Chapter 28
(Rebel)
The moment we took to the stage, I spotted him, about five rows into the massive crowd that filled the field of the outdoor festival we were playing at.
Knightly was jumping around, hollering my name and waving obnoxiously, coming close to smacking the guy beside him a couple of times.
He looked like an aging roadie instead of the former lead guitarist of a globally popular heavy metal band, worn down and haggard.
He’d wind up on camera eventually, face splashed over the jumbo screens beside the stage.
People would go wild. Some of them might even expect us to call him up on stage the way I’d done in the past. He probably expected it too and would eat up the attention when folks realized he was there.
He wasn’t getting that from me today or any other day moving forward, not after the shit he’d pulled. His number was still blocked in my phone, not that it had stopped him using other numbers to text, all of which were blocked now, too.
Every one of them had been filled with desperate excuses and absent of any form of an apology for the lies he’d told or pressing the issue the way he’d had.
Pleading had rapidly morphed into reminders of everything he’d done for me.
Including one message that had just been a list of all the ways he’d helped my career, calling me ungrateful all while claiming that I owed him for doing things I’d never asked him to do.
I’d wanted to kick his ass the night he’d dragged me up onstage to play a set with Shriveled Rose, because holy shit, those guys had been my idols, and I hadn’t felt like I was anywhere close to being good enough to share a stage with them, let alone join them for a handful of cover songs.
I’d surprised myself that night, in the best possible way, but it hadn’t been because of Knightly, who’d gotten up there and started strutting around like a fucking peacock, showing off every trick he knew, from playing behind his head to busting out an improvised solo that had momentarily thrown the whole flow off.
It was all Adrien Lee. The way he engaged with me, smiled, nodded, and howled with the crowd when I cut loose and completely shredded, was what had changed my perception about my abilities that night.
So, I guess I did owe Knightly a thank you for getting me up there, but there had to be a limit to the amount of payback he was owed for an action that took place over fifteen years ago.
There was something about him being here that put me on edge, but the feeling was overshadowed by the need to remind him that one of the greatest guitarists of our generation had given me his stamp of approval that night.
That was something Knightly could never take or tarnish.
Maybe it was spite, or maybe I was just tired of him making me feel like I should be doing more for him when it was his poor choices and shitass attitude that had landed him in whatever trouble he was in now, but I played every song that night like a giant fuck you to the man who was doing everything in his power to get my attention.
If it hadn’t been for security, he’d have been over the barricade in a heartbeat and up on the stage whether I wanted him there or not. Watching him be shoved back the two times he’d tried to climb over it made me smile and play even harder.
I knew Johnny had spotted him too when he smirked and jerked his head in Knightly’s direction. I glanced over to see him being yanked backward and hollered at by the people he’d shoved his way in front of and grinned like a madman as we launched into our next song.
Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving dick.
I was dripping sweat by the time we finished the set, my t-shirt having been cast into the crowd three songs in.
Tonight, I’d skipped one piece of my concert ritual and kept my ass on the stage instead of diving in, not wanting to wind up surfed in his direction.
So far, all the press on this tour had been positive, meaning our manager was, for the most part, a happy man.
I’d prefer to keep him that way, especially when a happy Daddy Draven meant a happy Johnny too.
After last year’s trial, he deserved every shred of joy that came his way.
“You’re due at the merch table in twenty minutes,” Draven’s text-to-speech device, always on its loudest setting backstage, announced the moment we stepped off the stage, prompting a mad scramble for showers and a change of clothes.
Did that stop me from catching Kit’s hand and delaying our exit from the dressing room while the rest of the guys rushed to the merch table ahead of us?
No the fuck it didn’t.
“Wha, we gotta g…,” Kit hissed until I silenced him with a kiss.
“Just wanted to do that,” I muttered before kissing him again. “Now we can go.”
“I love the way you think,” Kit said as we rushed to catch up to the rest of our bandmates.
At least they’d left us two seats next to each other, even if they were at the start of the table.
Assholes.
“Thirty seconds to spare,” Draven grumbled, holding up his phone so I could see the timer he’d set on it.
