Beats
Table of Contents
Chameleons, Panty Pull-Downs, and Twelve-Step Programs
Step One: Eye Contact. Make It.
Step Two: Don Do-It-Yourself Whorewear
Step Six: Initiate Operation Blow-Off
Step Seven: Talk So Dirty, He Needs a Bath to Answer You
Step Nine: Let Him Know What He’s Missing When You’re Not Around
Step Ten: Tell Him You Love Him with a Song
Step Eleven: Grab Him by the Balls and Never Let Him Go
Step Twelve: Remember, Spitters Are Quitters
BEATS
Hard Rock Harlots
Kendall Grey
BEATS
Copyright © 2013 by Kendall Grey
Published by
Howling Mad Press, LLC
P.O. Box 660
Bethlehem, GA 30620
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Edited by Jennifer Sommersby Young
Cover design by Renee Coffey
ISBN 10: 0-9848878-8-1
ISBN 13: 978-0-9848878-8-0
First E-book Edition: August 2013
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Misfits, McDonald’s, University of Georgia, Facebook, The Clash, “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” “Mommie Dearest,” Crown Royal Black, The Incredible Hulk, Dickies, Milli Vanilli, “Mary Poppins,” Led Zeppelin, iPod, Pearl Drums, Gatorade, Scholastic Aptitude Test, Tilt-a-Whirl.
Acknowledgments
Muchas gracias
to Jenn Sommersby Young for her kickass editorial advice and friendship (Love you, twinsie!); Renee Coffey for designing Jinx’s awesome BEATS cover (Talent oozes from your pores, my friend); Madeline Sheehan for being my bulletproof armor and drinking buddy at book signings; Melanie Marsh, the best ASST a girl could hope for; Gillian Pemberton and Katie Mac for expert content feedback and highly appreciated redirection in a few places.
Heart-thumping love to Kendall’s Street Walkers and the admins in various Hard Rock Harlots-related groups (BOOSH!): Angela Lane (Newbie Harlot), Angela Szuter (“I Better Not Be Having a Girl” Harlot), Annie Gabor (Amazing Whale Necklace Giver and Sinnder-Loving Harlot), Debi Krupa (my other ASST and Secret Lesbian Lover Harlot – HA!), Erin Fisher (Sweet As Honey Harlot), Jonathan Lalor (Hot Man Harlot), Juliana Cabrera (Maker of Awesome Promo Pics Harlot), Kelly Rodgers (Beautiful Irish Harlot), Kim Cheeseman (Queen of Sweetness Harlot), LexyPat Storries (Eager Beaver Pimp Harlot), Lynne Curcuru (“Pop-ovah” Harlot), Mari Brown (Get It Done Harlot), Mindy Guerreiros (So Full of Love Harlot), Missy Snyder (Happy Birthday Harlot), Stefanie Pratt (Badass Admin Harlot), and Suzan Rose Elaine (Shy and Sweet Harlot).
Hugs and licks to my family and friends who have to deal with me on a daily basis. May Google bless your sweet souls for putting up with my shit.
BEATS belongs to the Rockers and Harlots group members. I never dreamed I’d have this much support and love from readers. You guys are the most rabid, insane, funny, sexy, and AWESOME people I’ve ever known. I love every fucking one of you.
Long live The Rock.
Chameleons, Panty Pull-Downs, and Twelve-Step Programs
February 13 – San Antonio, Texas
“Describe yourself in one word, Jinx.” My friend and bandmate Letty Dillinger plucks a tortilla chip glopped with beans and cheese from the plate of loaded nachos between us.
Good question. I imagine it’s hard for most people to condense their essence—their entire being—into a single term, but in my case, only one word applies. I’m a
chameleon.
Many things to some people. Nobody to others.
“Percussionist.” It’s not a lie, but not a complete truth, either.
Letty chews thoughtfully.
In addition to being a hardcore drummer, I’m also a caring daughter, a protective sister, a quiet friend, and hopefully, someone’s future lover. Yet none of these roles defines the whole of
me
. So, like the chameleon, I adjust to fit the situation and morph into whatever my surroundings need me to be.
At home in Athens, Georgia, I go by the name Gianna Donato, the second eldest of six half-Italian (my dad’s a transplant from New Jersey)/half-Southern children. I’m a nice Catholic girl. I eat my vegetables, go to confession, and defend my little brother when mean kids pick on him. I get lost in crowds. My voice is soft. My soul is good.
On the road, I’m known as Jinx Hardwick, drummer for the Los Angeles-signed rock quintet Killer Buzz Float. Onstage, I’m a battle-hardened machine of muscle and perfect, unshakeable cadence. I’m the foundation of the band. They rely on me to keep them on course, and I
never
waver.
But how others perceive you isn’t necessarily who you
are
, is it?
Letty chases her chip with the remains of her beer and wipes her mouth with an arm. “You’re supposed to throw out a broad ‘concept’ word. Like ‘artist’ or ‘poet’ or some frou-frou shit.”
I shrug. “What word describes you?”
“Rebel.” She dusts off her hands and stands. “Be right back.”
Letty’s definitely a rebel. Completely comfortable in her own skin and not afraid to tell anyone who doesn’t like it to fuck off.
I envy her.
Inside my head, I’m not sure
who
I am. The real me—someone between Jinx and Gianna—does things no one else (except maybe my priest, a couple of ex-boyfriends, and my professional piercer) knows about. We won’t go there. Real Me isn’t nearly as interesting as she sounds.
On this particular day, I’m on tour with Killer Buzz Float, so I’m focusing on being Jinx for the moment. And as Jinx, I can’t stop my thoughts from wandering to my current obsession: a stupid
guy
. The guy Real Me would love to have a simple conversation with. The one I’ve been silently admiring for months.
