Hard Rock Roots Box Set (78 page)

“
Aren't you sick of knowing you,
” Cohen sings, his body turning to shadows as the lights move above us.

“
Knowing you,
” I sing along with the rest of the band, pushing my voice through the mic at my right, leaning forward on my seat, letting myself pour into and through it.

“
Could never be me. Aren't you sick of knowing you have never let yourself be free. So, why? Aren't you tired of being the only who can't believe the stars can be grabbed straight from the sky?
”

The other instruments around me slow and the spotlight moves, casting golden light down on my head like I've been sent from fucking heaven or something. I raise my arms up, feeling the muscles in my forearms, the coordination in my wrists, the grip of my fingers around the sticks. This is my favorite part of the song, where everything else fades away and I'm left here to show the transition from the old to the new, where the lyrics switch from feeling sorry about themselves to being proud. I wrote this song so long ago. At the time, I had no idea what it meant. I'm not saying I do now, that I've become a different person in a single day, but I'm now realizing that this is what I need to learn. This is what I've got to work on.

And I get to start by playing a triple ratamacue on my fucking killer kit with the purple glitter and the black bats. I close my eyes and let my heart take over. It sounds lame until you get there, until you feel it so deep down you have no idea where it's coming from. Sometimes, it takes one to know one.

Right hand drag, right hand drag, right hand drag,
left, right, left. Left hand drag, left hand drag, left hand drag, right, left, right.

Chris and Joel cut the crowd down with their axes, jumping back in with Honesty hot on their asses.

“
And aren't you sick of staying here, ready to spread your wings and fly? Why wait for tomorrow when we have today? Why stay here when there's other places we could be?
”

Cohen spins in a circle, stomping the stage with his cowboy boots, swinging his hair down like the rockers who gave birth to us, the first people to climb on the stage and hold their fingers to the sky in a holy hell fuck you all.

I check the crowd, watch them closely and make sure they're obeying my every move. When I say jump, I want them to ask how high. When I tell them to close their eyes and move with me, I want them to obey without question. I'm up here to guide them to a destination they could never find on their own. It's like being the only parent in a room full of children. It's my job to use these sticks, this foot, this soul to direct their energy, keep it up high and dangerous but not allow it to explode.

I pummel my drums hard, so hard. I beat the ever living fuck out of them, leaning up on my seat to scream the lyrics into the microphone. I get so loud that Cohen actually turns and looks at me, my voice crossing through the speakers and clashing against his. I don't think I'm a good vocalist, but I know that he's not right either. When this shit is over and flushed down the fucking toilet, I'm going to start a new band, and I'm going to find someone that I can't stop listening to, whose voice is so perfect that I could never compete.

I close my eyes and imagine Ronnie sitting behind me, guiding my arms with his strong hands, pressing his body close enough to scald. I imagine fucking him with a beat playing out in front us, regulating the rhythm of our bodies. I get so into it that when the song ends, I keep going, slamming out something completely new and different from anything we've done before.

At first, the movement in the audience slows when they see the rest of the band just standing there. But after awhile, the spotlight moves back over me and they start to stir, persuaded into motion by a beat that crashes into the brain and won't let go, the best kind of parasite. I invade their skulls and bring their bodies to motion, melting the pot of people into a roiling boil that doesn't let up, not even when Cohen tries to get the rest of Ice and Glass to play one of our assigned songs. It's not a bad tune, written just right, softened up and toned down for the masses. But Lola Saints doesn't play for the masses. She can't be censored or watered down or edited for public consumption. She plays for the fringes, for the nitty, for the gritty, for the ones that bleed black tears from their eyes.

And I'm just now getting to meet her. Tragedy and strife can breed beauty and change. It can because it's so stark, there has to be something to hold up against it, to say this isn't the way I want my life to be. So nice to fuckin' meet ya, Miss Lola. Nice to shake your fucking hand.

Ice and Glass stops playing; they don't know what to do. We might've been friends before, but I've made the change, and if they can't come along with me, then we're done. I keep playing, and I don't let up, not even when Cohen moves towards me and KK appears from behind the curtain.