“Which means I’m on time,” I pointed out, chuckling as I got settled.
An assortment of Sharpies had already been laid out for me, with the guys at the other end of the table handling the actual merchandise. I could sign my name in my sleep at this point.
Kit had taken to just signing KT, with an X beneath it that I knew meant crossed drumsticks, a line of smiling faces passing like a blur as our time there ticked on.
Having a piece of that joy, up close and personal, the way they were when they leaned over the table for selfies, or gushed as we scribbled our names, was just as big a gift as staring out at a massive crowd.
All I’d ever wanted was to create music that stirred up emotions in people the way the music of my youth had inspired me. What more could I say now but that I am living the dream?
A young man with a metal guitar pick necklace and fingerless gloves on his hands held out a worn edition of Guitar Craze magazine, cheeks pink as he stammered out a request for me to sign it.
“Whoa,” I said when I got a look at the cover.
There I stood, a decade younger, guitar held over my head in triumph after I’d been named guitarist of the year.
“I got it off the magazine rack at the grocery store,” the guy said. “Memorized every tip and technique you shared until I could play Harlequin Blues. Thought I was gonna die when I heard you guys play it tonight; you fuckin’ slayed.”
Our first time topping the charts had been with that song, which, ironically enough, had been inspired by a cartoon Johnny and I watched in a dumpy-ass motel room one night.
Two guys to a bed, the constant droning of the television accompanying my bandmates’ snores.
He and I had lain awake, fiddling with words, grumpy as fuck when it was time to roll out in the morning.
I lived for moments like this and the brilliant reminders of the past and everything we’d gone through to get here tonight.
“Thanks,” I said as I carefully signed the cover. “You still play?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Right on! That’s what I like to hear.”
“I’ve got a band and everything,” he said. “We’re just playing fairs and town festivals right now, but one day, I’d love to play at something like this.”
“If you ever do, hit me up on social media or through the band’s website. I’d love to come check you guys out,” I said.
“Seriously?”
“You’re damn right,” I said as I passed the magazine back.
I’d be there too and carry this moment with me as yet another reminder that what we did mattered.
I’d been one of the lucky ones, with a family that believed dreams should be pursued.
In a world full of people who’d been forced to settle for less than what they’d craved, I was truly fortunate to wake up every morning doing what I loved to do.
I deserved a kick in the ass for the thoughts I’d had earlier in the tour, when I’d considered hanging up my guitar because I didn’t have the freedom I’d once had to go out and get into trouble.
Steel was right. I needed to learn patience.
Even as he moved along and I ducked my head to sign an autograph book, I couldn’t stop thinking about that magazine issue and how excited, and completely out of my element, I’d been that day.
The first three dozen shots had just been me awkwardly standing there holding my guitar before we’d moved on to me having it slung across my back, my hands shoved in my pockets as I’d stared into the camera.
The next few poses weren’t any better, until finally the photographer was like: Dude, you just won guitarist of the year; celebrate that shit.
And that’s how I’d wound up holding my guitar up in one hand, like I was showing off a trophy.
I was so in the flow of signing that when hands slammed down on the table in front of me, I jumped and blinked up into Knightly’s twisted-up features as he glared at me.
“You’re gonna talk to me!” Knightly declared.
When I looked past him, intending to ignore him in favor of signing for the next person in line, I realized there was no next person, just this fucker waiting around to fuck with me.
“If you don’t have anything that needs to be signed, you can move along,” Sully said, his voice firm as he stepped up beside my chair.
“The only autograph I want from this fucker is his name on the bottom of this contract!” Knightly declared, whipping out a copy of the one I’d already deleted from my email.
“I’m not signing shit!”
“You are not going to fuck me over on this, Rebel!” He snapped. “Cole’s already pulled out because you’re not in, and Davy is on the verge of doing the same if you won’t commit. I need this.”
“And I need you out of my face and out of my life!” I snapped, coming up out of my seat. “You should have gotten the fuckin’ hint when I blocked you.”
“Ungrateful bastard,” he snarled. “I helped you get here!”
