13. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Riley
The second Xane sends me out of the dressing room to go find Kian’s hipster beer, I know it means the kid is about to have his ass handed to him over the stunt he pulled off with our vacation.
There’s a fifty/fifty chance Xane will be cool with the whole thing.
I’m not betting on that outcome.
The kid is too big for his boots.
Xane has our whole year worked out in advance. He’s not going to let Kian change his press tour line up just so we can have a decent vacation for once.
Our lead Alpha has a single-tracked mind.
It doesn’t matter how much we have in our bank accounts he always finds ways to make us more money. That was cool back when we started, don’t get me wrong.
Once you’ve got a few million, though, it’s a whole lot less impressive.
At this point, we could all quit and live like Kings.
That’s probably why Trick’s been thinking so hard about leaving the band.
It wouldn’t be the same without him, but we’d keep going.
What else are we gonna do?
Music is all we know.
This scene is like lifeblood to me.
I need my kit to breathe, and the women and booze to keep my blood flowing.
That doesn’t mean I don’t need breaks.
Everyone needs time to chill.
And right now, I think Xane needs time off even more than the rest of us.
He’s the kind of guy who works harder whenever he’s told to relax though, so there’s that.
I make my way down the corridor that links the dressing rooms to the backstage area, heading toward the sounds of voices and half-hoping the little blonde chick I missed out on tapping last night is hanging around again tonight.
She looked eager as hell, and I could use that kind of energy if I’m about to be told the month-long vacation has been shot down.
I shouldn’t have let the idea of it go to my head.
Kian’s crazy for thinking Xane might let him get away with it.
There’s no way in hell he’s gonna let the kid change everything last minute like this.
Sighing, I step out into the backstage area. It reeks of beer and sweat back here, so much so that I lift an arm to do a sniff check. Musky but I have the citrusy sweetness of my deodorant working overtime so I don’t smell as bad as I probably should.
I glance around as I move forward, looking out for the venue’s manager.
That fanboy can go find the kid’s fruity beer for him.
He’ll be pleased to get the chance to knock on our dressing room door.
I’m not wasting my time on that shit.
I shuffle forward in my sliders, nodding and waving at the members of our warmup band as I weave my way past a few groups of teenage fans with backstage passes around their necks.
Our warmup band have been getting bigger since they started with us, and they have a whole circle of their own fanboys and girls now, too.
Thankfully the teens are too interested in whatever crazy story the lead singer’s telling them to even notice who’s slipping past them, and I’m glad.
I don’t think Xane would be too pleased if selfies of me in my underwear with a group of teens made it onto the internet. Besides that, I’m not exactly in the mood to talk to fans even if I was more appropriately dressed.
The few minutes I gave everyone after the encore was more than enough to cover the cost of their passes. Xane has us all well trained to deal with that shit before we head to the dressing room to chill out.
I probably give a little less than my band mates, but that’s just part of my mystique.
“Ah, damn.”
The manager’s only a few feet away now, talking with the lighting guy, but unfortunately for Kian, I’m not going to make it to him.
Sucks for Kian that he won’t get his drink. Sucks for me that I’m about to be side-tracked while I’m in my underwear.
So, this is where he’s been.
Our lead guitarist isn’t usually the type to land himself in hot water. He dresses like a roughed-up gangster because Xane hired a stylist for him when he joined the band and this was apparently the only compromise he’d accept to his buttoned-down mob accountant regular vibe.
The hat is okay, I guess, and the blood-red hair dye, sure, but the shirt and vest combo wouldn’t be cool on anyone.
Even with the ripped off sleeves and two-toned detailing, I kinda hate it.
At the very least, he could spend more time in the gym toning up his upper arms.
Too bad he isn’t into working out, so he’s gonna remain a lanky streak of piss with awful dress sense.
I would have thought that would scare the ladies away, but somehow, it does the opposite.
