Chapter One
Slater
Pure adrenaline. That’s what surges through my blood when I’m behind my Tama Starphonic drum kit. Then, not long later, exhaustion kicks in. If you’ve ever heard someone say being a drummer is easy, be assured they’ve never played the drums in their life.Being a drummer is hard work—it sucks the life right out of me. Some concerts take me days to recover from.
By the time I reach the end of a set, I feel like I’ve run a marathon; my hands burn as if I placed them directly on the sun, and my clothes are soaked with sweat. And don’t get me started on the pesky drumsticks. Those slippery fuckers escape my grip at the most inappropriate times. I’m lucky I can maintain the tempo of the song while scrambling for another set.
Don’t misconstrue—I’m not complaining. Nothing in the world competes with this—not one single fucking thing. Tonight, we’re playing to a crowd of over forty thousand people at Safeco Field, home of the Seattle Mariners. The roar of fans requesting an encore is almost deafening. It’s an electric energy that makes me both agitated and reckless. Not because I hate what I’m doing, but because I’m afraid nothing will ever replicate the high I get while performing.
Only once has something spurred this much hype from me. It wasn’t really a thing—more a her. A real pretty “her” with freckles and wild hair and a smell that made me think of fields upon fields of sunflowers. She wasn’t a groupie I lost myself in. She was before the fame. Before the notoriety. She saw me as just me—until she didn’t.
I’m drawn from my thoughts when Nick picks up the water bottle he stores behind my drum kit. “Every night.” He nudges his head to the crowd surging toward the pitch-black stage. “Never grows old, though.”
I laugh. “No, it doesn’t.”
The band does the same routine at every concert. We wait for our fans’ screams to reach an eardrum-damaging level before giving them one last song—the final hurrah of the show. While waiting for that to happen, I run a towel over my sweat-drenched head and hands. I’ve gone through four pairs of sticks already tonight. I don’t want to add more to my tally. For one, they’re not cheap. And two, every pair I lose I have to sign at the end of the night since Nick kicks them into the crowd as souvenirs.
Upon noticing Noah’s beaming bright smile, our signal that it’s time to perform, Nick stuffs his water bottle back behind my drums before resuming his position on the right-hand side of the stage. Once everyone is in place, I tap my sticks over my head, counting in the beat. The instant they hit my snare drum, the lights on the stage illuminate, and the crowd’s screams intensify even more. This is what I love, right here, right now. Pure. Addiction. There’s no drug stronger than this.
My muscles flex, and sweat dribbles down my back as Rise Up gives the crowd what they paid for. We perform our hearts out, providing them the encore they so desperately crave. Our music will thrum in their veins for hours to come. It’s like sex, just more addictive, and they gobble up every tingle we give them.
By the time our hit single “Tastefully Despised” comes to an end, my lungs are void of oxygen. Mercifully, the buzz of performing will run through my system like morphine for hours to come—much longer than the drugs that used to feed my high.
I’m clean now, have been coming up on two years. The road to sobriety wasn’t pretty, but I did it; I survived rehab and came out with my insanity intact—for the most part.My veins are clear of drugs; I just feed my obsession in other ways now. Groupies. Alcohol. The buzz of an overhyped crowd who’ll never quit requesting an encore no matter how many we play.
At the start, the band got so excited they loved our shows, we did encore after encore after encore. Thank fuck we soon caught on that their requests would never end. Now, they get one last song, then Maddie and Jasper are brought onto the stage, signaling it’s the end of our show.
Once Maddie finishes wooing the crowd with her chubby cheeks and toothless grin, she bolts for Jasper, who’s using his daddy’s thigh to hide from the crowd. After standing from my drum kit, I throw my sticks into the crowd. Whoever catches them will be given an all-inclusive backstage pass to have their stick autographed by me. We’ve had a few people try and sneak backstage with sticks they brought from home. It did them no good. My sticks are custom-made. They also have my signature engraved on them, making them impossible to replicate.
Emily thought it would drum up good publicity, no pun intended. Unlike her predecessor, she ensures the band as a whole is included in any press junkets involving Rise Up. When our debut album rocketed up the charts, most interview requests were only addressed to Noah. Their mistake cost them dearly. Not only did Noah refuse their invitations, but he snubs the offending journalists during the conferences we hold in each state we visit.
People think we’re just a bunch of guys who play music. We’re not. We’re a band of brothers, and as much as this kills me to admit, that statement also includes Nick.
Rise Up’s debut album,Beginning,became one of the highest-selling albums of all time. It rocketed us to superstardom, and lined our pockets with more money than we’ll ever need. But, even with us being filthy rich, the band has remained humble. That might have something to do with the fact we travel with two babies in tow. That would soften even the hardest group. It’s lucky Jasper and Maddie are cute. It’s also lucky I travel on my motorbike between towns.
A tour bus takes the band to each location. Once we arrive where we’re touring, we’re put up in fancy-schmancy five-star hotel with all the bells and whistles, and we don’t pay a cent for it. It’s all compliments of the record label. I used to travel in the tour bus with the band, but there’s no such thing as peace with two toddlers running around.
I had my bike, a custom Harley Davidson Fatboy with twelve-inch ape hangers, shipped to Los Angeles. Now, I travel behind the bus. Cormack shit bricks when I arrived in San Francisco on my bike. He said it was unsafe for me to travel alone. I assured him a protective detail wasn’t needed. I have my trusty baseball bat in my saddle bag. What more protection do I need?
I can’t say I don’t understand Cormack’s worry. Life has become crazy the past two years. I can’t even shit without the public being updated on its length and texture. Every event we do is splashed onto the gossip pages the very next day. Even the most mundane task is treated as if it’s front page news. You realize how fucked-up the world is when it’s more important to know what Noah Taylor had for dinner last night than worrying about the millions of children in the world starving every day.
While shrugging off the eccentricity of life, my eyes stray to Nick. He’s hobbling off the stage since Jasper is wrapped around his leg. Jasper’s personality is a stark contradiction to his father’s. He’s been running onto the stage at every concert since he could walk, yet he’s still shit-scared.
With a growl, I scoop Jasper off Nick’s leg before blowing a raspberry on his t-shirt-covered belly. He giggles loudly, sending baby spit flying in all directions.
“Again, Uncle.”
I assume that's what he saying since I don’t understand a word of baby talk. When I blow on his belly again, and he giggles even louder than before, it’s safe to say that’s what he was requesting.
When I enter the wings of the stage, I hand a giggling and red-faced Jasper to Jenni. She smiles at our banter, her cheeks blushing to match her son’s. She’s not reddening in amusement. It’s from catching sight of Nick over my shoulder. For some fucked-up reason, she has it bad for him.
Gagging, I join Marcus in our shared dressing room, happy to leave Noah and Nick to make out with their flustered baby mommas. Before we were famous, Noah and Nick were all about the groupies. Now nothing but their horny housewives are on their minds. I swear Emily practically humps Noah’s leg the instant he exits the stage.
I jerk up my chin to greet the security officer standing guard at my door. He’s paid to protect us, but in reality, he fought tooth and nail for his placement. Since Marcus and I are single, we have to pick up the slack of our taken counterparts. With that number constantly higher than two men can handle, our roadies and the men paid to protect us greatly benefit from the deficit.
When Marcus notices my arrival, he sets down our concert schedule for this week. “Beer?”
“Sounds good.”
