On the Road: (Vagabonds Book 2) (New Adult Rock Star Romance) (26 page)

“Back to the Cave” ~ Lita Ford

Chapter Forty-three

MY FIRST MONTH off tour sucked.  Yeah, it was great being away from my bandmates, but I was going through some kind of withdrawal from something.  God, and to think I’d been worried about Vicki.  I needed to check myself.  So I slept most of that time—spending a day or two with my parents—and I ate way too much, satisfying some itch I couldn’t quite scratch.

And then there was CJ.  Oh, sweet CJ.  Death Crunch was almost done recording their third album when I was detoxing my body, and I considered calling and texting him but resisted the urge every time the thought popped into my head.  Why?  Because I knew nothing had changed.

Still…I loved the guy.  I wanted the guy.  Badly.

One day I got a text from him. 
Still mad at me?

God, no.  No.  There was no way I could still be mad at CJ, especially since I’d been a slut on tour myself.  Jesus.  I could barely remember all the sex I’d had this go-round, but the most spectacular had probably been what was the worst night on tour—when Vicki had been in ICU the night she’d overdosed, but Liz and I had thanked Vaughn for covering for our drummer by having a threesome.

Shit.  I could barely remember it.  The only thing that was vivid in my mind was how thick his cock had been and so I’d nearly choked on the damn thing.

Yeah.  I couldn’t hold CJ in judgment…and I definitely couldn’t be pissed.  So, smiling, I picked up my phone and typed,
Whatever made you think I was mad at you?
  I followed it up with a winky face emoticon.

And then my phone rang.  We talked shop for a while, and the whole time I was thinking how good it was to talk to him.  He just felt right.  It wasn’t long before he said, “According to my calendar, you’ll be twenty-one in a few weeks.  Wanna hit some bars?”

I had other ideas.  “Actually, I’d rather hit a liquor store and find some artistic ways to use alcohol.  Naked.”

He cleared his throat.  “Were you planning to do that alone or do you need a partner?”

I started laughing.  My heart wanted to tell him how much I’d missed him, how sorry I was that I’d been a bitch to him, but part of me was still miffed, upset that I wasn’t enough, would probably never be enough.  And so that stopped me from telling him my true feelings.  “I could do it alone…but I think it’d be a lot more fun with you along.”

We both laughed and then it got quiet.  Finally, he said, “You sure you wanna wait till your birthday?”

I smiled.  “For company or for the drink?”

And so that night CJ and I had frenetic sex, and I could tell that he’d missed me as much as I’d missed him.  It was like we hadn’t been apart, because it became much like the year before when we’d dated steadily.  The Vagabonds were taking an entire month off, and so I continued sleeping a lot to shake off the vestiges of mild chemical dependency.

CJ and I never said anything about our real feelings, and I often wondered if he cared at all or if I was just a convenient lay.

I wasn’t going to ask.  Nor did I do any further self-examination, wondering why I had so quickly run back to him without giving it much thought.

And, by God, I wasn’t going to let him know how I really felt, because I usually figured it was one-sided.  How could he continue fucking so many other women if he loved me?

He couldn’t.  It didn’t matter that I was doing the same damn thing, and that thought never entered my mind, because I fucked around on tour only because he was doing the same thing.  I would have been faithful if I’d known he was making an effort.  So, sure, he and I talked about touring and we talked about what our bands were doing, but we didn’t talk about that shit when we were fucking, and we no longer discussed our sex lives on tour.

One morning, I woke up entangled in his arms and rolled over, resting my head on his chest.  I was thinking how nice it would be to wake up like this every morning…to begin my day next to this man.  He had begun to be everything good in the world to me—but I couldn’t have him all the time.  Only now, only when I was with him was when he was mine—and I’d have to accept that fact.

So, after feeling loved and warm, I felt sad and lonely.  I rolled over and looked at him.  He was still asleep, his breathing soft and shallow, his eyes closed, his face relaxed.  His hair was longer now than it had been when we first met, almost as long as mine, and he’d let his facial hair grow out a bit.  He had the beginnings of a mustache and goatee, but he’d been shaving the rest of his face.  It made him look older, which, I suppose, he was.  He was twenty-five now—fully a man—but sometimes I still saw him in my mind as younger, as he’d looked when I’d first met him.  He had more tattoos now too, almost a full sleeve on his right arm.  I continued drinking in details, lost in thought, stroking that colorful arm, when I heard him mutter, “What the hell time is it?”

I smiled.  “I have no idea.”  I stretched so I could see over his shoulder the clock on the nightstand.  “Seven-thirty.”

“What the hell are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”

“Tormenting you.”

His lips brushed my forehead.  “Care if I sleep some more?”