Even so, Trick isn’t usually one to land himself in this kind of situation.
Tonight, it seems he’s managed to get trapped by the side of the backstage bar, surrounded by a trio of women who sound like they’ve been drinking all afternoon. One of them starts to crack up as Trick’s smile freezes on his face, and the other two join in seconds later.
Jesus, that hyena laugh!
No wonder Trick’s standing there, arms crossed, wishing someone would put him out of his misery.
He’s lucky I came out here. I catch his eye as I approach, and the relief practically jumps out of his body. He stands up straighter as I get to his side.
“Ladies!” I announce loudly, making sure I capture their full and rapt attention. “How are we doing tonight?”
They turn their gazes to me, and as I expect, in my current state of undress, they seem to forget all about my quietly uncomfortable band mate.
“Oh … Um … We’re doing way better now,” the woman closest to me murmurs, before she looks back up at my face.
“Mm hm,” her friend in the middle mutters, before taking a sip from her drink.
The one on the end stumbles slightly, making the other two tilt my way.
I catch the one closest to me, putting an arm around her to stop her from toppling over.
“So much better,” she whispers.
The lustful look she gives me, it might have been enough to get me to drag her to one of the empty dressing rooms, back in the days where I was too drunk and stupid to know better.
“Uh huh,” I mutter, nodding at Trick. “Go get the manager to call these ladies a limo to take them home. Put it on the card.”
“Aww,” the flirty one complains. “Really?”
“A limo?” the second woman asks, blinking at me.
“Of course. Gotta make sure you get home safe.”
“He’s so amazing,” the first girl says with a soft sigh.
I move to let Trick out from his trap.
He darts after that manager like a dog chasing a bone.
“One more drink!” the third woman blurts.
I shake my head. “The bar’s closed, sweetheart. It’s long past time you were home.”
She pulls a face at me, and her friend puts her arm around her. “I bet you won’t even remember how we got home in the morning.”
“Home? No way. We’ve got to hit a club …”
It’s hard not to laugh, but I manage to stick with a smile.
The girl my arm is still propping up smiles back dreamily, fingers moving over my abs.
“I’m still good,” she murmurs. “If you have an after party, we don’t have to bring them …”
“Stick with your friends,” I advise her. “And maybe try not to drink quite as much next time.”
She pouts at me. “I thought you were supposed to be the fun one?”
“Oh, I am. But even the fun one has rules and limits. You might think you’re not wasted now, but you’re not going to remember everything, and I don’t go to bed with women who can’t stand on their own.”
She straightens. “I’m so not drunk.”
Her friend laughs. “You so are.”
“Shush!” she says as she turns and stumbles into her friend’s arms.
I rub my temple as I watch them giggle and tease each other as they try their best to stay upright while they’re clearly beyond hammered.
Trick moves back toward me, making sure he doesn’t get too close to his former captors.
“Done?” I ask.
“Greg booked a limo. Should be out back in less than ten.”
“Good,” I murmur, my attention moving to the bar tender as he cleans up behind the backstage bar. “Keep an eye on them for a second, okay?”
He winces, and he looks ready to protest, but he only sighs and nods.
The party girls are now in a group hug, getting overly emotional with one and other while the least sober one attempts to slip her foot back into her stiletto heel.
I shake my head as I take a couple of steps around them and put my hand on the bar top.
“Hey,” I call out, making the tender turn his head.
“Oh …” he mutters, eyes widening when he realizes who I am.
A twenty-something guy isn’t exactly part of our target audience, but most men in his age bracket have at least heard a few of our songs. Most of them recognize us.
He stops what he’s doing and moves over to where I’m standing.
“Uh, the bar is closed, but if you need anything …”
“Give me a couple of those stupid strawberry flavored beers.”
I’m pissed that I ended up asking for them, so if Kian’s little plan didn’t get us our extended vacation he’s going to owe me a shit-load of favors.
