Chapter 2 – Kincaid
Chapter Two
Kincaid
Touring is not all it’s cracked up to be, and we’re only five weeks into this particular circuit. I can’t imagine how done I’ll be once we’ve been at it for multiple months.
Malcolm is bored, which is never a good sign. It means there’s a high likelihood that my bandmate is about to do something to risk making us front-page news.
He’s unpredictable under the best of circumstances. We usually rotate who entertains his hyper ass, but I don’t have it in me today.
Mal is an incredible rhythm guitarist who can swap to lead when needed.
The fans lose their minds when we trade guitars on stage. Even if it’s a pain in the ass, that particular gimmick is worth it for the response from the audience.
Hell, he’s even done bass when we were in a pinch.
It’s not just Malcolm’s guitar skills that make him a valuable member of the band. He has a killer voice that blends well with mine.
That means we need his ass.
My eyes flit to Riser to see if he’s going to help settle Mal down. Our drummer doesn’t meet my gaze, since he’s busy flicking his lighter on and off, the metal clicking as it falls closed.
Boredom wafts off him in waves.
Yeah, we’re all good and bored, but Riser looks the most miserable.
He hasn’t been the same since we lost Drew.
Hell, none of us have been, but they were extremely close.
Like the rest of us, he’s blocked off any emotions regarding that situation and done his best to move on.
It’s not like Andrew is dead—at least, as far as I know—but truthfully, I won’t be shocked when we finally get the call. Our former bassist had the choice to clean up his act or leave. He chose banging H over the band.
We all understand how badly addiction can mess people up, but we practically begged him to stay away from that garbage. It’s what killed the greats, and no one is immune from withdrawal.
Drew is out there somewhere, lying, stealing, and relying on his good looks to keep his addiction fed.
Sometimes it really pisses me off when I think about it. He gave up a once-in-a-lifetime career to stay high all the time, and at least in my opinion, it’s pretty fucking unforgivable.
Other times?
I’m just sad.
No matter what we did, we couldn’t get through to him.
It’s going to fuck me up when he dies.
And he will.
There’s no way around it.
Addiction that deep only ends two ways—either the person decides to get help or they don’t. Eventually he’s going to have to pay the piper.
That fucker was one of my best damn friends too, but the sad truth is, we couldn’t cover for him anymore, even if we wanted to.
We do health checks before every tour, and the doctor responsible for Drew’s appointment wouldn’t sign off. Once the doc saw the track marks all over him, he brought it to the label, and they put their foot down.
We’ve always had a morality clause in our contracts, but they really only freak out about opiates. Anything else, they ignore, but the owner of the record label lost a bandmate to H back in the day.
Well, technically Bryan Thomas died by suicide, but everyone knew his addiction is what got him in the long run.
It’s an ugly truth of the industry, and none of us are perfect.
When we were first coming up, multiple members of more seasoned bands told us to stay away from opiates—the shit that causes a physical dependence, not just a mental addiction.
I took that as canon, but Drew was stubborn. He’s always done what he wanted, and he made it clear he wasn’t interested when the label offered to fund his trip to rehab. They even agreed not to kick him out of the band, if he stuck it out through the full ninety days.
No matter how hard we begged him to take the deal, none of us could talk any sense into him, and he walked. He’d been spiraling for a while, but I truly believed he’d come back and take the deal. It’s been six months without a word, and I’ve mostly come to terms with the fact he made his choice.
You can’t save everyone.
Hell, most days, I’m barely keeping Liminal together, let alone saving anyone.
“I’m bored.” Malcolm shoves himself off the couch in the greenroom we’ve been chilling in since finishing our sound check.
We’re supposed to be discussing what went wrong during practice and trying to expand on what went right.
Only, we’ve been doing this shit for years. We don’t need another meeting to micromanage each other. We all know our parts.
Well, me, Malcolm, and Riser have been at this for years, but Tennyson and Parish are relatively new additions to the band, even if they’ve been in the industry for years.
The label replaced Drew faster than I thought possible, but there was a lot on the line. The tour we were supposed to start six months ago was delayed until we could find a replacement and ensure they would gel with the band.
Tennyson is a killer bass player, and he fits well with us.
We also gained Parish as a bonus. He’s a beast on three different instruments, and I’m only a little jealous of how talented he is.
Some of the fans were pissed when they found out the tour was being delayed, but most were understanding, considering the label went the honest route.
Even with the staffing switch up, we’ve mostly settled into being a cohesive unit.
We’ve had no choice.
The label sent Randy—our official babysitter—to ride out the first four weeks of the tour.
Despite all the shit we’d gotten into over the years, that was a first. He left a week ago, and the atmosphere is a hell of a lot more relaxed.
Although, the downside is, we’re now on our own again to keep Mal in line.
Maybe I should hire him a professional babysitter?
I almost laugh.
He’d never put up with that.
He takes off for the door, and I sigh.
“Don’t do anything to get us hauled in for a meeting at the label,” I call after him. “Or Randy brought back.”
“How about you chill out, Dad?” he counters, flipping me off over his head as he opens the door.
Three years ago, I would have trailed after him to make sure he couldn’t get himself into any trouble.
Now I roll my eyes.
There aren’t many fans around this early—security won’t let them into the venue for hours—but there are a variety of other bodies available.
Everyone from the stagehands to production assistants to members of the wardrobe department, all the way to journalists here for interviews.
He should know better than to screw anyone we have to work with, but Mal isn’t picky.
His carelessness has almost led to issues multiple times.
I used to care more than I can currently muster.
My eyes meet Riser’s, and I quirk an eyebrow. “Wanna get high? I need a pick-me-up or I’m gonna crash.”