“No, that’s fine.”  But I considered doing my usual—bailing before breakfast.  And why not?  Because it was either that—go home to the woman who was becoming my most trusted friend and my guitar—or stay here next to the man I loved to the depths of my soul…next to him but still lonely as hell.

* * *

Liz and I started writing the Vagabonds’ third album.  She hadn’t written as much on the road this last time, and I suspected it was because she had been exploring her sexual appetites.  Liz had grown up so tight, so boxed in, so reserved that she had no idea how to be free…but she was learning.

That was good, because it forced me to be creative—and I’d had no fucking idea I had so much to say.  Liz and I collaborated on a couple of things but then agreed to work on our own songs and come together a week later.  I locked myself in my room and poured all my emotions into, first, my guitar, and then I wrote words that felt like they matched the riffs I’d put together.

I didn’t know if they were any good, though.  So when Liz and I got back together in the kitchen a week later, our guitars plugged into tiny practice amps, she started first.  Holy.  Shit.  The woman’s writing had matured more than I ever would have expected.  Her rhythms were rich and complicated, and I couldn’t wait to wrap my fingers around them—which reminded me.  We hadn’t talked about if we wanted to hire a new bassist, because if I were Liz, no fucking way would I give those riffs over to me.  Those were the most personal things she’d ever written.  But, while they were amazing musically, they were also even softer than anything else she’d ever composed.  I wondered what she was going to think about my bad ass stuff—because even the melancholy songs I’d written were harder than her heaviest tune.

I still couldn’t wait to hear the songs with drums and bass.

So I played my first song.  I didn’t know what to think about mine, except that I loved them, because they were part of me…but it turned out that Liz was as impressed with my songs as I had been with hers.  “Damn, woman.  Our first two albums are like soda pop.  This new shit is like fine wine.”

“My thoughts exactly.”  So even though our songs were going to sound weird next to each other on our album, we decided we had to move forward.  I had a brief flash of Peter—because he would have hated our new music.  He’d sold us to the world as underage children—“teen phenoms” who hinted at what was taboo because we were just a little sexy.  He would have hated how we’d grown, but I relished it.  Hearing what both of us had composed made me feel like we were
real
.  We’d matured.  We weren’t just a flash in the pan hanging on for dear life and faking it.  We were here to stay.

Chapter Forty-four

SO IT CAME time to practice our new music, but getting Vicki and Barbie to join us proved next to impossible.  Barbie had moved out of Liz’s house as soon as we’d returned to Colorado, and at first she’d said it was because she wanted a little space.  We figured out otherwise when we saw that she was “in a relationship” on Facebook with some guy who lived in Monument.

But we not only had to practice—we also had to discuss our future.  Did we hire a new bassist or not?  I thought Liz was amazing with the bass, but I didn’t know what she
wanted
to do—and, being a band, it wasn’t just her decision.  We all had some say in the matter.  I hoped we could do whatever she wished, but we had to do what was for the best of the band.  Problem was we couldn’t figure that out if the band would never get together to discuss anything.

And we had some amazing new songs.  Liz and I were excited to share it, but every time we’d suggest several days, what worked for one of the women wouldn’t work for the other.  One afternoon, we’d been playing—Liz had me practicing the guitar to two of her songs while she played bass alongside—and she picked up the phone when we were at a natural breaking point.  “Barbie, can you meet tomorrow?”  She paused and I could see frustration in her eyes.  “What about Thursday?”  She was gritting her teeth.  “Look, if you can’t make it Thursday, you’re out of the band.  I’m tired of this bullshit.”  She got ready to hang up.  “One o’clock.”  She was on the warpath then, and I knew she was then hanging up her phone to immediately dial Vicki’s number.  “Vicki, we’ve got to meet, and we’ve got to practice.  I expect to see you on Thursday at one o’clock here at my place…if you intend to keep playing with the Vagabonds.”  I could hear that Vicki said something, but I couldn’t tell what.  Liz hung up after a few moments and then she asked, “Was that too harsh?”

I shrugged.  “Maybe.  But it was necessary.  Continually blowing us off is unprofessional.”  Liz still had a worried look on her face.  “They weren’t responding to niceness.”  She nodded, realizing she couldn’t blame herself for our bandmates’ unwillingness to work.

I figured I knew what both their problems were, and I was sure that, deep down, Liz did too.  Barbie loved being onstage; she loved the adoration of our fans; she loved going online and feeling that love…but she didn’t like the mundane part of the job—where we perfected a song before recording.  Again, Peter had spoiled her.  Our practices and recording under him had been unorthodox—short, sweet, to the point, and raw as hell.  We had the money and we had the time now, and we wanted as perfect as possible.  That meant rehearsals—lots of them—and that meant more time in the studio:  both things which she hated.  Well, no one ever said you’d love every aspect of your job.  She’d just have to suck it up.  We needed her.

