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Zeke
“Minneapolis—give it up for Onyx Knight!”
The crowd roared, and I threw my guitar strap over my shoulder as I walked out on stage. Tommy was already at his drum set, thumping away on the bass drum to get the adrenaline going.
It was another sold-out crowd tonight, despite the winter storm that was headed this way, and I raised my hands over my head to get the audience clapping in time to Tommy’s beat.
“Where the fuck is Carter?” Kellan, my rhythm guitarist, growled in my ear.
I glanced at him questioningly before swinging my gaze toward the wings.
No sign of our wayward bass player, and I gritted my teeth in annoyance. He’d given the term “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” new meaning the last few years, but this kind of shit was getting old. I caught my singer’s eye since he was still in the wings, motioning toward where Carter should have been standing by now. Kingston always came out last, so he tended to dawdle, letting the crowd get worked up in anticipation, but he instantly understood that Carter was missing.
He whirled, disappearing from view, and I struck a chord on my guitar.
“How’s everybody doin’ tonight?” I asked, talking into my stand mic. “Are you ready to party with us?”
The crowd yelled and cheered, and I spotted a woman in the second row lifting her shirt for me. I winked, tossing a pick in her direction before glancing over at the side of the stage again. Just as I was about to panic, I caught sight of Carter. He was zipping up his pants, two blonds still hanging onto him for dear life as he dragged them toward the stage. Kingston said something to him that made him laugh, and he gently handed the two girls off to one of our roadies.
He was such a fucking Romeo, blowing them kisses as he grabbed his bass.
Then he bounded onto the stage like nothing had happened.
“What’s up, you Minnesota motherfuckers?” he yelled into his mic.
I caught a glimpse of Kingston rolling his eyes before Tommy counted us off.
“1-2-3-4!”
We launched into the opening licks of one of our bigger hits, “Shotgun Wedding,” just as Kingston came running out, the tails of his faux tuxedo coat trailing behind him.
“It’s cold outside, ladies,” he crooned. “But it’s going to get fucking hot in here—who’s ready for the Knight?” He danced across the stage as a hot pink bra landed at his feet. Without missing a beat, Kingston scooped it up, wrapped it around his neck and started to sing.
I grinned, moving toward the edge of the stage.
Fucking Carter had almost given me a heart attack.
It was a good thing I loved the unreliable little fuck like a brother.
We’d been friends a long time, going back to high school. We’d had another band back then, and then we’d met Kingston Knight. He was tall, blond, and charismatic, and we hadn’t cared if he could sing or not. Then he opened his mouth, magic happened, and Onyx Knight was born. By the time we added Kellan and Tommy, record companies were already sniffing around, and our first album went gold. Five multi-platinum albums later, we were superstars, touring the world and selling out venues five nights a week.
We were rich, successful, and had it all.
At least it felt that way most of the time.
Nights when Carter got so fucked up we had to use a recorded track because he couldn’t be trusted to play was a different story.
Luckily, that wasn’t tonight.
Despite how late he’d been, he was on point, flirting with girls in the front row, dancing around the stage, and putting on the show people were here to see.
I was still planning to kick his ass later.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I asked him once our third encore was over and we were in our dressing room.
He shrugged, his eyes twinkling as he took a pull from a bottle of Sam Adams. “What can I say? Two beautiful ladies felt the need to suck me off. Could I say no?”
