Roy a passive aggressive look. We don’t need you.
“Remember that girl who tackled DJ in Dallas?” Pete asked. “Henry’s guy had to put her down so hard he cracked her ribs.”
“After she broke his nose.” Steve waved his glass. “In the words of Will Smith, ‘don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing.’”
“Was that Independence Day or Men In Black?”
“Men in Black,” Roy and DJ replied at the same time.
“Jinx!” Tal declared. “Shit, we should watch that tonight. Tell our concierge bitch to find it for us. We like watching her cute ass scurry around.”
DJ shot him a look and Tal lifted his free hand. “Tell the concierge lady to find it for us. She still has a stellar ass.”
“Raising a kid is a full-time job,” Steve told DJ.
“Fuck all of you,” Tal said affably and took a swallow of his drink.
The limo pulled up to the curb slowly, because a restless group of fans and paparazzi was waiting. The Experience was a rotating rooftop restaurant, reserved tonight for music’s elite, including those who’d played the popular annual rock festival.
Roy got out first, noting his team members emerging from the SUVs in front of and behind the limo. When they were in position and the area scanned, Roy dipped back into the limo and jerked his head at the others. “Come on out. DJ will follow.”
“You got it, sir, yes sir.” Pete gave him a jaunty salute and hauled himself out, a whiskey bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. Roy gave him a gentle shove to keep him moving and Steve and Tal followed. Moss offered Roy a more serious nod as he exited, then raised his hand to the fans.
The crowd cheered as Steve hammed it up, playing an air guitar, and Pete flourished the booze.
Tal followed at a sexy saunter, turning in circles as if embracing the crowd.
The self-satisfied look the drummer shot Roy meant he’d taken whatever was in his pocket and thought he was getting away with it.
Roy had the flanking detail tighten up, then put his head back into the car.
Alone, DJ had let his guard down. Roy saw the pain in his expression. “How’s the wing?”
“Sore, but I’ll make it through. God bless aspirin.”
“Do you have to do this?”
“It’s my job. Can’t take a day off over something as stupid as dislocating my shoulder.”
“What qualifies you for a day off? Compound fracture, head injury? Spontaneous blindness?”
DJ grinned. “How would anyone tell if I had a head injury? This is the craziest business in the world, man.”
“No argument there. Ready to go?”
DJ’s gaze glinted. “Can you give me a hand to pull me out of the butt-sucking grip of this cushy limo seat?”
Roy knew the ploy for what it was, but reached out. DJ clasped his fingers with the uninjured arm as Roy helped him slide over. When he put one foot on the pavement, his hand on the door frame, their bodies brushed.
Roy kept looking around, but his muttered threat was directed at DJ. “Grab my ass, and I’ll file a sexual harassment suit.”
“I’d rather you just punish me.” As Roy’s gaze flicked his way, DJ was ready with a slumberous look.
The limo windows were black, and their near nose-to-nose proximity, as well as the limo door, would mask Roy’s response. In his job, it wasn’t the first time sleight of hand had been necessary. But he’d never welcomed the need for it as much as he did now.