He shrugs. “I’ve got nothing better planned.”
People look at rock stars and assume our lives must be glamorous. They have no idea how brutal touring really is.
Sometimes we’re in thirty cities in thirty days.
We’re expected to be wired on stage to engage the crowd in the best show they’ve ever seen. Then we have to keep them happy as we sign autographs, do the meet and greet, and give interviews, but we’re still expected to come down enough to sleep by a reasonable hour while we travel to the next city.
Only to be woken up at noon to practice and give interviews.
It’s a vicious cycle of highs and lows.
I’m either on top of the world or so exhausted that I consider climbing out of my own skin to get an actual break from the grind. Even that wouldn’t work, because our manager would drag our corpses out, prop us up, and play one of our tracks, rather than canceling a show.
Damn, man.
I’m too jaded to not even be thirty.
Every musician has their own pre-show routine.
Mine is fifty push-ups, followed by twenty-five jumping jacks and fifty sit-ups. It has to go in that order, and I don’t feel centered unless I complete the ritual.
Benji glares at me the entire time I do my last five sit-ups. The rest of the guys left when he called us a few minutes ago, but I’m running late.
While I don’t have to do my routine right before we walk out on stage, it does make my muscles more pronounced when I do. Mostly, I just ensure I do it every single day we have a show. Unfortunately, I forgot to dive in earlier.
Our manager will deal.
I’m lead singer.
It’s not like they can start the show without me.
Popping up, I head for the table, grabbing my mask and yanking it on.
We all have our standard masks that we wear regularly, then specialty ones for certain shows.
The worst are the glowing neon masks they had us try out for the upcoming Halloween shows. They make it impossible to see anything more than three feet away. They’re also boiling hot, but the effect is cool.
Heading out the door, I swipe my hands off on the jeans the wardrobe department put me in tonight.
I make my way down the hallway, and Malcolm, Riser, Ten, and Parish come into view. They’re all standing around, shoving in their mixers or strapping into their guitars.
There are fans with backstage access corralled on the left side of the hallway. Security holds them back to give the bands entering and exiting the stage space.
Once the new band is on stage, the security guys will let them go. They’ll be free to chase after Tangled Desires or watch us perform.
I edge up, and the guitar tech hands off my baby, making sure I get strapped in. Sometimes they pass on messages, letting me know if a string had to be swapped out or updates about my pedalboard.
The front-of-house engineer, also known as the sound guy, drops my mixers into my palm, and I get them put in before checking that my Telecaster falls where I like it and tightening the strap.
I sidestep, intending to check the stage to see how long we have, but I slam into someone.
I stretch out an arm, making sure the person doesn’t careen into the wall.
My hand lands on a soft hip, and I frown.
Nice. You almost mowed down a tiny woman.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice coming out low and gravelly.
I tilt my face down to check on her, and I’m smacked with the elusive smell that I’ve been trying to track down for days.
Pears and roses.
My nostrils flare.
Oh yeah, it’s definitely her that I’ve smelled across multiple venues. Her scent is light and fresh, with sweet tinges that make my mouth water.
Jesus.
I never react to scents, but it’s like my skin buzzes with anticipation and the need to bury my nose in her lithe throat.
“Sorry,” she says, swiping my hand off her hip.
“That was me running into you,” I grunt, forcing myself to take a step back. Every cell in my body riots, but I have excellent self-control.
“Okay. In that case, sorry for being in your way.” Her hair falls over her shoulders, but not much past, as she plasters herself to the wall to make room for Tangled Desires to exit the stage.
Well, don’t I feel dismissed?
Most women light up when they spot me. Originally, I thought that scent I’ve been chasing must belong to someone who’s part of the tour staff, but she’s not wearing a staff ID.
Damn.
It’s a bad sign if she’s been to this many shows in a row.
Sure, some fans can afford to follow us around for a few weeks or even a month, but most of them are the groupies who make money off social media.
Anytime they bag a rock star, they post pictures with them half naked and sell the story to the tabloids before moving on to nail the next band.
Whatever makes them happy and pays their bills.
I’m not judging.
That doesn’t mean I’m up next to pay her rent, though.
Plenty of rock stars have had to deal with photos of themselves passed out somewhere while a woman smirks, taking a selfie that pops up everywhere for the next few weeks.
That’s not my style.
Not by a long shot.
I’d be resentful as hell if my family and friends had to see that kind of shit.
Dammit.
I’ve spent the last two or three weeks trying to pin down who smells like pears and roses. It was becoming a fun mystery, and I’d had more than a few ridiculous fantasies about what I would do when I tracked her down.
The guys from Tangled Desires bounce off the stage, and the fans backstage scream their names, begging for autographs and selfies.
I’m still not sure why security failed to pin her over with the rest of the fans, but it’s not my business.
I roll my shoulders back, repositioning my mask.
They put me in the full-faced poisoner version tonight.
It’s light gray with black filigree along the cheekbones.
The bottom has two black gas mask elements on either side with more of the same delicate filigree designs.
The mouthpiece is matte black and built out from the mask.
It’s just open over my actual mouth to allow me to sing without the raspy echo that occurs with a fully enclosed mask.
The label also had half masks made in each of our styles. Those are significantly easier to breathe in, but for whatever reason, wardrobe rarely puts us in them.
Sometimes I wish we had gone completely anonymous when we had the chance.
It would have been a pain in the ass while touring—it’s hard to stay unrecognizable when my hair is as long as it is and we have distinguishable tattoos—but it would make life a whole lot easier when we’re home and trying to go to the grocery store without being bombarded by fans.
It’s too late for that, meaning it’s time for me to get my shit together and put on a damn good show.