“And how many times did you almost cost me this opportunity?” I yelled. “How many fights did you cause between me and my bandmates because you’re a fucking dick!”
He lunged for me, but before we could start a brawl on the table, Sully moved me back, one solid arm across my chest as he positioned himself between us, giving me the moment I needed to collect myself.
“We’re done here,” I declared, which was all Sully needed to hear.
With Knightly hurling profanities in between begging me not to walk away from him, I turned away with Sully at my back and headed straight for the bus.
What sounded like a scuffle broke out behind me, but when I tried to turn around to see what was happening, Sully’s hand on my shoulder kept me facing forward so I wouldn’t trip.
“That fucking guy has lost it!” Dash said, his voice following me on to the bus.
It was only then that I realized that all of my bandmates had followed me when I’d left.
“He’s being dealt with,” Johnny said. “Draven stayed behind with some of our security team. He told me he’d catch up to us at the lodge.”
“Fuckin’ bastard!” I snarled, carding my fingers through my hair and tugging at the strands.
Fury and adrenaline fueled me, making it difficult to stop pacing. I kept telling myself that being away from him was a good thing and that nothing good would have come from punching him in the face.
It wasn’t until Ozzy stepped in front of me that I stopped moving and let him tug my fingers free from the mess I’d made of my hair.
“You know this,” Ozzy said as deadpanned as could be. “There are way better things to get worked up over.”
Okay, he had me there. The moment I thought it, my eyes shifted to Kit, and way more interesting possibilities came to mind.
“I move to propose a new bylaw,” Johnny said, as he popped the tab on a can of pop. “One that permanently bans any mention of Brandon Knightly from the tour bus and all other band spaces moving forward.”
“Does that mean we finally get to ban his presence too?” Dash asked.
“You’re damn right it does. Should have done that a long time ago,” Ozzy said.
“Sounds like we’re at three votes already,” Johnny said.
“Make that four,” Kit added, leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he stared at me.
“Unanimous,” I said.
Sully’s unexpected comment of thank fuck for that, drew my attention to where he stood a few feet away.
“Pat’s ready to get underway,” Sully announced. “Said to tell you guys that there will be no stops between here and the lodge, so get comfortable.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And thanks for getting me the fuck out of there.”
“It’s what I do, kid,” Sully said. “Thanks for making my job easier and choosing to get the fuck out of there instead of sticking around trying to fight him.”
"It was too good of a night to end behind bars,” I admitted, thinking back to that kid with the magazine cover.
That’s the way I wanted to be remembered, not for meaningless brawls with washed-up has-beens willing to fuck over their friends for a bit of fame.
“A new bylaw has been added,” Dash said, the battered mini notebook still held in his hands. “Anyone want a drink?”
“As long as it’s not tequila,” Kit said as Johnny opened the fridge.
“Everybody gets a PowerAde,” Johnny declared and began passing them out. “Since it’s the only goddamn thing you guys have left in here.”
“Shit, I knew we forgot something,” Dash said, chuckling as he tucked the notebook away.
“I’m warning you, Kit,” Johnny said, as he passed him a grape before slinging an arm over his shoulders.
“If you don’t stock up every chance you get, you’ll be parched as a motherfucker riding around with these thickheaded bastards.
They will grab every salty, savory, spicy as fuck snack they can get their hands on and space the fuck out when it comes to grabbing anything to wash it down with. ”
“Guilty,” I admitted, thinking back to the day we’d blown a tire and reboarded the bus, celebrating a glorious raid on the convenience store only to discover that, aside from a bag full of Buzz Balls, there was absolutely nothing to drink.
“You all are,” Johnny declared.
“Yup,” Dash replied. “Equally and without shame. That’s why you were proclaimed lord of the drinks.”
“Yeah, well, I’m passing that crown to Kit,” Johnny declared.
“Me?” Kit squeaked. “What makes you think I’ll do any better?”
“He’s got a point,” I said. “He never remembers to grab drinks from catering.”
“Seriously,” Dash said. “How many times has he put his plate down to go back for one?”
“Every damn time,” I pointed out.
Johnny just sighed and shook his head at us. “You guys are fucked.”