Moses
Someone grabbed my dick. I almost jumped out of my skin, but caught myself and kept singing. The show must go on—and this was a big fucking show.
Backup dancers swirled around me, and I eyed each of them, trying to figure out who had just taken liberties with my junk, but they were a blur of spandex costumes and neon face paint.
Pyrotechnics shot off in front of me, diverting my attention long enough for my dick to be fondled again. This wasn’t fucking funny—not when I was stumbling over lyrics on live television. I was performing with Nick Fletcher from Blue is the Color and Gabriel Sotero from Blossoms and Bones at a charity concert in Vegas. I’d been a fan of both their bands’ music since before I was a scrawny, squeaky-voiced tween. While my fame was a lot newer, this was where I belonged, sharing their spotlight.
Unless I kept making an ass of myself with the lyrics.
It was like Cirque De Soleil on stage. I was barely holding my shit together with all the action going on around me. When Gabriel took over the bridge, Nick Fletcher and I retreated a few feet back, dancers partially obscuring us from the audience.
“You okay, kid?” he asked.
“Yeah. Got my dick felt up a couple times.”
He frowned. “Who did it?”
“No clue.”
“That’s not cool.”
It wasn’t, but there was no stopping to investigate which of these punks flailing around was a damn pervert. My part of the song was coming up. I moved back to the front of the stage, between Gabriel and Nick, and sang my heart out. They joined me, matching their rich, deep voices with mine, Nick and me on guitar, Gabriel clutching a mic.
We did two more songs together while the dancers swung from silk attached to the ceiling. It was over the top and ridiculous, but at least when they were up there, my dick was safe from wandering hands.
Backstage, the three of us were shuffled down dark corridors, back to the green room where press was waiting. Nick and Gabriel grabbed me, keeping me between them, like I was their equal. Up until maybe the last year, I’d been stymied by imposter syndrome, feeling like a fake when I got awards or accolades. When we released our third album, something clicked, and I could now believe I belonged in the same hemisphere as men who’d been on top of the rock game for nearly two decades.
A cute reporter from Japan smiled at us. “Where will you go out tonight?”
We exchanged glances and laughed. Gabriel Sotero took the lead. “I’m right in the middle of a tour. Gotta get on the road in the morning. I’m gonna go back to my hotel room, kiss my sleeping kids, and turn in early with my wife. My Vegas partying days are in my rearview mirror.”
He was a good guy, but man, what a boring-ass answer. What a boring-ass life.
Then Nick Fletcher spoke. “I’m not touring, but my kid’s back east with her grandparents, so I’m taking my wife out for a private dinner. Gonna do the whole romance thing.”
Goddamn,remind me to never turn out like that. Why become a rock star to turn in early with your chick? Especially in Vegas? I mean, maybe that was what happened when you were looking forty dead in the eye. Luckily, I had a ways to go before I got there.
I winked at the reporter. “I’m gonna hit the town. Want to come?”
She giggled, but shook her head. That was just as well. I’d done the whole reporter thing and woke up a week later to an article detailing the way in which rock stars groom their junk. No names were used, but there had been enough clues to my identity, my own sister called me up, laughing at my expense.
We did a few more interviews, both separately and together, took pictures with fans, and talked with some of the other performers. As it all wound down and people started clearing out, Nick clapped me on the shoulder.
“Good to see you, man. I listened to the last album. You guys are making some brilliant sounds,” he said.
This guy was basically my idol. He and his band were the ones who were brilliant, constantly coming out with fresh sounds while keeping the integrity of their music. My band, Unrequited, had opened for them on multiple tours years ago, before we got big enough to headline our own. As happy as I was Unrequited was blowing up, I missed those early days, bumming all over Europe and Asia with Blue is the Color, learning from them, hanging out between shows.
“That means a lot. We got a new drummer last year, Maeve. She’s a badass and kind of got our blood pumping again.”
He rubbed the scruff on his jaw. “Yeah, I heard you got a new drummer. A woman, huh? That’s cool. I’ll have to come out to one of your shows.”
I nodded. “Let me know. I’ll have tickets for you. They’ll probably be obstructed view, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
He laughed and thumped me on the arm. “You little shit.”
Laughing too, I tipped my chin. “How’s Dalia?”
I may have had a thing for Nick’s wife before she was his. Maybe after too. The tragic thing was, they both knew it and thought it was funny. Kind of emasculated a guy, knowing he didn’t come across as a threat. But whatever. Nick and Dalia had been married a couple years, had a kid, I’d accepted that ship had sailed.