Harrison
harrison
. . .
F inally some eye candy that’s interested in me. By the grimace that’s pasted on Sam’s face, she doesn’t like it and if I know Sam, she’s going to try to stop it. Not tonight. I won’t let her. The brown-haired beauty that’s paying me attention is nice on the eyes. She’s a little too slim for my taste but has a rocking rack. With any luck, I may get to find out if they’re real or not. Not that it matters because I’m attracted to her face and the way she’s looking at me. Her skin looks soft with her pink cheeks and deep brown eyes. She isn’t wearing a lot of make-up and for once I feel like I’m staring at a real person. I find myself wanting to loop one of her brunette curls from her ponytail around my finger just so I can feel it, see if it’s as soft as it looks.
Sam is heavy on doing fan friendly events. It normally doesn’t bother me until she tries to go over the top. This one was a radio contest - call in and win. Liam was supposed to do the interview, but was somehow tied up so I took his spot. I’m not used to the limelight, as I’m normally always behind everyone and I’m okay with that. I prefer to hang back in the darkness, getting lost in my own world.
Right now, I’m thinking my obscurity has paid off and before I can second-guess myself, I’m asking, “Do you have plans for after the gig?”
Shock or elation, I’m not sure which, flit across her face. I like that she isn’t expecting anything except a meet and greet and the show. It’s the overly eager ones; the ones that try to bang you in the green room, that you have to be afraid of. Yes, that happens. Dark corners definitely get their workout.
“I don’t,” she tells me. She... I should ask her name, but once I get on stage I’ll forget. I let the music take over, blocking everyone and everything out. It wouldn’t be fair to her if I had to ask again. In fact, it’d be downright rude and that’s something I’m not.
My “she” is a knock out and I can’t get over the fact that she’s sitting here talking to me while Liam is over there chatting away with an old married couple. I want to forget about the gig and just take her out for a nice dinner, some wine and maybe a relaxing time back at my place.
I can tell she’s into me by the way she angles her body. Her knee grazes mine, holding it there for longer than necessary. Moving away would be the right thing to do – the professional thing- but I’m not looking to up my etiquette scores tonight.
“We’re having a little party, be my guest?” It’s a lie, nothing is little about the parties we have or attend, but I want her to feel special. We party every night and sometimes into the day. Tonight isn’t any different nor a special occasion. We’re going to the bar down the street. We always have a little posse with us, however it’s rare fans from contests are asked to join. Tonight will be a night to remember.
“I’d be honored.”
I want to say something smooth, something that will knock her off her feet, but other winners want my attention and I have to give it to them. If Sam found out I blew off these kids I’d never hear the end of it. This is the part of the band life that I don’t like sometimes. I miss the days where I was a house band drummer and could come and go as I pleased.
Now my moves are watched. My appearances are photographed, which means some asshole is always writing about what I’m wearing. It sucks for them that I enjoy the same kind of clothes day in and day out. My favorite is when they ask me if 4225 West is ever going to make it big.
We’re as big as we’re going to get, I guess. We’re happy playing the smaller venues and staying local. It means I spend more time with my mom and sister, Yvie. Sure, the money would be nice, but it’s not why I do this.
I do this because I love the music. I love the way the wood feels between my fingers and how each drum gives me just the right sound. I have no doubt I’ll be playing the drums until I keel over. It’s my life.
The young girls ask for a group photo and my arm candy stands proudly and takes a few shots for us, handing back the camera with a smile. Once they move on, I half sit on the stool, curious as to how my bombshell is going to sit. When she steps up to me, I pick up her pass and look at our logo on the plastic card. Holding it for a second, I realize that I could give it a little tug and she’d fall right into my arms - something to try for next time or maybe later tonight. Right now it’s show time according to Sam.
Fans are required to watch the show from the pit, or front row. Not tonight. Not my fan. Taking her hand, I marvel at how small it is and how it can easily be lost in mine. I tell myself I won’t lose her.
