Chapter 11
11
Shane
“Say it to my fucking face, asshole!”
Yanked backward, I’m dragged away before I can punch the fuck out of that face for blindsiding me with a knock to my head. My ears are ringing, but the shouting of the death metal fans penetrates all else. I’m pushed through an opening, and the door is slammed closed behind me.
Seeing my cousins, especially Nikki, are safe, I whip back to the bodyguards, throwing my arms out wide. “Why’d you have to ruin a good time, fellas? We could have taken ’em.”
They’re smart enough to keep their mouths shut. Except for Jeff, who always pokes the bear. “Our job was to get you out of there, not have your back.”
“And here I thought they were one and the same.”
“Shane,” Nikki says, grabbing my arm. “Don’t.” Her voice is quiet, her hands trembling even while holding me. “Please.”
Should I be grateful that we were just pulled from a mob? Probably. It’s been a few years since Laird and I have been in a good fight, so it’s hard to walk away instead of finishing what we didn’t start.
Laird bends down to cool off. “What the fuck just happened?” When he stands back up, there’s a slash of blood across his chin. It’s hard to tell if it’s his or someone else’s.
“You’re bleeding.” Nikki goes to him. Lifting on the toes of her sneakers, she tells him to be still while she analyzes the situation.
Holding her by the elbow, he studies her as well. “Are you okay, sis?”
“Every hair on my head is accounted for, but you two took the brunt of it.” Popping the hem of his shirt, she adds, “Wipe it off. It’s superficial, but you should get a bandage so you’re not bleeding on stage.”
“Fuck that. I’ll bleed.” A smirk lifts the right side of his face. “Bleed for my audience. Bleed for the fans. What’s more rock and roll than that?”
I shouldn’t chuckle. I really shouldn’t, but if this were the old days, we’d be working this situation hard in our favor and have a couple of chicks, each , lined up to take care of our needs before we left the stadium. We’ve had some good and wild times.
When she rolls her eyes, reminding me of Cat, which is easy to do since I’ve been thinking about her too much to be considered healthy, Nikki asks, “Do you really want to worry Poppy in her last trimester? If she sees you with blood on your face?—”
“She’ll already be upset that my face was touched.” He laughs with a grin so prominent I don’t think it could be wiped off. “She likes it a lot.” When I look over her head, though, a look of concern drops his expression. “You took a hit to the head?”
The throbbing had become a distraction to what happened, but I was hoping to keep it on the down-low. I reach up to where a pulse has situated in my forehead, knowing there’s no hiding it. “Fuck. Not good.”
“You need ice on that,” he adds, “before it swells.”
“More than it is,” I say, practically feeling it grow under my fingers. “That’s what I get for keeping my head down.” I shoot a glare behind me, but the guys are already gone. “Their one fucking job was to get us from the car to backstage. Nikki should have never been taken from the SUV.”
Laird inspects her once more as if he knows she hates to bother others, even at her own expense. “Anything could have happened.”
“Stop worrying about me. I’m fine.” Nikki eyes my head. “You might have a concussion. Let’s get ahold of Tommy.” A tremor in her tone has her dropping her gaze to the ground. “I’m not sure what to do about performing.” Looking at us for answers, she asks, “Do we still go on?”
Laird wraps her in his arms before she has time to say more. “Clearly not fans of the band.”
Her shoulders rattle with laughter, and she pushes him off. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Can’t help it,” he says, grinning in reaction to hers.
She wipes under her eyes where tears had threatened to fall, then her gaze volleys between us. “We’re taking the stage.” As if catching herself, her gaze darts back to me. “If you’re okay, that is.”
“Fine and dandy.” I grab a cold bottle of water from the cooler nearby and hold it to my head. “I’m ready to rock this arena.”
Laird nods. “We’re here for the fans.”
We start for the doors leading backstage, leaving this loading area and the scuffle outside behind us. Nikki stops before we push through the doors and says, “Don’t tell Tulsa until after The Crow Brothers perform. He’ll lose it on security.”
Do I agree with her plan? No, not really. He should know what happened, but I also realize it will cause much damage if he finds out before performing. He probably won’t play, leading to turmoil and legal issues as a no-show on stage. Like the rest of us, she shouldn’t have been put in danger, and that back there was a fucking mess. I wouldn’t want someone I loved caught in it.