Vicki?  Well…I suspected her problem was more unintentional.  She and I didn’t keep in touch like we used to, but the girl had lots of problems, and they revolved around addiction.  I could have been wrong, but I figured Vicki was either doing drugs again or involved in some sort of rehab.  Both made work and obligations of any kind harder.  Vicki was dealing with emotional struggles, something that was understandable, but Barbie had an attitude problem the size of Texas—and I know I was growing weary of it, but I suspected Liz had also finally had enough.

Thursday rolled around and seeing Vicki confirmed my suspicions.  She looked like shit.  I wondered if she was still living with her mom and, if so, how the woman could let Vicki kill herself like this—but I knew.  We hadn’t been able to do much for her either.  I hugged her, afraid to pull her too close, but I couldn’t say anything.  She looked like a skeleton—pale and nothing but bones.

Barbie was late.  As usual.  But at least she showed up.

After Liz, the consummate hostess, brought them both a glass of iced tea, she said we needed to talk before sharing the music we wanted them to learn.  I hadn’t known at the time, but Liz was prepared—and she had an agenda.  “This is no time to rest on our laurels, ladies.  When’s the last time you listened to the radio?”  I almost laughed because I knew neither of them did; and, if they did, it was internet radio. 
I
listened to radio regularly and so did Liz—we heard new bands that way, although there were other ways to do find them.  For me, it had been a matter of being on the road with my family for so long, and so the radio was more a staple to me than television or the internet when it came to music.  YouTube suggestions wouldn’t cut it when you could instead hear something at random, something that wasn’t necessarily similar at all to something you liked, but it wound up being something different that you enjoyed nonetheless.

Both women shrugged and shook their heads, so Liz continued.  “There are hundreds of bands competing for airtime, lots of which are
better
than we are.  And there are plenty that suck too, but guess what?  They’re getting played and they’re getting bought.  Why?  Because they deliver.  Now is our most crucial time.  We’ve weathered our debut and the dreaded sophomore release.  The third is where we really show our shit—and Kyle and I have written some amazing stuff that’s going to push us to the next level.  It’s time for people to start taking us seriously, not as just a bunch of girls who look cute and happen to play some instruments in a competent fashion.

“It’s time to get serious.”

“We
are
serious, Liz.”  Barbie, of all people, shouldn’t have said that.

“No, you’re
not
, Barbie.  If you were serious, you wouldn’t be late all the time…and I wouldn’t have had to threaten you to get your ass here.”  Barbie rolled her eyes and sneered but kept her mouth shut.  “I was serious when I said you’d both be out of the band if you couldn’t commit.”

Vicki’s eyes grew wide.  “No.  You can do that to me.  This band is my life.  I’m sorry.  I’ll do whatever you need, just—”

Liz shook her head.  “You’re still in the band, Vicki.  That’s why you’re still here.”

Our friend had already started crying, though, just being told that she was near the chopping block.  Barbie jutted out her chin in defiance.  “Whatever.  You guys are nothing without me.”

Jesus.  The girl’s self-worth was off the charts.  It was then that I started calling her
Barbie Doll
in my head, after the iconic fashion-lusty doll with blonde hair and big boobs.  The doll actually looked very much like my anti-friend.  Barbie might have been selling a few albums because she oozed sex, but she was
not
the beginning and the end of the band.

Liz, ever cool, didn’t even crack a smile.  “Would you like us to test that theory?”

Barbie rolled her eyes and flipped her hair back…but she stayed.

And the business of album number three began.

* * *

After a month of rehearsal—and slight changes, like always happened once we put all the elements of real people together—we were ready to record.  We had a collection of twelve amazing songs—six of Liz’s and six of mine—and we knew this was going to rock the socks off our fans and, we hoped, win us a few new ones.

We had the green light from the label to begin, and we weren’t too far into the process when we noticed a couple of execs in and out of the studio while we were putting everything together.  We thought it was odd but nothing to panic about; after all, it wasn’t the first time we’d had talking heads in suits observing what we did and making suggestions (or, rather, demands) about what songs would be our singles and in what order.  We had some say in the order we’d arrange the songs on the album, but we could only give our recommendations about what songs would be good singles.  We also had some input when it came to the videos…but, really, we had no control over most of that end—when it came time to record and tour, aside from putting together our set list and playing our asses off once we hit the road.

I considered wrestling Barbie for a song to sing as well but changed my mind because she and I were barely talking as it was—and, if anyone should have had the pleasure, it was Liz.  She stuck with bass for that album also, although she did add some rhythm guitar to one song and played an acoustic intro to the song that we thought should be placed first on the disk.  We knew tour plans were beginning to shape up, so when a few executives scheduled a meeting with us, we weren’t too concerned.  We had never discussed touring plans with execs, because our manager usually took control of our lives at that point, so in regard to the meeting, we really had no idea what to expect.

