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The security guard pauses.
We stay in this stupid tableau, me gripping the edge of the stage and peering up past my backpack, him leaning down and thrusting it in my face. After three heartbeats, the man presses his earpiece and mutters something, narrowed eyes fixed on me.
I can see it: the exact moment he realizes I’m telling the truth. His eyebrows bounce up and he straightens, my backpack sagging toward the stage. A meaty hand appears in front of my nose, and I take it, grateful for the help as I scramble onto the stage.
“Come on.” The guard ushers me into the velvet shadows of the wings. “Don’t give anyone else ideas. Why didn’t Jefferson tell you to come in through the stage door?”
Why indeed.
I clear my throat, shrugging my backpack onto my shoulders again and wincing at the strain. The left strap chafes against the side of my neck. “We haven’t, um. Haven’t spoken much.”
Understatement of the century.
My father, my biological dad, the man who gave me freaking life, has said all of about ten sentences to me in my whole existence. Sure, he only found out about me last month when I reached out, but still.
I press a palm against my pocket, my letter from him crinkling under the fabric. It was short but eager—a note telling me he was so glad to hear from me, and to come and visit him here, with a paid airline ticket and a signed Run Along Ruby poster. He signed the note ‘Dad’ and the band poster ‘Jefferson Peters’.
“He’s in the green room.”
My feet ache as I follow the security guard through the halls, blisters hot and sticky on my heels inside my Docs. Is the hotel far from here? Would it be rude to meet my dad, have a quick hug, then get a cab to wherever I’m staying for the night so I can crash out for the next thirty hours?
No.
I firm my shoulders, gripping my backpack straps.
I came all this way. I’m not going to waste a single second with my father. Moments like this are why coffee exists, damn it.
Two
Dex
The green room is a wreck again. Oh, it’s always rough around the edges in every venue we visit, with empty liquor bottles scattered over tables and the faint smell of smoke clinging to everyone’s clothes. Pizza boxes and raucous bursts of laughter. The sickly sweet smell of women’s perfume.
But we’ve gone off the rails early today, before we’ve even played the damn show, and I’m getting too old for this shit. I take my grumpy ass over to a brown leather sofa by the wall and sprawl over it with my guitar in my lap.
The soft plunk of strings soothes me, even with music blaring from someone’s tinny, shitbox speaker. The motion is familiar, comforting, and I lose myself in the melody for a moment, in the flex and ripple of my fingers, the sounds of the green room fading away.
A sharp squeal brings me back.
In the center of the room, Jefferson growls and snaps his teeth at the young blonde woman balanced on his thigh, her giggles floating toward the ceiling. She’s dressed in a fringed black crop top, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, and our lead singer grins as he rakes his teeth over her bare skin. He’s old enough to have dropped her off at school, his red hair thinning on top beneath all the product.
When’s he gonna be too old for this shit, huh? I love my best friend, but he’s getting harder and harder to be around these days. We’re here to play music, not pant after groupies and get our egos—and dicks—stroked.
“You look lonely.” A girl smirks from beside the sofa, her fingers playing pointedly with the hem of her flippy red dress. She’s got black hair and sharp eyeliner, like a little vampire. When did she sneak up on me? “You want company, Mr Kincaid?”
I firm my jaw, fingers still dancing over guitar strings. “No. Not tonight.”
Not any night, but it sounds so harsh when I spell it out like that. Better to brush ‘em off easy, then watch them skip along to the next band mate and try their luck there. Chances are they’ll find a lap to perch on.
The vamp’s smirk falls, her fingers stilling. “Okay. No need to be an asshole about it.”
Was I? I shake my head, annoyed, as she moves along to our drummer, West. Sure enough, she’s slung across his lap in under a minute, shooting me a pointed glare over his shoulder. Trying to make me jealous over what I easily could’ve had.
Fuck this. There are nearly two hours until we go onstage, and I’m not wasting them sitting on this couch in a mood. Even a long walk through the rain-splattered streets would be better, and at least I could clear my aching head away from the stifled moans drifting from Jefferson’s sofa.
My guitar strap whispers against my front as I stand.
Maybe I can find a half decent falafel truck out there.
