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“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” I growled into the mic along with Hudson, our bass player.
We were on fire tonight and the packed amphitheater shivered and shook. I banged on the drums even harder, creating a storm of beats. The music was thunderous and passionate, but I wasn’t really into it.
It’s sad, really.
Creating and performing is one of my only gifts. Ever since I was a little boy in the basement banging out sloppy beats, it was clear to me that I was meant to be a drummer. The music is my muse, my destiny, and my lover all rolled into one.
It’s the audience that gives me the blues. Screaming, noisy, emaciated chicks don’t give me the rush I need. Not anymore.
But again, there’s money to be made. In the music business, giving the fans what they want is half the battle.
“Tighter, baby!” was my shout, the chorus to our latest hit. “Harder, baby! Yeah!”
I waved a drumstick in the air and twirled the bright purple panties around them. They were practically child-sized. The chick who’d tossed them had to be a double zero—possibly smaller.
Are there negative sizes?
Regardless, it was a show and these women had paid to be entertained. So I flashed my signature smile and killer sapphire eyes, all the while tattoos rippled up my back and arms.
Of course, the females screamed like crazy. That was always the reaction. A balled up piece of paper landed near my foot—probably some girl’s phone number.
Meanwhile, Hudson ripped into his bass guitar, scowling. His naked chest rippled with muscle under the lights, blue ink snaking up his arms in two full sleeves.
Shit, that fucker is scary.
The asshole was a beast, like he was ready to start a fight with anyone who dared cross him. The tattoos and the scowl were all part of the look, though, ladies eating it up like the sweetest cream.
Plus, he was an animal on bass.
The girls couldn’t get enough of him or that ink of his. They loved the bad boy persona and the take-no-prisoners frown that decorated every magazine cover. Females screamed even harder, ear-splitting shrieks buzzing in my skull.
But Hudson isn’t like me and Brody. He refused to cater to the ladies. Instead, the dude scowled at the audience, declining to touch a single pair of panties that sailed his way.
Of course, the reverse psychology tactic worked like a charm. The girls adored him even more for it, screaming his name hoarsely, waving their arms and jumping up and down. They acted like teenage groupies seeing their favorite band.
Funnily enough, we were their favorite band. I don’t know if it was for the music or our look, but they loved us. The women certainly weren’t young, though. All of our shows were only for people eighteen and older—for obvious reasons.
“Knock it off, dude!” Hudson snarled at me once he turned his mouth away from the mic.
“Grow a set and give the girls what they paid for,” I growled right back, drumming away with a pair of panties slung around my wrist. “They don’t come here to watch you glare at them!”
Some of them did, though. Without Hudson’s signature scowl, we weren’t Hard Fought.
Suddenly, a flash in the audience caught my eye— somebody’s diamond ring maybe. There was just enough light for me to see a woman in the front row drag off her underwear, struggling in the crowded space. Elbows must have hit her head and torso. There wasn’t much room in the darkened pit below.
Even after that, the blonde was unstoppable. She held the crotch up to her nose and breathed deep like a junkie before winding up and pitching the thong straight at Brody in a whirling fastball.
Growling about sex into the microphone, my buddy stepped back, ducking like a pro.
Smooth, real smooth.
The audience couldn’t tell, but Brody was obviously grossed out, but not because the girl wasn’t pretty. Hell, any stroke mag would have made her a cover model. The blonde had it all: big hair, big tits, and puffy lips in a perpetual “O”.
That’s just not our type. We like ‘em real all around, curvy and luscious, and this chick needed to pack on another fifty pounds—minimum.
I grunted as another thong came flying Hudson’s way. It was seriously getting out of control, like a hail of missiles from World War II. We were taking fire down in the bunker—except the fire was in the form of tiny, little panties.
My bro was losing patience fast. Not even bothering to hide his revulsion, he scowled and stepped back, his expression one of murderous rage.
That poor motherfucker.
I swallowed laughter, looking at the stage floor to hide my reaction. Our fans didn’t want to see me react in such a way. Rock stars living the dream weren’t supposed to duck and cover, but it was all that we wanted to do.
