44 Chapters About 4 Men: A Memoir (17 page)

Seriously, Journal.

So, guess who got to run groupie recon after every show? I’ll give you a hint. She’s the jealous type, and her name rhymes with meanie.

On one such night, Phantom Limb was actually headlining at a legitimate club and had been given the star treatment backstage. Well, it was at least fancier than the shallow graves those guys were used to playing in. They had a private greenroom with their band name adorning the door (okay, so maybe it was written in Sharpie on a star-shaped Post-it note), free food (Bugles and Combos, but the Combos were the good pretzel kind with the Cheese Whiz stuff inside), and chilled champagne (sparkling California white wine in clear plastic flutes). Not bad for a bunch of twenty-year-old high school dropouts.

Headlining also meant a higher caliber of groupie—as in, they had enough self-respect to hide their track marks and cutting scars on the insides of their thighs,
like ladies
. These bitches were bold, too. Entitled even. Opening act groupies were bottom-feeders. Skittish. Easily scared off by a ninety-five-pound nineteen-year-old with a platinum-blonde pixie haircut and one hell of a stink eye. Headliner groupies, on the other hand, were scrappers. They were working on their retirement plans, goddamn it, and they weren’t going to let a little thing like me (or a condom) get between them and eighteen years of rock star–sized child-support checks.

So, there I was, shoulder to shoulder with the competition—or should I say flat chest to bouncing breasts?—right there in the front row. I was a boy among women. And boy, did I feel threatened. It didn’t help that Hans looked like sex on a stick that night.

What is it about a man in eyeliner? With spiky black hair? Who happens to have a full sleeve of horror movie–themed tattoos on his right arm, which he uses to violently slap and strum the strings of his bass guitar while on stage in front of thousands of people?

Honestly, guyliner aside, what made Hans even sexier on stage was his complete lack of ego. When he was up there, it was as if the audience didn’t exist. He just played his heart out, stomping around his side of the stage, banging his head and swinging his bass, occasionally giving a knowing smirk to one of his bandmates or a head nod to signal this or that, but he never acknowledged a single one of the star-fuckers in the audience, which—unfortunately for me—only made them want him more.

After finishing their second encore with my favorite cover song, a killer version of “Terrible Lie” by Nine Inch Nails, the guys exited stage right to the deafening sound of screaming and declarations of love from the front row, which no longer included me. I was already clawing my way out of the pit, making every effort to get my scrawny ass backstage and into Hans’s pinstriped pants before my competition.

Once I finally extracted myself from that undulating sea of pumping fists and steamy bodies chanting, “We won’t go! We won’t go!” I ran toward security with my backstage pass thrust out before me as if I were an FBI agent waving a badge.

Not that it mattered. I was already too late.

After sprinting through the dark corridors backstage and repeatedly getting lost because the star-shaped sticky note I was seeking had, by then, become a receptacle for some dumb cum-gobbler’s gum, no doubt, I finally caught sight of Phantom Limb’s lead singer through the greenroom’s cracked door (cracked referring to it being both ajar and in disrepair).

Trip (which was short for his stage name,
XXX
) was one gangly, goofy motherfucker. He wore his dyed black hair parted in a blunt bowl cut that fell just above his ears, and he was astonishingly perverted, like in a thinks-it’s-completely-appropriate-to-watch-sick-Japanese-Bukkake-porn-in-mixed-company-and-then-pause-it-at-the-”best-part”-so-he-can-run-in-front-of-the-TV-and-do-his-own-pantomimed-Kabuki-theater-version-of-a-money-shot-for-everyone-while-screaming-
WOOOOOOO
kind of way.

Once I got a little closer, I could see that Trip was hovering over a tray of cold cuts, eating a rolled up slice of turkey, while some Grade A piece of Southern white trash was on bended knee, massaging his balls with both hands through his leather pants.

Fuck!

Instantly, I knew that if there was already a woman desperate enough to worship over Trip’s weaselly, measly little pecker, that could only mean one thing.