We’ve chosen this life, good or bad. People either love us or want to rip us to shreds. I say, “We’re not doing this festival next year.”
“Agreed,” they reply in unison as we push through the double doors and enter the hall like the professionals we are to do our jobs like nothing ever happened.
Sitting in the blackness of the stage, I can barely make out the drum kit in front of me.
This is my moment.
My time to shine.
It’s all about leading us from the dark into the light.
When I tap my sticks, the lights blast on, illuminating the arena as soon as I slam down on my drums. Cheering explodes, the sound blasting into us and giving us life. Kicking into the steady beat of the opening song, Nikki sings like an angel to a mesmerized crowd. Her voice silences the critics and pulls them into the next ninety minutes of our rock set.
It's too hot to keep my shirt on, but it’s not until we’ve covered six songs that I tug it off without missing a beat. Laird looks back when the fans go wild, clueing him into something I’m doing.
I won’t call attention to the blood that’s returned to streak across his chin or the drops that have fallen, staining the front of his shirt. It’s not enough to worry, but the visual is a reminder of the pain pulsing in my head. As if drumming wasn’t doing that already.
Dizziness has me anchoring myself to my chair, and I look down, checking the setlist to stay on track despite knowing it by heart. I push through. I have no other choice.
Nikki swings out in front of my platform, making eye contact, but I know she’s checking on me. She doesn’t miss a word of the song and keeps moving like all is as it was meant to be. I can play every song by heart, drumming on instinct, but she gives me something to focus on instead of getting lost in the crowd of faces in the distance and blacking out.
Closing out the show by ripping across the drums, I hit the last beat of our set and slam the sticks down. Done. I’m behind Laird as we trail Nikki off stage. I’m hot, and the pain has intensified. I catch a bottle tossed to me and finish the water before we reach the dressing room.
I slump onto the leather couch, waiting for the door to close. As soon as Nikki closes it, I concede to the pain. “I need a medic.”
“You have a mild concussion,” the doctor says. “I’m surprised you got through the set.”
“The show must go on, right, Doc?”
“To your detriment.” He starts packing his bag, then looks at me before shifting to Tommy. “You have the instructions. When does he fly back to LA?”
“I’m right here, by the way. As much as Tommy will love babying me, he’s not my keeper.” I check my phone like I might have missed a message, but there’s not one. Though I wish I’d heard from a certain nurse.
The doc replies, “I find musicians lean toward more stubborn when it comes to taking time off.”
Tommy is older than us but not so much to pretend to have control. Though I should be touched by the worry creasing his forehead. “They have another show tomorrow night.”
The doc heads for the door. “The level of intensity required from a drummer is too much for me to recommend performing again that soon. But I know you’re not going to listen to me anyway. Watch him over the next twenty-four hours, limit sleep to bedtime, and stock up on ibuprofen. Hydrating is always a good idea, no alcohol is ideal, and then check on him every few hours.” He hits me with a look that makes me think this is more serious than I thought. “If you feel dizzy or notice anything strange, you should go to the ER right away.” He opens the door, and as he backs out, he adds, “It was a great show.”
When it’s only the band and Tommy left, I say, “We’re not canceling the show tomorrow night.”
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Tommy stops and crosses his arms over his chest. “We’ll see.” His stance widens as if he’s guarding the door so we can’t leave . . . or us from intruders. “We had a serious breakdown in protocol. The breach in security is going to cost the venue. The outside was theirs to secure. We were guaranteed it was, or I wouldn’t have had you go that way.”
Nikki sits in a chair in front of the Hollywood mirrors. “We know.”
He says, “We’re putting our guys on the bands to get you out of here safely. There’s a place where the SUV will pull in backstage to take you to the hotel.”
He looks at Nikki. “I want you out of here with these guys, no waiting for Tulsa. Knowing you’re secure makes it easier to focus on The Crow Brothers when they come off stage.”
Laird looks at his phone and plugs his ear when he holds it up to the other. “Hey, I’m okay . . .”
Nikki turns back to Tommy. “Laird was cut, and Shane has a concussion?—”
“Mild,” I add.
It doesn’t deter her. “What if Tulsa or I would have had my daughter with us? This is not safe.”
