Discordant chords shrieked from the sound system. Davey slapped his sticks against the snares, counting the rest of the band into the song. They were damn good and I swayed my hips to the tune. Like a dog on a metal chain, Trent’s voice yanked at my attention and kept me hostage. Pain and pleasure filled me up to the brim as I listened to song after song.
The show was nearly over and the lights flipped on. The music was now subdued, and Trent gave the crowd a sexy grin. My heart slammed a series of tri-pl-et beats against my chest. I knew the plan. They still had the same old shtick: Invite a hot girl on stage, make her panties melt as they sang a rocking ballad to her, and then later, for Trent and maybe Ethan if Trent was feeling charitable, screw her brains out.
“I’m looking for . . . someone. A special someone to come onstage.”
The crowd went wild. Well, the women. Scratch that, some of the men, too.
Trent’s eyes scanned the crowd, and I wondered what he was thinking. Would he see me in the second row? A busty redhead sat a few feet to my left, and I knew for sure that she would catch his eye. She was attractive, wearing a tattered Tortured Souls tee slashed in all the right places and a miniskirt showing off legs for days. Yep, just his type.
I was never his type. I was tall, curvy, with big lips and a bigger butt. I remembered how he would always say there was something about me. Something that made a man want to be my man and I would always stand out to him, like a beacon of light. I snorted now, just as I’d done then. He’d always been a shit poet.
His eyes lit up when he spotted the redhead. Called it. His lips curved into a smile and he lifted his hand from the guitar string, ready to pick his latest victim. I rolled my eyes and folded my arms across my tee. His eyes moved on from the redhead and his blues clashed with my browns.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered. But it wasn’t a whisper because he was mic’d.
“Nikki fucking Hardt.” He said a little louder. But I was Nikki Grayson now.
The slow and steady rhythm from the drums and cymbals slipped a beat. Guess I’d surprised Davey as well.
“I’ll be damned,” he said again. This time he waved. “Get your ass up here.”
I shook my head and looked away, as if averting my eyes would make him go away. What in the hell was I thinking—strutting my ass to the second row of seats, center stage of all places? I‘d tempted fate, testing his old promise to always notice me in a crowded room.
“Aww, my girl’s acting shy. Let’s give her a round of applause to encourage her.”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head again.
“I’ll stand here all night and beg if I have to.” He lowered his voice and moved the mic closer to his lips. “You know that I will.” His tone held a promise, just like the one he’d used in the bedroom. Just listening to him made me feel like I was cheating on James.
I spotted the security guy at the end of the row and nodded. A few women, including the redhead, gave me curious, envious looks as I made my way toward the stage. They didn’t realize I was saving them from a world of pain. Trent was a god in the bedroom, made you feel like the most important woman in the world, and just as you were soaring off his declarations of love, he’d drop you. It was like he fed off the bitterness. The pain wasn’t as sweet if the tears weren’t real. Pain and pleasure always came in a package with Trent. I leaned into the ugly memories, covering myself with them like a barbed-wire armor, and marched onstage.
The crowd was quiet now. The rock god has gotten his way, and they were waiting for what happened next.
Trent handed his guitar to me and nodded at the roadie behind the stage. Something happened and the mood had changed. There was a shift in power. He had gifted me with temporary rock god status and I decided to pretend, just for one night.
Feeling bold, I began the chords to the song I’d written for them. I knew they were saving the best for last; it was their hit song I’d written to sing the panties off of some woman. But not tonight. Tonight, I would make the hairs on the back of the crowd’s neck stand up. I would give them goose bumps. And I didn’t need to sell my sex appeal, I just wanted to make them feel. Trent had corned the market on rock-and-roll, but without me, they didn’t have any soul.
The band played the song, and my voice floated to the mic as Trent harmonized effortlessly beside me. Walking closer to the mic, I poured my entire being into the crowd. I felt it again—that warm feeling spilled from me and into the crowd, and like glue, it stuck us together until we were one.
Like a succubus, I fed on the crowd’s energy. I tossed back my head and hit a high note I hadn’t tried in a while. I was a little rusty, but my voice sounded like a vintage record. The second time I hit the note, it was pure and clear. The cobwebs of lost dreams were cleared away. My thoughts drifted to my travelin’ man daddy, who let cocaine get the best of him. He loved his family—loved my mom and loved me harder. But the music, and the ups and downs, and the disappointments were all too much for him. Mama said it was like he had a gun to his head and each day, his finger slowly inched against the trigger until it popped.
And it did.
I was sixteen when Daddy died. And the following years weren’t so sweet. Mama had stopped the piano and guitar lessons, but by then it’d been too late. The drug that was music had slipped into the next generation and coursed through my veins. I guess some of Daddy’s vices lived on, too. With my heart and soul, I sang the lyrics and prayed that Daddy had found his peace.
A sunken face trapped between white lines.
The pale warden keeps me closed in a cage I’ve made.
Can’t trust promises from a dead man
The dead tell no tales
Can’t trust promises from a dead man
But my intentions have always been pure.
I’d love you, but I’d kill you
I’d love you, but you’d hurt
I’d love you, but I’d break you
Send a prayer to the reaper
As my body turns to dust.
I squeezed my eyes shut on the last word, but my ears were flooded with thunderous applause. I cracked my eyes open and saw someone in front of me wiping away tears.
Trent wrapped his arms around me and yelled, “Nikki fucking Hardt. My girl wrote this song for us a few years ago. She used to be in the band, and we haven’t been the same without her.”
I jerked my head to face him, surprised by his humble admission. They were talented, they didn’t need me, but I had needed this.
“Good night, Atlanta! Thank you!” Trent waved to the electrified crowd and hurried us off stage. Davey, Drew, and Ethan, my boys, rushed to me with hugs and kisses on the cheek.
A short, plump brunette with dark, calculating eyes was staring at me.
I offered her my hand and gave her a smile. Guessing by the frumpy skirt and heels, she was either their manager or worked with the record company.
“Nikki.”
“So I hear,” she purred. She circled me like a shark. My hackles rose. I wasn’t sure what she wanted, but it didn’t feel good. And I wasn’t one to be intimidated.
“Well, boys,” I turned my back to her and faced the band, “I’ve gotta get going.” I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter till midnight, much later than I’d expected. “Are y’all still in town tomorrow? I’d love to grab a coffee or drink so we can catch up.”