Liz and I arrived early.  Vicki was nowhere to be found (not unusual) and I just assumed Barbie would be late (also not unusual).  There were three men and one woman in suits of varying neutral colors, ranging from black to light gray, and their faces all appeared to be carved of stone.  We sat in a small room with one window, the walls off-white and the carpet and accessories a beige shade.

I was fairly certain that none of these folks listened to our music.  Their asses were pinched closed way too tightly.

The tallest guy invited us to sit down and the woman (yeah, really, and her subservience just pissed me off) asked if she could get us something to drink.  I shrugged and Liz said, “No, thank you,” but she had a young woman bring us a pitcher of ice water and glasses anyway.  In the meantime, the tall guy began talking.

“Ladies, we’ve listened to your new tracks.  They’re…quite different.”

“Thanks.”  We were pretty proud of that fact.

“We’re glad to see some maturity and growth, but half of the songs are so different from the other half that we’re afraid we’re going to lose some listeners.”

One of the other guys, a man who looked like his hair was receding by the minute, added, “Scare them off.”

The tall guy nodded.  Liz said, “We’re not getting rid of any songs.”  I agreed, frowning and crossing my arms over my chest.

Tall guy said, “We’re not suggesting that.  But…in terms of marketing, we need to narrow your focus.  Your fans are going to be confused enough.”  Okay, let’s pause here.  I had faith in my fans, but I didn’t have any experience in terms of marketing, so I knew I couldn’t really argue.  I had an emotion, a sense to back up anything I might have said, and so I felt like I didn’t have any expertise in the matter.  I hadn’t thought that I had experience as a
fan
of other bands that I could use in my defense.  I just figured I needed to keep my mouth shut, no matter how pissed or defenseless I was feeling.

Fortunately, Liz was able to talk and ask questions for both of us.  “What do you have in mind exactly?”

Before tall guy could resume, the assistant opened the door and Barbie popped in the room, waltzing over to the table as though she were the queen and deserved the spotlight.  “So what did I miss?”

I saw Liz’s jaw clench but she didn’t say a word.  I almost popped off and said something rude and sarcastic but felt out of my element.  The woman in the suit said, “Ms. Bennett, please have a seat and hopefully you’ll get up to speed just by listening.”  Barbie frowned but she was no dummy.  She took the hint and sat.  She did a little squirming and adjusting, just to keep attention on her, but she didn’t say a word.

Tall guy continued.  “I’m sure you already know that there is a huge rift between your two sets of songs.  It’s quite obvious that they were written by two different people.  Do they both sound like the Vagabonds?  Well…yes, but for different reasons, and it’s not necessarily a good thing.  It’s difficult to rectify the differences, to really get a good handle on the direction we need to go.  And so we have a proposal, but we need the band to make a decision.”

I felt my stomach sink as though the water I’d poured down my throat had mixed with concrete.  I still didn’t say a word.  The third guy who hadn’t spoken yet finally opened his mouth.  “I don’t know if you ladies have ever listened to an old vinyl recording or a cassette tape.”  Well,
duh
.  We might have been raised in the era of CDs and MP3s, but we weren’t total strangers to vintage music.  Both Liz and I nodded, and Barbie—well, she tilted her head and grinned, trying to look cute.  “As you might know, there were two sides to both and when a single was released, there was an A side and a B side.  The A side was the single…but, to get maximum value for the sale, a song that would never get radio play was put on the B side—the idea being that, if someone bought several singles instead of the album, he’d have to buy all the singles one at a time instead of one small record with two singles on it.”  Yeah, it made sense.  “The weaker songs on the album constituted the B side.”  I raised my eyebrows and he added, “Weaker, meaning harder to market to fans.  That doesn’t mean they weren’t any good.  In fact, some of the best songs were B sides, heard only by true fans.”  Nice save.

Tall guy resumed.  “Right now, the Vagabonds are at a crossroad.  We’re not going to tell you which fork in the road to take, but you
will
have to take one, and there will likely be no turning back.”  I felt like I was a little rabbit trapped in a car’s headlights, unsure of which way to go, because either way could mean death.  But I let him continue.  “The two different kinds of songs on your latest album represent a dichotomy, and, after much analysis, we don’t think we can sell both.  We believe we can sell
either
, but the two different sets of songs will be listened to by two different sets of fans.  There’s the pop-punk music, written by Liz, that will, frankly, appeal to a more mainstream audience, but then there’s the heavier music, written by Kyle.  The listeners who buy heavier music might not be mainstream, but they’re loyal.  Long term, we see the potential for both.  We want you, as a band, to choose which sets of songs you want us to promote, and we’ll do it.”