When I see them, I falter for a moment, losing my momentum, sudden fear gripping me hard by the throat. And then Ronnie's coming out, combat boots slamming against the stage, climbing the steps to my throne and pausing there, breathing hard, face flushed. He smiles at me and then bends down, pressing his lips hard against my face. My hands start to move again, pulled like marionettes on a string. The song I start playing next belongs to Indecency. Ronnie doesn't know it, but I've always practiced to their music. Something about it is so right it's fucking wrong.

“Hey!” It's Turner Campbell sliding onto the stage. The audience can't hear him yet, but they can see him.
Amatory Riot + Indecency = Perfection
signs are everywhere. I guess all that mixing and matching they've been doing is paying off.

Cohen pauses, confused as fuck in the middle of the stage looking as lost in this moment as I think he is in life. Turner walks right up to him, pats his cheek and extracts his microphone. “Yo, hey, Little Rock.” He wets his lips and scratches at his belly, glancing over this shoulder at me and Ronnie. Like an asshole, I'm still sitting up here playing. Nothing but drums filling the air, shaking the auditorium. “So, um, yeah. Listen up.” He smiles wicked wide and deathly beautiful. I glance up at Ronnie who has a weird look on his face, halfway between ecstasy and blind terror. Not sure what that's about. “First off, fuck Wichita. I like you guys much better.” I can't even tell there are human beings in the audience anymore. They're so excited to see Turner that they've morphed into ghosts, haunting the auditorium with deathly cries and wails of agony. They need him; they must have him; he is their everything. Campbell is the quintessential rock God. He's got so much charisma, it's scary.

“He better not,” I hear Ronnie say, his voice somehow cutting across all the bullshit and making it to my battered brain.
Fuck a nun's dry cunt, what are you doing Lola?
I just keep playing. I can't stop. My whole body is shaking and my arms are on fire, but I just can't pull myself away. It's too much. I'm too wired in now.
Please don't let anything bad happen to Poppet because of this.

From the side of the stage, here she fucking comes, Naomi Knox. She's walking across the stage like this is all planned, no big deal, but I can tell it's not. She has her Wolfgang in her arms and an angry look on her face. Turner sees her and slips on a pair of shades.

“I don't know if you've seen the news, but, uh, some shit is going down around us.” He pauses and swings the mic around in a circle, snatching it back in his hand and growling into it, raising the hair on the back of my neck, chilling the crowd in a ripple that leaves them swooning and desperate for more. “I just want to say that whoever's behind this fucking shit better watch their ass.” An explosion of cheers, more chanting of Turner's name. He points out at the crowd, drawing his finger over sweaty faces and heaving chests. “Because we're onto him, and we're not about to lay down and take it. Boys.” Turner waves his arm and the other members of Indecency sneak out from backstage, Milo pacing at the edges biting his nails and raking his hands through his air. “To the limp-wristed, pussy fuck who's too afraid to show his face, your time is coming to an end. I will find you and when I do, you better watch your ass.” Turner pauses as Naomi plugs her guitar in, replacing Joel who just stands there with the lights reflecting off his bald head, mouth agape.

The other members of Indecency step in, all except for Trey who stands stiff at the edges of the stage. I keep going, playing the same phrase over and over again. Turner glances over his shoulder and Ronnie raises his hand. He's half-frowning, but when he switches his gaze to me, he smiles. Turner claps his hands in time with the beat, and then flips the mic up in the air, spinning it in a circle and catching it with his other hand.

“
Don't ever be afraid of me. I cannot see.
”

My body breaks out in goose bumps. This is the same song they played the night of the tornado, but it feels so different. Naomi isn't singing; Hayden is nowhere to be seen. And I'm on the drums.
I
am on the drums.

“Ain't no such thing as conventional in this life,” Ronnie says, lighting up a cigarette and giving me an encouraging grin. “Guess we roll with it.”

“
I can't see, and I'm blinded by your love.
”

Naomi closes her eyes and smashes her guitar against her pelvis, giving birth to the most wicked sound I've heard in awhile. If she didn't have Indecency to back her up, the whole thing would fall apart. I watch her take control of the whole group, even Turner, driving the force of the music, blending this patchwork quilt of players into one solid unit.