With a balled fist at the ready and my pounding heart in my throat, I slowly pushed the greenroom door the rest of the way open. There, on the couch—which appeared to be encased in a brittle shell of dried and assorted body fluids—was my tall, dark, wickedly sexy rock-star boyfriend flirting with a juicy piece of statutory-rape bait. She was wearing a tank top so low-cut that he could’ve used her cleavage as a beer koozie. Hans looked totally at home with his arm draped over the back of the couch, his posture open and inviting, his mouth pulled to one side in his signature self-confident smirk.

I wanted to leave, to go pout somewhere until he came looking for me, but my jealousy demanded that I stand there and watch, daring one of them to make the first move. With every batted false eyelash and touch from her inch-long acrylic fingernails, my rage grew from a quiet simmer to a screaming noxious boil.

Why do I insist on doing this to myself? Why did I even come here?

Oh, yeah, to protect the sanctity of my giant, naive, tenderhearted boyfriend and his cock.

Finally, I saw my in. I watched in suspended strike mode as Valtrex handed Hans a Sharpie, then hooked an index finger into the top of her tank top, as if she were about to expose her left tit for him to sign. Just as I reared back to launch myself at her, Hans caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey, Bumblebee!”

The smile that illuminated his face was temporarily disarming, and I almost forgot how mad I was when he leaped from his seat with so much speed and enthusiasm that Valtrex had to grab handfuls of the cum-encrusted upholstery to keep from falling on her stupid fucking face.

Hans snatched me up in a lung-crushing bear hug, which was definitely
not
reciprocated. Feeling my resistance, he slowly set me back on my feet. Not releasing my arms, which were pinned to my sides by his gargantuan, calloused, bass playing hands, Hans held me in front of him at arm’s length, looking me over with a furrowed brow.

“What’s a matter, Bee?” His jovial mood turned sour in the blink of a black-rimmed eye. “Seriously, what’s wrong? Did something happen to you out there?”

Really? Really, Hans? You have no idea why I’m upset?

I huffed and shook him off, stomping out of the greenroom and back into the labyrinth. The halls were lit at random intervals by red party bulbs, ominous shadowy darkness filling the stretches in between. It looked underworldly.

Fitting
, I thought, seeing as how I was already in hell.

I’d finally found the perfect man, and I was doomed to helplessly watch other women try to fuck him for the rest of eternity.

Following the exit signs, I eventually found an external door to thrust myself out of. Instead of being revived by a crisp, invigorating blast of cool night air, like I’d subconsciously expected, I barreled headlong into a hot, sticky viscous concoction that would have only passed for oxygen on a molecular level.

I don’t know why I had expected any different. If you’ve ever seen a movie where summertime in the South is depicted as a place where people move slowly, speak slowly, fan themselves incessantly, and are coated in a perpetual beading of sweat, that would be because the air here is exactly the same temperature and consistency as simmering gravy—boiling hot clear air gravy—for six months out of the year.

Choking down that first breath of molten-hot ectoplasm completely took the wind out of my sails. I leaned over and placed my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath and psych myself up for the five-block swim I would have to make through this putrid liquid oxygen to the nearby neighborhood where my car was parked. I might not have been throwing up, but I probably looked like I was, and so did my purse, because when I leaned over, it effectively barfed its entire contents onto the finely ground bed of broken bottles and cigarette butts under my feet.

Nice.

Before I could rescue my assorted lip glosses, fake IDs, and cigarettes from the ground, five long, sinewy fingers reached out and grasped everything in one fell snatch. Without standing, I lifted my gaze just enough to capture Hans’s spiky-haired silhouette crouched down next to me. Although we were technically eye-to-eye, I couldn’t see his face at all, thanks to the backlighting from the club behind him, which only helped to keep the disconnection I felt from him intact.

Hans quietly asked me if I was okay in a tone that made me realize he must have thought I was sick.

Oh my God, with the way I ran away and how I was now doubled over in the parking lot—Ugh! He still didn’t get it!

I snatched my shit out of his talented fingers, stood up as straight and tall as I could, and told him to “Fuck off, Hansel.”

Nobody but his German-American
mutter
called him that, and even she’d only do it when he was in trouble.

“I’m not sick, you dumbass. I’m
pissed
! Were you really going to sign that gash’s tit? Were you going to let her ride your cock a little, too, just until I got there? I can’t do this anymore. I guess I’m just too fucking jealous to be your girlfriend. I’m sorry.”