“They’re not for me,” I add. “I don’t drink that shit.”
“Uh, okay,” he says, turning and crouching to take a couple bottles out of the fridge under the counter behind him. He brings them up and puts them down on the counter. “Um, we’re only supposed to serve the talent once we’re closed so if these are for anyone but you guys …”
“They’re for Kian. Our bassist?”
He nods slowly. “You want them open, or …”
“He can open them himself. About those girls over there …”
I nod toward them.
He pulls a face. “What about them?”
“That’s what drunk and disorderly looks like. It would have been a crime to serve them more alcohol, but one of them has a drink …”
His expression changes quickly as my tone takes on a hint of threat.
“I gave one of them a soda,” he blurts. “On the house, when she asked for a real drink and I refused to serve them. I don’t know how they got that bad, but it was before they even got back here.”
I nod slowly. “I believe you. They have a limo coming to take them home. It’ll be out back in five. Think you can make sure they get into it okay?”
“I … uh, I guess so.” He doesn’t sound sure.
Damn. I can’t leave it with Trick. He’s already been traumatized by them enough.
“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter, picking up the beer and heading over to Trick.
He’s already squirming on the spot waiting for me.
“Take these back to Kian. I need to make sure these ladies make their ride home.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs as he takes the bottles.
He heads to the dressing room without looking back.
I let out a weary sigh, kinda wishing I’d bothered to throw on a shirt before I stepped out here.
Dealing with a gaggle of smashed women wasn’t part of my post-show plans, but most of what happens after a gig isn’t exactly planned out in advance, either.
They’re finishing up with their group hug, and one is helping the other with her shoe now.
The flirty one is looking my way, but I’m not tempted.
Attractive women are a dime a dozen.
I don’t have to sleep with every beauty who looks my way.
I kinda wish it hadn’t taken me so long to learn that lesson, but at least I’ve got it locked down now.
So, I stand by the bar until five minutes pass, and then the manager approaches, to tell us the limo’s out back, and between the two of us, we make sure the ladies give the driver their home addresses rather than the address of a club, then we help them into the backseat.
“You’re not coming with?” the flirty one asks, giving me that pout again.
I give her a smile. “Maybe some other time, sweetheart.”
She brightens, smiling back at me. “I look forward to it.”
Holding out her hand, I realize she’s giving me something.
A promo card from the venue, with her number written on it in red ink.
“Goodnight,” she sings as I move back.
“Sleep tight,” I mutter as I close the door.
The night air is cool and calm as the limo drives off, leaving me standing there with a groupie’s phone number in one hand, half-wishing I’d put on jeans before I came out here so I could stuff the card into my back pocket.
“Got lucky did you?” Greg jokes, as he heads for the open door that leads back into the building.
I laugh. “No, but one of those girls thinks she did.”
It takes a minute to realize what this feeling is, why I want so badly to hold on to her number.
She was kinda my type, sure, and she seemed fun and easy-going.
But it has nothing to do with her, and everything to do with what I want.
The rock star lifestyle hasn’t been hitting the same lately.
The need I’ve been filling with one-night stands and weekend flings has only grown.
Nothing feels the same, and it’s because it’s all so fucking empty.
I follow Greg into the dressing room corridor, and he closes the door behind us.
“Your ride will be here in an hour,” he tells me. “I’ll escort the last of the backstage pass holders out the front exit shortly. If there’s anything else you need while you’re here, just call.”
“Sure,” I murmur, as he heads to the backstage area.
I look at the number standing out in red on the promo card, and I know I shouldn’t call it.
Fans as girlfriends are never a good idea.
She’s not what I’m looking for and I know it.
I crumple up the card and toss it in the trash before I get to the dressing room.
The night is almost over, but we’ve got another one to get through before we’re off.
A month-long vacation might be exactly what I need to get over this feeling.
I hope Kian has talked our lead Alpha into that idea.
I guess I’m about to find out.