“I’ll be there. What do you mean I’m working with a new drummer? What happened to Deuce?” I’d bought him an eggs benedict, for God’s sake, while I’d contented myself with the Big Boy special and black coffee.
“Deuce is working with another band now. He cited ‘artistic differences’ and a need for a permanent gig. He said you expressed to him a desire to not have an ongoing band.”
“Did I say that?” I scratched my chin, knowing full well I had. “I’ve never worked with a band before. I’m used to playing guitar for myself.”
“If you want to perform in school plays, sure, that’ll work. If you want to play arenas, you need a band. Preferably one who is committed to you and not filled with studio musicians who have the same loyalty to you as a cheese sandwich.”
I didn’t understand the connection. Probably yet another example of American slang I wasn’t privy to.
“I’ll get him back.”
“Doubtful. His new gig is better than what you’re offering him right now. I’ll see you at the venue. Ninety minutes early for soundcheck.”
“Oh, sure, I have nothing but time. Ta ta.”
She snorted and hung up on me.
I grinned and rolled off the bed, whipping off my towel and letting it fall. This was going to be a good night.
Thirteen
It wasn’t a good night. It was a great night. My best yet since I’d been signed to Ripper Records and doing this mini tour.
After soundcheck and before we went onstage, Sabrina said if we came up with a winner tonight, they’d release a live version of the best song to the streaming services and radio. An actual single. I’d taken that information and run with it, deciding to hell with practicing more before I brought “For You” to the show. It wasn’t as if my cup runneth over with tons of prime material. I’d thought I was a decent songwriter until I had to perform all these songs live and realized I needed more work. All of my skills needed more work.
Ex
cept one.
Already I was learning how to make the girls scream.
The denims tight enough to outline me from waist to thigh were part of it. The black shirt I left unbuttoned halfway down my chest was another. I’d thought Sabrina would want me to get rid of the silver cross I’d worn since I was a boy, but she liked it. Said it would inspire all kinds of impure thoughts.
Okay, then.
My hair was a wild, teased mess of curls. Thick eyeliner outlined my eyes and I’d gained a couple more chunky silver rings. Gone were my old, broken-down shoes. Now I wore heavy boots that clomped as I moved across the stage. And I moved a goddamn lot. I’d watched tape of my shows quite often over the past couple of weeks and previously, I hadn’t moved enough. I wasn’t a dancer, but it didn’t take a genius to hear the fan engagement climb every time I did something they didn’t expect. A tasteful hip shimmy. A slide up against the mic as I repeated the chorus on “Last Night on the Road.” A little bit of a growl into the mic on the end of “Built for This.”
Tonight, I took all of those bits I’d learned and poured them into one show.
I gripped the mic with both hands, cupping it like a lover from the first note of the first song to the last. Moody blue light surrounded me and my backup band offered the backdrop to a song I’d written a couple of years ago, “Caught Sleeping.” The lyrics tumbled from my mouth, sliding out of me and into the microphone. I couldn’t get close enough. My lips skimmed the metal as I closed my eyes and leaned into the song.
Caught sleeping, lost in you.
Missed the call, missed it all.
Caught sleeping, tangled in your arms.
Dazzled by your charms.
And that sweet thing you do…
When it’s just us two.
And the night falls, and it’s all the same.
Caught sleeping, caught up in you.
Their screams for more fueled me and I stepped back from the mic, waving my arm as I looked up to the second level and the VIP sections, then let my gaze settle on the packed center of the club. I was standing in the same space Jim Morrison had. Behind me, a large banner bore my name. My name was on the marquee outside, where people still lined up to cram inside.