My eyes stray to the itinerary he set down. We’re booked to do four gigs while in Seattle. Our first was tonight, then we have a four-day break before kicking it off again on Friday. After toeing off my boots, I slump onto one of the three sofas in the room that is bigger than the entire floorplan of my first house. It’s only fair Marcus and I get the biggest room since we have to share.
There are only four dressing rooms in the stadium. The largest is ours, Noah and Nick have one each, and the remaining one was given to our supporting act Big Halo. They’re a new age pop group who are signed to the same record label as Rise Up. Cormack thought they’d suit our fan base. They have a similar sound to Rise Up, but half of their band are girls. Hot girls.Smokinghot girls. The bassist, Miranda, has drool-worthy looks. Her thick, luscious brown hair hangs halfway down her back; her eyes are green and big, and her lips are the plumpest I’ve ever seen.
Her only downfall is that she likes girls as much as I do.
My eyes float up from my shoes when Marcus hands me a recently popped open bottle of beer. We thought the perks at Mavericks were good. Half our pay there was supplied with unlimited beer. Now we get anything we request. We could even have our M&M’s color-coordinated if we wanted. Our roadies and assistants should thank their lucky stars that we aren’t assholes. For the most part, we keep our requests to a minimum.
“Cheers, fucker.”
When I clink my bottle of beer against Marcus’s, he smiles against the rim before taking a generous swig. Marcus is the quiet one of our group. Other than when Noah was in a coma, I don’t recall hearing a swear word seep from his lips. He drinks beer, plays the bass guitar like he was born to do it, and is a kick ass friend; however, I know there’s more to him than he’s letting on. My dad always says, “It’s the quiet ones you need to watch.” Marcus is the very definition of that saying.
We couldn’t be any more different if we tried. My arms are covered with tattoos, where he doesn’t have one. I wear jeans, motorcycle boots, and t-shirts. He wears trousers, button-up shirts, and polished dress shoes. I have long blond dreadlocks and a stubble-covered chin, whereas he’s clean-shaven all over, including his hair. Despite our differences, we’re the best of friends. He’s my brother from another mother, and do you know what brought us together? Music.
Marcus’s grandma lived next door to my parents. I’d heard him play around with the instruments in her garage many times during his weekly visits. Most of the time, it sounded as if he was preparing for a church solo, so you can imagine my shock when one Sunday afternoon I heard the distinctive sound of Breaking Benjamin’s song “Diary of Jane” blaring out of his garage.
I bolted to his house, expecting to see Benjamin Burley because the person singing matched his voice to perfection. I was shocked when I discovered a scrawny teenage boy belting out the lyrics. He would have been around thirteen at the time, but his voice was a lot more mature. When Marcus fiddled with computer equipment at the side of the room, drums, guitar and a keyboard boomed out of the speakers behind him. I watched them in awe, knowing without a doubt that the boy singing would become one of the world’s greatest performers because Marcus’s production skills would ensure it.
Once the song ended, the teen threw the microphone stand like a true rock star before raising his hands in the air. When his head flopped back, I couldn’t help but clap. They were musical prodigies. My loud clap startled both Marcus and the singer when it echoed around the small, dingy garage, but their shock didn’t stop me from saying, “That was fucking brilliant.”
The young dark-haired boy grinned a mega-watt smile. You could see he was in his element. At that point in his life, nothing but music mattered.
“Thanks,” he replied humbly.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I met Noah Taylor and Marcus Everett, two of the world’s greatest musicians. That afternoon, I found out they met at a music store in town. Marcus’s grandma was there to sell her vintage 1955 Esquire White Guard Fender. When they got to talking about all things music, Marcus invited Noah to see the studio his grandma had set up in her garage for his mom when she was in a band.
I’m three years older than Marcus and Noah, but that didn’t stop me from pursuing a music career with them when they said they were starting a band. I just needed to learn how to play an instrument. Marcus said if I was dedicated, he was more than willing to teach me.