“
That day you walked away from me, I went down hard and I could not see. I could not see, and baby, you're fucking bullshit is killing me.
”

I lick my lips and lean into the microphone.

“
Tear us apart with your LIES and taste my HEARTBEAT with your cries.
”

Ronnie kneels down next to me, taking advantage of the shadows there, and slips his hand down along my thigh, stroking my sweet spot under my skirt with a drum stick, encouraging carnal beauty and raw screams to come from my throat as I join in on the backup vocals, taking advantage of every last molecule of oxygen in my lungs. My eyes flicker closed and I drop straight into a trance, feeling nothing but the beat of my drums and the hum of pleasure from below. When Ronnie slides the stick inside of me, my brain explodes into splotches of white color and the moans that escape my lips sound in time with the song. And the only thing I can hear is the beat of a single heart.

The pressure below intensifies, the movement inside of me speeds up, and an orgasm cracks me right in half just as the song ends, just as the notes fade away and the crowd erupts into a plangent roar that shakes foundations and moves mountains.

When I collapse, Ronnie takes over, and I swear to Christ, I can't hear any difference in the sound of the music.

Chapter 17
Ronnie McGuire

“Are you fucking nuts?” Trey growls at Turner backstage. We're all sweating, dripping splatters across the cement floor. What a show. What a fucking show. I still don't really know what happened up there. All I know is that the chemistry in this room is intense. I feel connected to all the people here, like there are threads tied between us that can't be cut or the whole thing will fall apart. Sometimes when you get it right, you just get it right. This is it. This was the turning point we needed, and we put on the perfect performance to take advantage of that. Even Milo can't complain. The murmur of the crowd is like that of a contented child, well fed, dressed, ready for bed. We put these fuckers out tonight.

I look at Lola laying across a speaker, still trying to catch her breath even though she left the stage two full sets ago. The rest of Ice and Glass is gone. I have no clue where they went.

“The numbers don't lie, Trey. The reviews. The comments. I … you're trending all over the place. I'm getting calls in like crazy.” Milo sniffles and flicks his finger across the screen on his iPad. “I'm sorry you missed out on a song, but – ”

“What the fuck ever,” Trey snaps at him, turning away and moving towards the doors. A security officer steps in front of him.

“I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait. I can't guarantee anything if you go out there.”

“Is it bad?” Josh asks from the corner, speaking up for the first time that night. His eyes are glittering though, and I can tell he's in fucking heaven. Must be nice to be that young, still a virgin from life's fucks, with all of this being presented to you. I envy the kid, but I also feel sorry for him. You never know when something bad might happen, and I don't think he's prepared.

Milo sighs and nods, closing the cover on his iPad.

“There are prices to pay for … doing things unconventionally. We underestimated the crowd outside. Just wait until I give you the go ahead. Until then, everybody stays here.” He moves away, and I sit down next to Lola, grabbing her bare leg and running my hand up her skin, just touching her. It feels so fucking good.

“Nice job up there,” Turner says, drinking a sip of water, swishing it around in his mouth and then spitting it back out onto the floor. I try not to roll my eyes. “You hear anything about your sister?” he asks, coming in close. Naomi scoots in beside us, dragging her drummer, Dax, by the arm. He looks like he got run over by a tractor trailer, but he played tonight. I have to give some serious fuckin' kudos for that shit. His eyes are a little cloudy, and he hasn't been filled in completely yet, but I don't say anything about him joining us. Turner, however, narrows his eyes and tightens the muscles in his jaw.
Idiot.

Lola struggles to sit up, rubbing at her face with her hands. She doesn't look happy.

“They didn't say anything to me, not a damn thing.” She glances around like she's looking for someone. “I'm getting a little worried to tell you the truth.”

“When are you supposed to meet up with them?” Naomi asks, putting a pair of sunglasses on her face. I follow suit. I'm guessing there are going to be a lot of photos taken tonight. I'd rather keep the attention off my face.