Toombs Badcock.
The former drummer and new rhythm guitarist for Killer Buzz Float, Toombs is both the bane of my existence and the reason I get out of my bunk every morning. He’s an expert at unhinging me with little more than a glance. When he’s around, I can’t talk. Can’t create. Can’t even think. The words form in my head, but they hit a speed bump on their way to my mouth. I’m an unkempt, discombobulated moron every time I look at him.
Toombs is a rainbow of wrong, but the storm that precedes him is so damn right.
The bitch of it all? Outside of our professional relationship, I don’t exist to him.
I’m pretty sure he’s in love with our lead guitarist, Rax.
When you spend months with the same people in a cramped tour bus, you notice things. Sometimes they’re things you wish you could forget. Like a glimpse through the crack in a bunk curtain of Rax’s tattooed hand resting on Toombs’s bare shoulder. And the soft glances volleying between them onstage, or their backs pressed to one another as they play searing duets. And the time I walked in on them masturbating each other on the couches in the front of the bus.
It wasn’t the actual jerking off part that got me. I was too blown away by their kiss to really notice what was going on below the belt. They were so tender. So unlike their rough personas onstage or even in real life. The slow, sultry flap of Rax’s lashes when he caught me staring slack-jawed and tongue-tied silently boasted, “This is
mine
.”
I want to rescue Toombs from Rax’s snakelike coils. I want to touch him the way Rax does when no one’s around.
I want Toombs all to myself.
Toombs
used
to look at me the way he looks at Rax. That was before we signed our record deal. Before I caught them on the couch. Before I realized I’m totally, completely, madly in love with him.
Things change. And here I am. Jinx Hardwick, the Valkyrie drummer with a broken heart.
“Wanna whole lotta love,” Letty sings above the din and shakes her ass on her return to our table. She sidesteps a cowboy pushing out his chair in her path and snarls. “Watch it, asshole,” she says and flips him off with her free hand. The other cradles a big, fruity-looking drink. She sets it before me and proudly gestures to it. “For you, my lady.”
I wrinkle my nose. I’m not big on alcohol, and the stench pouring off this monstrosity is overwhelming. “What is it?”
“Pink Panty Pull-Down.” Letty’s green eyes sparkle as she gazes down my front to the palms smacking out beats in my lap.
I still them. “Uh…”
“Just drink it. It has cherries in it. Fruit’s good for you. And you need to loosen the fuck up.”
I raise the glass and sniff it. Pretty sure I could get a contact buzz from the fumes if I hold it here long enough. “I’m loose.” I roll my shoulders to prove it.
I’m
so
not loose.
Letty arches her brow. “Drink.”
The male members of Killer Buzz Float—Rax, Toombs, and Shades—burst through the bar door. They’re a walking wall of black leather and sin. They spot us and head toward the table. Great.
I can’t look. I know this drill all too well. Toombs will focus on one of the many steer skulls adorning the wall behind me. Or maybe a cowboy patron’s ten-gallon hat, some ice spilled on the floor beneath a nearby table, a passing waitress—anything to avoid me. Rax will make a suggestive, smart-ass comment about his need to get laid, and Shades will grab Letty’s ass. Or another body part that’s totally inappropriate to grope in public.
And as usual, I’ll stare at my twitchy hands, wishing I were behind my kit instead of subjected to the torture of witnessing impending pickups, followed by hours of sitting by myself, waiting for groupies to clear the bus and for the bodily fluids left behind on the couch to dry.
Why the hell am I doing this gig again? Oh right. For The Rock. For
art
.
Screw this.
I force down half my drink, choke on the bite, and flatten the back of my wrist to my mouth to keep from spewing all over the table. Naturally, Toombs arrives just in time to see me make a complete ass of myself.
The scent of his cinnamon gum fills my nose. I lower my head. With a deep breath, I try to shoo away the butterflies fluttering in my stomach, but he’s standing too close. I’ve got a full-on infestation.
“Our next stop on the tour got canceled,” Rax says. “Something about a fire at the venue last night. Nobody was hurt, but they had to shut down the place for repairs. Looks like we got ourselves a few days off.”
No. No. No. I don’t want time off. Time off means play time for everyone else. I sneak a glance at him to see if he’s joking.
Nope.
Letty slaps the table. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Rax shrugs, his leather jacket protesting under a drape of tinkling silver chains.
My rival is a looker. It’s no wonder he’s never wanting for groupies to bang with his self-professed tag-team buddy Toombs. Long, wavy black hair tied in a partial topknot. Scruffy cheeks. Penetrating blue eyes. Double-pierced bottom lip. Covered in reptile-themed tattoos. Tall, dark, and very handsome.
But not for me.
Shades leans in behind Rax to snag a loaded chip. Right on schedule, his hand brushes Letty’s boob.
Rax cups his crotch.
The windup.
He elbows Toombs, whom I still haven’t looked at for fear that doing so will result in me spontaneously dying of embarrassment, disappointment, or a toxic combination of the two.
“Hey, you wanna grab a couple of bitches tonight?”
The pitch.
Toombs’s reply is gruff but quiet. “Whatever.”
Home run.
I sigh.
Letty kicks me under the table, and I shoot her a halfhearted scowl. She knows how I feel about Toombs. When we first hit the road, she put herself between us constantly—she’s such a protective mother hen with me—but since our former, all-girl band merged with the guys in Killer Dixon to become Killer Buzz Float, Letty’s loosened up a lot about Toombs. I think she feels sorry for me.