“What’re you doing?” It’s Sam who asks, without even caring about the feelings of the woman I’m taking to the stage with me. Sam eyes her with disgust. Typical .
“I’m letting her watch from the side stage.” I don’t wait for her approval or for her to say anything in rebuttal. This is what I want and sometimes I need to take something for myself.
We make a stop at the food station where I grab a couple of bottles of water.
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m a little thirsty.” She has to look up to see me and the way she does it sends a shock to my system. It would be rude to adjust myself in front of her, or maybe she’d take it as a compliment. I’m not sure so I do it anyway and keep my eyes focused on her as she follows my movement. When she looks at me, her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, thanking the damn sex Gods for dropping her in my lap. I hand her a bottle of water and grab her hand again, dragging her to where she can stand and watch me.
“Please stay,” I lean down and whisper in her ear before heading out to the stage. It’s not ideal leaving her in the dark like this. Selfishly, I want to look over and see her standing there, dancing to the music.
Slapping my sticks together for a beat of one, two, three, Liam starts singing in the dark. The chicks are going crazy, yelling and screaming his name. I channel John Bonham, the legendary drummer for Led Zeppelin, as I bash my drums and fall into a sick beat. The lights come on, and the screams become louder. It’s fuel. It’s energy. It’s the natural high that I need day in and day out to be successful, to feel fulfilled.
When my stick breaks, I toss it out into the crowd. They swarm after it, fighting for a piece of the band. Shortly after, Liam throws his pick to the screaming women and a catfight ensues. He shakes his head and mouths “crazy bitches” to me as he takes a drink of his water. He means it in the most endearing way. We love them all. They excite us with their enthusiasm and encourage us to play for them. They’re eager, alive and downright hardcore fans.
Without them, we are nothing. And each night that we perform, we show them how much we appreciate them.
I take a quick glance over my shoulder and find my girl, at least for tonight, swaying her sexy little ass to the music. She’s into it, and hopefully into me once I’m done here.
As if on cue the roadie brings out our bottled beers. Sam says it helps us relax and we can continue the show with ease. While I prefer water, I’m thinking that a little liquid courage might be nice tonight. In between songs, I guzzle mine down and it’s quickly replaced. He’s such a good little roadie, even if he’s fucking our manager. I guess it doesn’t matter who she screws as long as it isn’t Liam or the band as a whole. They’ve been down that path and he had to nip that shit quick. He’s far too young to get tied up in the industry bullshit of hooking up with the person we pay to make us a hit.
A stool is brought out, signaling Liam’s about to get emo. He writes about a girl that he never talks about. Her name is tattooed on his chest, yet no one sees it. The only reason I know this is because I was there when he had it done. I’ve heard Sam ask- technically yell – but Liam is tight lipped. His past, where he’s from, what he’s running from is all hush-hush. In the few interviews we’ve done, Sam has us on question lock-down, earning her money.
Liam’s guitar trails off and the song is over. The crowd looks somber, as they should be. Many of them hold up lighters, feeling his pain, and recognizing that they’re probably going through or have been through the same heartache. Some of the shit he spews would make my grandmother weep. He’s a broken dude, but is either not willing to or can’t change for some reason. He’s the example of why I’ll never fall in love. It’s painful and messy.
Three more songs and then we’re done. One ballad and two upbeat, get on your feet and move songs. I have a healthy buzz going after downing another beer. It was my third or fourth. I lost count. The sexy little number that I want to have fun with tonight is moving her body in ways that should be left for the bedroom. Is it a peek of what’s to come? I fucking hope so.
Before I know it, Liam is walking off stage. I finish my riff and toss my sticks out into the crowd. The cheers are so loud that the floor is vibrating. I’d call this show a success and the woman whose hand I’m holding as I leave the staging area is my prize for being a good boy.
Thing is, as far as I’m concerned, I’m always a good boy... it just depends on your definition.