With those departing words, I was going to turn on my heel, whip my imaginary long hair over my shoulder, and march off in the direction of my loyal Mustang. I was going to write Hans off as just a good time—just a beautiful nurturing soul inside a towering darkly sexy figure—with lickable tattoos and flickable piercings whose perfect smile radiated from his wicked face like a crescent moon in a midnight sky. And whom, up until about ten minutes ago, I was pretty sure I might want to spend the rest of my life with. I was going to hold in my tears until I made it safely to my car. Then, I’d crank up the AC and sob myself unconscious.

I only made it half a step away before I was completely immobilized by a pair of massive hands clamping down around my midsection. Hans rotated my body back around so that I was facing him once again. Only, now, he was kneeling in front of me instead of crouching beside me. With his hands on my hips and his head tipped back to gaze up at me, it reminded me of the way I’d been craning my neck up to see him all these months. Hans might have been physically restraining me, but with our reversed height differences, he was making it clear that I was the one with the power.

The way Hans’s face was tilted back also allowed me to finally see his features, and they were twisted into something heartbreaking.

Because of me.

His usually smooth, strong eyebrows were pulled tightly together, forming a deep V of pain above the bridge of his nose. His mouth, which was so often pulled to the side in a playful smirk, now formed a tight frown. And his eyes, which usually sparkled like blue diamonds in a coal mine, now glistened with the dew of unshed tears.

Not only was this beautiful man—inside and out—groveling at my feet, but he still had his rock-star eyeliner and sweat-soaked stage clothes on, reminding me that I’d just watched this Adonis perform in front of thousands of screaming fans. Only, instead of getting his cock smoked backstage like the heavy metal deity he was, Hans was on his knees in a parking lot full of what appeared to be broken light bulbs and human teeth. I felt like shit.

“I’m sorry, Bumblebee. God, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m such an idiot. That girl had a media pass and said she was with Y105 and wanted to do a quick interview. I was just going to sit down and answer a few questions until you made your way backstage, but once we started talking, it was pretty obvious that she wasn’t from any fucking radio station. She was just some dumb girl who got her hands on a press pass and wanted an autograph.”

“Oh, I think she wanted more than just an autograph.” I couldn’t help myself.

Even though Hans was obviously beating himself up, it was the same story every time.

This girl just needs a ride home because her boyfriend left and took her car.

This girl is getting kicked out of her apartment and doesn’t have anyone to help her move.

This girl only needs a couple more bucks to be able to quit stripping and put herself through astronaut school.

Either he had some serious self-esteem issues that made him think women wanted his help but not his dick, or the altitude from his height was making his brain all foggy and retarded.

“I didn’t know. I swear, Bee. I just thought she was going to interview us.”

“Hans, that skank looked younger than me, and I had to use a fake ID to get in here. You are so fucking naive. This is exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t realize women—excuse me, girls—are hitting on you until your cockhead is smacking them square in the uvula, and even then, you wonder if they just slipped and fell into your crotch. I know you don’t
want
to cheat on me, don’t have
plans
to cheat on me, but the reality is that you were seconds away from touching the tits of a minor tonight, and at no point leading up to that did you stop to reevaluate the situation. I won’t always be around to swat away the competition, and obviously, you’re just not up to the job.”

I practically spat my words down at him with a seething, unfairly accusatory tone. I knew he couldn’t help what’d happened. He was just too optimistic and sweet to see the bad in anyone, and that was part of why I’d fallen in love with him.

According to my interpersonal relationships professor, there was a name for what Hans and I had—
fatal attraction
. It’s a phenomenon where the very qualities that attract you to someone, in turn, cause the death of the relationship. I adored how kind and gentle and romantic Hans was, especially considering that my parents had taken a life insurance policy out on me when I broke up with Knight.

“Just in case,” they said.

No, Hans was a real honest-to-goodness dyed-in-the-wool sensitive artist type. Whenever he wrapped those bulging tattooed arms around me, I felt as though I’d just shrugged on a fur coat made from live puppies that could sing “Lovesong” by The Cure a cappella. The only problem was, Hans made everybody feel that way. And this Cruella de Vil was not down with sharing her puppy trench.