During our first rehearsal, I cockily strolled to an electric guitar leaning against an amp, certain I had the makings of a skilled guitarist. When I strummed the strings, it sounded like someone scratching their nails down a chalkboard. Noah laughed at my lack of a musical bone; however, Marcus continued encouraging me. Over the next two hours, he handed me a range of instruments to test out. Only one showcased my talent in a favorable light. It was the silver triangle they give every untalented kid when they join the school band.
I was on the verge of giving up when Marcus pulled a bedsheet off a drum kit. As dust filtered around the room, my heart rate soared. That was it, staring right at me. Love at first sight does exist, because I loved that drum kit from the moment I saw it.
And as they say, the rest is history.
Marcus visited his grandmother’s house every weekend, so every weekend we practiced from sunup until sundown. A year later, when Marcus moved into his grandmother’s house permanently, we added weekday rehearsals into our schedule as well. Now, ten years later, we’re at the pinnacle of success. Our concerts are sold out within hours, and we do press junkets and meet and greets after each show. Life couldn’t be more perfect—I’m just missing the final piece of my puzzle.
Refusing to let my past dampen my mood, I jump up to my feet. “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”
I slap Marcus on the shoulder two times before entering the bathroom attached to our dressing room. It’s nearly the same size with a double-headed shower, a wall of mirrors, and a counter covered with a range of products advertising execs are praying we’ll endorse.
I always shower before the fan meet and greet. I don’t want sweaty pits scaring away our fans. I’m not joking when I say my clothes are drenched with sweat after each performance. Well, my jeans are. I don’t wear a shirt while performing. What’s the use? I can’t remove it halfway through a set. Drummers don’t prance around the stage like guitarists and singers do. My body is constantly moving, meaning there’s no time to whip off a shirt, so I don’t bother starting our gig with one.
Once I’ve showered and changed into jeans and a short-sleeve black shirt, I make my way to the room Emily sets up after every concert for our fan meet and greet. The band used to sit at one long desk, but it was a pain in the ass when we tried to interact with our fans, so Emily arranged for four individual tables—kick ass tables. She had them designed to match our musical instruments. Nick’s is an electric guitar. Marcus’s is a bass guitar. Mine is obviously a drum, and Noah’s is….
I don’t know what the fuck Noah’s is. I think it’s supposed to be a mic stand, but the microphone sticking out the middle of it makes it seem as if he’s holding a press conference every time he sits down. I’ve seen him push the mic out the way any time Emily leaves the room. I’ve told him many times to grow some balls and tell Emily he hates his table, but he swears until he’s blue in the face that he loves it. His lie ensures I make whipping noises at him as often as possible. He’s so fucking pussy-whipped.
The buzz sizzling in my veins grows as more fans trickle into the room. To ensure they get their money’s worth, only a handful of people are permitted to enter at one time. It gives them a chance to truly meet their idols instead of it appearing like a cattle drive. We sign autographs and pose for pictures with a select few who either paid top dollar to meet us or won the opportunity.
My eyes hover up from the CD I’m signing when the pretty blonde in front of me murmurs, “You know my friend.”
“Is that so?”
While she nods, I scan her body. She’s cute—actually, she’s pretty hot—my tastes just lean more toward brunettes. This girl’s platinum blonde locks are cut into a fierce bob; her eyes are the color of an ocean, and her plaid button-up shirt is tied in the middle of her stomach. Her tiny denim shorts show a nice amount of skin, and she has a real playful vibe about her, which is revealed in full detail when she notices my prolonged perusal of her body.
After cocking her hip out, she raises her brow high into her hairline. “Sorry, I don’t do vanilla.” Her lust-riddled eyes stray to Marcus, who’s sitting next to me. “I only like chocolate ice cream.”
When I chuckle, Marcus stops signing a photograph to peer at me. Realizing she’s secured his attention, the blonde strikes a pose, looking prepared to walk the catwalk in a Victoria’s Secret fashion show.
After flashing the envious fan a grin, Marcus interacts with the fan at his table, and the blonde’s focus shifts back to me. “The things I could teach that boy,” she murmurs under her breath while handing me one of the drumsticks I threw out earlier tonight.
