It’s our first one without Kane.
And we need to prove that the four of us are just as strong—maybe even stronger—without him.
None of us believe we could be stronger without any of the individuals making up My Favorite Band when we were jamming together for over a decade. But he fucking left us, and that hurts.
And so we’re coming back with something to prove.
Success, after all, is the best revenge.
CHAPTER 1: GAGE
I sing the back-up chords to “Don’t Go Away Mad” while I pluck the strings on my bass, thinking I sort of wish these women screaming in front of me would listen to the lyrics as Ray sings them.
They’re in their sixties.
I’m...not.
And I do sort of wish they’d just go away rather than pretend like I’m actually going to take one of them into the break room so they could have their way with me.
That pretty blonde in the back of the group with the tits coming out of her dress who, from a distance, looks a little closer to my age...maybe.
But I’m not much of a cougar hunter.
“Woohoo!” they yell and scream. “Vegas, baby!”
What happens in Vegas, dear seniors, will most definitely follow you home.
Just ask Janine, my aunt’s friend. She cougared up, somehow got a male dancer to join her back at her hotel room, then headed home with the herp.
More information than I wanted from my aunt, but she thought it was hilarious.
Besides, even though on stage I look like Nikki Sixx, I’m definitely not him, and in my normal, everyday life, I don’t really look all that much like him.
I’m just an impersonator in a Motley Crue cover band who wishes these women were singing along to songs I wrote...not songs someone else wrote.
I got tired of wearing a wig on stage, so I grew out my hair. On stage, I look the part of an eighties rocker in his prime, especially when I apply that black eyeliner my ex carefully showed me how to use.
The women who show up at our gigs fucking love it. Each guy in this band plays his part and plays it well. From the audience, Mikey looks like the drummer of the band we love so much. Ray looks like the singer. Vince looks like the guitarist. I look like the bassist.
But all we’ll ever be is a cover band.
All we’ll ever do is jam to the old hits that we all love.
All we’ll ever be is men playing dress up.
But I don’t just love those songs. I’m inspired by them. They’ve prompted me to write my own shit, music I’d love to show the world someday...but I won’t.
How can I when I’m just a run of the mill impersonator?
I work a day job dealing blackjack. I pull my hair back out of my face and no one knows I’m the same guy who takes the stage six nights a week at the lounge upstairs with a capacity of a thousand guests.
Between my hourly wage and tips, I make enough to split rent at a small apartment within walking distance to work. My roommate, Kelly, is a back-up dancer in the show that runs just before ours. We met in the break room when she first started, became fast friends, and started our nice deal as fuck friends once we moved in together.
We’re just friends, though.
Well, friends who fuck.
She wants more.
I don’t.
There are a lot of different reasons why, but topping the list is the fact that I just don’t see myself staying in Vegas forever.
She does.
I don’t see myself imitating someone else for the rest of my life.
She’s happy back-up dancing. She’s been a dancer her whole life, so she’s doing what she’s always wanted.
I suppose I am, too...and yet I find myself wanting something else. Something more out of both my career and my life in general.
I think I’m just stuck in a rut.
But no matter how stuck in that rut I may find myself, fucking a cougar just isn’t on my bucket list.
As soon as I step down from the stage and into the crowd, one of the older ladies who was standing up front the entire time practically knocks me over.
“You look just like Nikki!” she screams at me. She tosses her arms around me, which is probably a mistake since I’m covered in sweat after playing the fuck out of my bass for the last couple hours under the bright, hot as fuck lights.
And even if she wasn’t three or four decades older than me, I’d still feel a little sad at her words. She doesn’t care about me.
She didn’t comment on my musical talent.
She didn’t comment on my good looks, not that I’d say there’s much to comment on there even if Kelly would wholeheartedly disagree.
She said I look like Nikki.
That’s all she cares about...a night with a rock star. She can pretend I’m someone else just like I pretend I’m someone else.
Because in this equation, Gage Hoffman doesn’t matter. The outside looks enough like a famous bassist, and I play that famous bassist’s chords. That is what matters to this woman.
“Thanks,” I say to her, because even though she knocked down the adrenaline that was coursing through me as I left the stage, my manners still win.
She squeezes my ass, and I hate that she’s making me feel like a piece of meat. I give her a look that clearly says that was inappropriate, and she just smiles at me with a gleam in her eye.
I note the ring on the third finger of her left hand and can’t help but wonder if her old man would appreciate the fact that she’s hitting on some young dude in Vegas during her little girls’ trip.
Doubt it.
Another of her friends sidles up to me. “Hey there, handsome,” she says. “I just loved your rendition of ‘Home Sweet Home.’”
I press my lips together in a tight smile. “Thanks.” I give her a side hug. “I need to get to the merch booth, but thank you both for coming tonight.” I untangle myself and beeline for the booth where we’re forced to stand for a half hour post-show to pose for pictures and autograph posters.
It’s the same thing every night—every night except Monday, when the lounge is closed and the shows are dark.
God forbid one of us gets sick or can’t perform. The hotel has a bank of back-ups just in case, but never once have I had to use one.
The other guys in my band can’t say the same.
After I pose for what feels like hundreds of photos, the ushers finally announce last call to get people moving out into the casino, and once we smile for the last picture and throw up our devil horns, I’m finally released from my duties for the night.
I head to the break room bathroom first, where I wash off the eyeliner and rinse the sweat off my face, and then I pull my hair back with a black hair elastic.
When I walk back into the break room, I hear a few of the female dealers gossiping around a small table. Their backs are to me, but I’m by the lockers anyway, out of their line of sight.
“I heard it’s huge,” one of them says.
“I heard he knows how to use it,” another says.
“God, he’s so hot. Sometimes I watch him when he’s shuffling, and that bone structure...”
I can’t help but wonder who they’re talking about. I mentally run through the male dealers I know, and none of them fit the bill of having good bone structure or looking like they have a huge dick they know how to use.