“No. The opening band, Reckless Alibi. They’re good. Great, in fact.”
“Reckless who?” He drinks something handed to him by a young girl with ten miles of cleavage.
I put a finger on his chin, turning his head away from her boobs and back to me. He shoves my hand away, irritated. And now I’m irritated at him for being irritated with me. Why should he get to ogle the cleavage of another woman?
“I think you should invite them to the after-party,” I say.
He glances again at the girl’s boobs, and I swear he thinks I’m suggesting he invite her breasts.
“The opening band,” I clarify, frustrated.
“Have you gone bonkers? Why the bloody hell should I care about some blokes who don’t mean two shits to me?”
I take a step back. “Because you were them, Adam. A long time ago, you were an opening band, too. They’re good. You should listen to their stuff.”
His eyebrows shoot up. Suddenly he seems interested. Well, not interested but maybe jealous. “They’re not coming. Do not invite them, Bria. They won’t be welcome. You’re lucky you were invited.”
“I know. You never fail to remind me of that.”
“What the fuck has put a bug up your arse?”
“Nothing,” I say, seeing Aimee beckoning me. “Have a good show.”
He air kisses me so he doesn’t smudge my lipstick. “I always do.”
His words resonate in my head. Has he always been this cocky, I wonder, or did fame make him this way? I think of the guys from Reckless Alibi. When I told them they were great, they looked genuinely pleased. Grateful even.
I hear the mass hysteria of the crowd when White Poison takes the stage and begins to play. I’m never out there when they go on. I’m not part of the band.
“Come on,” Aimee says. “It’s time.”
I close my eyes and take a few calming breaths. Then I walk confidently over to my microphone twenty feet away from the band. There’s a huge smile on my face, not that anyone would notice. They’re not looking at me. I look out over the massive crowd and wonder once again if these three months will be my fifteen minutes of fame—or if there might be something more.
Chapter Two
Crew
“Holy shit, that was great,” Garrett says, stashing his drumsticks in his back pocket.
“Way better than drugs,” Brad adds.
I laugh. “As if you’d know.”
“I got high last week, remember? When Liam gave me that pill.”
The three of us double over in laughter.
“It was a baby aspirin,” Liam says.
Brad is confused by our reaction. “No it wasn’t. I got high.”
“You felt high because I told you it was drugs and you expected to get high,” Liam said. “Shit, it was funny watching you.”
“What? No.” Brad looks at me. “You knew about this?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” I say and point at Garrett.
“I should have known. They warned me you’re always pulling stupid shit.”
“You were getting way too stressed about these gigs,” Garrett says. “I had to do something, but I knew you’d never believe it was mine. It was easier to believe it was Liam’s.”
“Thanks for making me look like an ass,” Brad says.
Garrett smirks. “Consider it your initiation.”
Brad looks around. “I’ll consider this my initiation.”
Liam pats him on the shoulder. “You’re one of us now. We’ve got your back, you know.”
Brad swipes a drumstick from Garrett’s pocket and points it at him like a knife. “Don’t pull that shit again.”
Music pipes through the speakers in the hallway as White Poison plays.
“What are we doing back here when we could be watching them?” Garrett asks.
I shake my head. “We were told to disappear when our set was over.”
“Let’s go out into the pit. Who’d notice?”
Liam looks at me as if he’s on board. Brad shrugs. I step aside. “Fine, lead the way. But if we get busted, it’s on you, Garrett.”
“Why am I always the fall guy?”
“Because you’re the one who gets us to do stupid shit,” Liam says.
Garrett walks around us. “Come on. I think I know where the door is.”
Five minutes later, after trying eight different doors that lead nowhere, we’re fighting our way through the mosh pit to get a decent position near the stage.
“Damn, these guys are good,” Liam yells.
“That’s going to be us one day,” Garrett screams over the music.
Liam high-fives him. “Hell yeah, it will be.”
I look at all the screaming fans, then I stare at the band, thinking of what Garrett said: That’s going to be us one day.
Thirty minutes ago, we were up on that stage. It was great, even if the crowd wasn’t here to see us, a nobody band from Stamford, Connecticut. But after being up there, I wonder if all my childhood dreams are about to come true.
I see the girl from the hallway, the one in the gold dress who said we were good. She’s not part of the core band. She’s their backup singer. Her hips sway and she moves her feet as she sings. When she’s not singing, she’s dancing in place. I’m mesmerized. Maybe it’s the shimmery sequins of her dress. Maybe it’s the rhythmic motion of her feet. Or maybe it’s the throaty voice that sends chills down my spine when she has a brief solo.
I close my eyes and listen. She doesn’t sing long—just a few lines. But that’s all it takes for me to understand exactly what it is about her that’s affecting me. My stomach rolls.
I turn to walk away. Liam grabs my arm. “You’re leaving?”
“I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “What gives?”
“It’s not like we won’t have three more opportunities to do this. I’m beat. I’ll see you later.”
I can feel him stare after me when I walk away, but I don’t turn around. I don’t want him to see my face. Liam knows me too well. He’d probably follow me. But I don’t need him trying to comfort me for the millionth time. I’m sick of his sympathy. He needs to get over it already. Fuck. I shake my head at myself. “Pot meet kettle,” I say to no one.
I work my way through hundreds of sweaty people, mostly girls. One of them grabs my junk as I go by. “Aren’t you the singer of that other band?”
Normally I’d be reeling at getting recognized, but all I want is to get the hell out of here. “You think I’d be out here if I was? Hell, I’d be backstage partying.”
She eyes me up and down. “You look like him.”
“Thanks,” I say, moving away.
When I find the door we came through, I walk up to it but am stopped by a security guard who puts his arm over the door and shakes his head.
“I’m with the band,” I say, sounding like an idiot. “I mean, I’m in the opening band. You saw us, right?”
The guy doesn’t even look at me. He continues to block the door. He’s one big mother. The girth of his arm is bigger than my leg. I reach for my phone, then realize it’s backstage with the other shit we left in the small dressing room assigned to us.