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“You’re sweet to be concerned, but it’s nothing I haven’t handled before.”
“Sweet? No one has ever used that word to describe me. How many drinks have you had?” I teased him.
“More than I should’ve,” he admitted and cocked his head, a lock of his hair falling over his left eye. “And take the compliment. You’re not a selfish asshole like some people I’ve worked with. Snark hides your sensitivity. And your bark is way worse than your bite.”
“You might enjoy my bite.”
Van coughed but didn’t reply.
Suddenly, our SUV came to an abrupt stop. Regan and Dawson got out first, as usual.
“Christ, there’s press here already. Someone must’ve blabbed,” Van sighed as he looked out his window. “No autographs before we head in. Just wave and keep moving.”
The back door opened and Van stepped out. I followed him, but we waited until the second SUV pulled up beside us and the rest of the guys piled out.
There were camera flashes and callouts, so we turned and waved. I gave the practiced smile and the shot that the press wanted.
Not really.
They wanted dirt—on who I was fucking, how much I was drinking, if I was fighting with my bandmates. I didn’t have anything to give them, which was hilarious if you think about it. Sure, I liked to drink, and yeah, I’d had my issues with pills in the past, and yes, I was a randy fuckboy, but not recently.
My salacious rock star persona was not living up to the hype. I couldn’t give a shit, but still, if the fans only knew…
There was a massive lineup of people waiting to get into the club, and once the flashes started going off, the fans spotted us. Screams erupted, and phones came out.
This part never got old. It was still a rush to be recognized.
“Keep moving,” Regan urged as we made our way up the stairs and into the club.
Crimson Bones lived up to its name, with red walls and gothic touches, including massive black chandeliers and artwork inspired by Mardi Gras celebrations. It was cool and funky, something I couldn’t say about many clubs I’d visited.
One thing was the same. The heavy beat of house music blasted through my body as we made our way up the stairs.
Van walked ahead, talking to the host. And then we were whisked down a long hallway that opened to a massive room, a balcony VIP that overlooked the main club below. We had our own bar up here and waitstaff to cater to us.
Then, I noticed the crowd already seated at the bar. A group of guys younger than us and all dressed similar to Holloway in 70s style.
These were the guys from Killmine.
Van, as usual, took charge and made the intros.
“Nate Filier, Xander Delaire, Heath Lang, and Otis Wayne.”
Nate was the lead singer, a tall, lanky guy with a brown shag and a deep voice that rumbled like a foghorn. Xander played bass, Heath drums, and Otis lead guitar.
“Nice to meet y’all,” Nate smiled and greeted us. “And thanks for the invite, Van. This club is the coolest place in the city,fantastique.”
“De rien,” Van replied.
Nate’s face lit up. “You speak French?”
Van nodded. “I don’t use it much day to day, but I love the language. I was raised in Montreal. Being down here feels like home.”
“Well,bienvenue à la maison.”
I had no idea what Nate said, but it sounded cool.
“Pleasure to meet you guys,” I held out my hand. “Van has said nothing but great things. Drinks are on us.”
