Chapter One
Bria
Everyone has their own pre-show rituals. Adam and Colin get high. Kurt gets his rocks off with a groupie or even one of the roadies if he’s desperate. Louis prays—as if that will somehow exonerate him from his other twenty-three hours of indiscretions. Me—I sit in my dressing room and listen to the opening band.
I look around the small room that’s little more than a storage closet. At least I have a dressing room, and since I’m the only backup singer, it’s all mine. I’m grateful for that, because even though I’ve done this thirty-four times before, I still feel nauseous every time.
I lie down on the small couch, careful not to ruin my hair or wrinkle my dress. I breathe in, hold it for a count of five, then breathe out. It’s a technique my brother, Brett, taught me for when I’m feeling stressed.
I smile, thinking how I’ll see him in a few weeks when the tour ends back home in New York City. Even better, he’ll see me, up onstage singing with one of the hottest rock bands around—White Poison.
It’s been almost three months since the tour started, and I still can’t believe I’m doing this. There are only nine shows left and I’m surprisingly okay with that. I suppose I’d be sad if Adam, the lead singer and my boyfriend, hadn’t assured me he wants me for their next tour later this year. In Europe!
I stare at the speaker piping music into the room. Wow. These guys are really good. Most of the opening acts are, seeing as they’re playing in a venue this large, but this band … I can’t put my finger on it. Their music moves me.
I pull out my phone and find out who they are. Reckless Alibi. The band consists of four guys, all local from Connecticut. It looks like they’ll be opening for us for three more shows. Impressive. I wonder what they had to do to get put on the lineup for four shows. Most opening acts get one show—maybe two.
I watch an amateur YouTube video of one of their songs, thinking these guys should be a headline act, not an opening one. But I’ve never heard of them before, and according to their Facebook page, they’ve only been a band for three years. That’s not a long time in band years.
Their lead singer is Chris Rewey, also known as Crew. He’s good. Really good.
There’s a knock on my door. “Five minutes!” Aimee yells, and my heart races.
Aimee is one of the roadies Kurt sometimes shags.
Shag. I kind of love that word, especially when the guys say it in their British accents. Though it really just means fuck, it doesn’t sound so dirty.
The music stops, and I miss it. I vow to download some of their songs.
I get up and check my makeup in the mirror. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself, with my fire-engine-red lipstick, glitter eyeshadow and false eyelashes that practically touch my nose when I blink. But it’s not my choice how I look onstage. It’s theirs. I was told on day one, it’s my job to look pretty, sing on-key, take very little credit, and leave quickly. I pull down the skin-tight gold sequined dress to make sure it’s covering my ass—another concession I have to make to be the backup singer for one of the most successful bands of our era—then I put on my six-inch heels and head out the door.
Aimee is waiting. She’s been assigned to me. She makes sure I’m in hair and makeup when I need to be, and she gets me through the maze of backstage hallways before and after every concert. She’s called a production assistant, but really she’s a groupie who ended up being hired by White Poison to help them on tour. Funny how they have mostly female “production assistants.”
One of the first things I noticed when I came on tour with them was the lack of male roadies. With the exception of the guys who do the heavy lifting and set up the stage, all the help is female. If you ask me, one of their duties is to sleep with the band members anytime said band members want a shag.
It’s pathetic. I suppose they all think they’ll get to be the next girlfriend of a famous rock star.
I got lucky when Adam turned an eye my way. It wasn’t long after the tour started, maybe six or seven shows in, when he asked me out. By then I’d gotten to know the guys well, and I knew Adam Stuart never asked a girl out. He never needed to. Not with all the Aimees around. So when he did, I knew it was going to be different, and it was. We’ve been dating for two months. Me, dating the lead singer of White Poison.
Aimee hands me the song lineup for tonight. It’s almost always the same. “When you’re out there, watch out for the step down behind you.”
“Thanks. I saw it earlier during the sound check.”
“Of course you did,” she says, her tone laced with condescension.
Aimee, like most of the other roadies, is jealous of my relationship with Adam. In the beginning, I tried to make friends with her and some of the others. It worked until I started dating Adam. Now they barely talk to me unless they’re required to. Hell, I’m surprised she even warned me of the potential hazard onstage. You’d think she’d want me to fall and break my leg or something.
We pass the guys’ dressing room. Their door is open, and they’re huddled together like a team around a quarterback before a play. They shout something in unison and then take a shot of liquor.
Adam sees me and gives me a wink. I blow him a kiss.
I wouldn’t even think about going in there before a show. I was explicitly told not to mingle with the band unless asked by one of the members. Almost all the stereotypes I’ve heard about successful bands are true: the drugs, the frivolous parties, the law-breaking that authorities turn a blind eye to, and the women.
I sigh, thinking I hit the jackpot with Adam. He’s not squeaky-clean, but he’s not into the bad stuff some of the others are.
Aimee and I step aside when four guys walk down the hall. I recognize them from the YouTube video I watched minutes ago. The smiles on their faces are miles wide. They’re patting each other on the back. I can tell they’re hyped up.
“Great job,” I say as they pass.
“Thanks,” they reply.
“Good luck out there,” one of them says to me. I think he’s the guitar player.
I hear their boisterous banter trail down the hallway. I don’t blame them. This was probably the largest venue they’ve ever played. Based on what I heard, it could lead to their big break.
Aimee leads me to the wings, where roadies are putting the finishing touches on the set. I peek at the crowd. It’s another sellout. White Poison has sold out every concert they’ve played for the past eight years.
I remember listening to them when I was fourteen years old, and now I’m one of them. Well, kind of. It’s still surreal.
A hand goes up the back of my short skirt and grabs my ass. I spin around, ready to deck whoever it is.
“Easy, luv,” Adam says, stopping my hand mid-slap.
I pull my skirt back down. “I didn’t know it was you.”
He smirks. “Just how many other chaps are grabbing your arse?”
“You’re the only ass grabbing my arse,” I say in a hideous attempt at a British accent.
He laughs.
“Hey, did you hear Reckless Alibi?” I ask. “They’re really good.”
He’s only half-listening to me, as he’s looking over my shoulder. “You want to do something reckless with me? That can be arranged.”