“It’s not common either,” Tommy says, “so let’s figure out what went wrong, why those fans of the other band were able to bust through the barricades, and how we can prevent it from happening again. I can’t do that right now, though. I need to get you guys out of here and then do the same for the Crows.”
Laird paces with his head down, and whispering, “I didn’t feel it. At worst, a little mark . . . You don’t need to worry. I’m safe. We all are.” He glances over at me. “We’re leaving now. I love you.”
Nikki grabs her bag. “Let’s go then.”
Laird and Nikki take their job of babysitting me all night seriously, bugging the shit out of me on a rotation every two hours like clockwork. Nikki. Laird. Now I’m stuck awake at one a.m. on the East Coast, thinking about a woman three hours behind in a different time zone. Not that I wasn’t already.
She’s on my mind like a melody I’ve already memorized. Only she doesn’t know it’s my favorite song. Familiar. Comforting. Bringing me back to happier times. Is that what Cat does for me? Grounds me in some way that I haven’t had in years?
Though time with her makes me feel new, like discovering a passion and wanting to spend all your free time with it. I look at the window where the heavy blackout drapes were kept open “for my benefit.” There are too many lights to see the stars from bed, but I know they’re there for me and hanging over her head as well.
Still not tired, I grab my phone, willing . . . wanting to make the next move with her. It’s not like we said we couldn’t contact each other. Wasn’t exchanging numbers a given that we would?
“Fuck it.” I run my fingers through my hair and then text her:
I couldn’t wait until the reunion to talk to you again.
Why’d I send that? It’s not funny. Fuck?—
Cat:
Who is this?
I stare at the screen a good minute, questioning everything from the details of our conversations to my existence in the universe. Does she really not know who it is or is she fucking with me?
Me:
. . . For real? My ego is wounded.
Cat:
I have no doubt that your ego will be just fine. Missing me already?
Do I tell her the truth or . . .
Me:
Is your ego feeling left out?
Cat:
My ego could use some stroking.
Holy fuck. Blood rushes from my swollen head, going south. Nurse Cate coming out to play was unexpected. I grin, rubbing my cock with images of her wearing nothing but that white coat coming to mind.
It takes me a few seconds to know how to respond. Was it an invitation? Only one way to find out.
Me:
Be right over.
Cat:
You’re a wanted man. No hot dates to keep you entertained?
Me :
I’m entertained. Let’s go back to that stroking.
Cat:
LOL. How about we talk about you? How was the show?
She can’t do anything from the West Coast, so no need to worry a nurse over a little concussion.
Me:
It was good. The crowd was wild. I don’t want to talk about me when you’re much more interesting. How was your day?
Cat:
Wild here, too. The retirees at River Elms are protesting this week. They had pudding removed from the dessert table due to budget concerns. It’s now only available if someone is sick or needs softer food. Ginger snaps were broken in the kerfuffle.
Chuckling, I read her text several times, enjoying more each time. She’s so fucking cute.
Me:
Sounds dangerous. Stay safe out there.
I imagine her laughing, those pretty eyes of hers shining just for me while she texts.
Cat:
I’m prepared for Monday. I bought boxes of pudding to make. I’ll come bearing gifts to calm the residents. Nothing like getting high blood pressure readings because they didn’t get their pudding.
I’m about to type, but another message pops up:
It was good to hear from you, Shane. I’m exhausted from the day and heading to bed. Have a good night.
I get the hint, but I’m not sure how I feel about it. Maybe she’s just tired like I am. I’m not going to lie here second-guessing what her intentions are and take it at face value. I type:
You, too.
I’m close to calling her just to hear her say good night, but I set the phone down beside me instead. The door opens, and Laird looks in my general direction in the dark. “You alive, Shane?”
“Fuck off.”
“Sounds like you’re back to normal.” He closes the door.
I’m left with scrambled thoughts of Cat. Why do I feel so good when she’s around, even via text? This isn’t normal. We just reconnected, barely know each other, and only came back together with the common goal of getting divorced.
But there’s more to it, and Laird’s words come to mind. “It was just different with her.”
I bolt upright in bed, aggravating the knot on my head. Covering the pulse raging in my head, I try to quell the pain despite the epiphany that’s now rocking my world.
Shit.
Do I have feelings for my wife?