The Devil's Metal (10 page)

“Rusty,” Chip called out a few lonely
minutes later, appearing behind me with a bottle of Jameson in one
hand and another paper cup in the other.

I turned in my seat and looked up at him
appreciatively.

“Hey, Chip. Good job with the show and all
that.” I know, I sounded like a total dork.

He shrugged and began to pour the whiskey
into the cup, straight-up. “Went better than expected. Better than
soundcheck anyway. Though I’m fucking glad we aren’t doing any more
of these unplugged shit shows. I’m not big on this experimental
stuff. Stick with what you know, you know?”

He took a sip of the whiskey and handed the
cup to me. I took it gingerly and looked at him for assurance.

He nodded at it, his eyes twinkling. “Pour
vous.”

“Oooh la la,” I replied and took a tiny bit
of it into my mouth. It burned the good burn and I tried hard to
swallow it with ease. “I thought you guys were going to go into
more of the experimental stuff though. I mean, Molten Universe
really pushed some of the boundaries of your sound, you know. In a
good way,” I added.

He laughed, making himself look younger. He
tipped the bottle at me. “You sound like a music critic,
Rusty.”

“I am a music critic, believe it or
not.”

He eyed the journalists. “You’re not with
your friends.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I
prefer to do my own thing.”

“And you’re not with the groupies
either.”

“Like I said.”

“Do I hear a hint of jealousy in your
voice?”

I looked at Chip as if he had two heads.
“Me, jealous? Of groupies?”

Oh, I wish that hadn’t made me so
defensive.

“They make no apologies for lusting over the
rock stars.”

Chip looked oddly serious when he said that
and I had to wonder if he was taking a swipe at me. I wasn’t
jealous of the groupies and I wasn’t lusting over any rock star. I
mean, yeah I was obviously star struck—they were one of my favorite
bands for crying out loud—and of course my eyes were drawn to Sage
anytime I was near him, but that was different. That wasn’t about
lust, or thinking about Sage unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and
undoing those heavy pants, that was…where was I? Yes. My feelings
toward Sage were purely the admiration of his talent sort of
thing.

Chip smiled at my inner argument and
switched the subject. “So you like the experimental side of
Hybrid?”

I took another gulp of the whiskey and
handed the cup back to him. “I do. And it’s organic, you know? It
fits. No one is doing anything because it’s a fad. No one is afraid
they’ll be branded hype by the corporate rock machine. You can tell
that everyone is just branching out a little.”

He snorted caustically. “If by everyone, you
mean Sage. The waltz-like numbers and those horns and the steel
guitar and Mexican bullshit, it’s all him. If it were up to us,
we’d stick with what made us big. We’re loud and heavy. End of
story. Sage pushed a little too much on this album and fuck if I
know why. That is, of course, just my opinion and don’t you dare
quote me on that. Remember, I’m loyal, Rusty. I’m just the sound
tech.”

He took a drink, filled up the cup and
handed it back to me. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go make
the rounds, see what kind of trouble I can scrounge up.”

He gave me a quick pat on the back and then
took off toward the washrooms with the bottle of Irish Whiskey. He
winked at the groupies as he passed them by and one of them
responded by grabbing his ass.

I rolled my eyes. Why on earth would I be
jealous of
them
?

And then the door to the dressing room
opened and Robbie popped his head out. He did a quick scan of the
room, glossing over me, then flashed his adorable smile at the
groupies and quickly ushered them into the room. The door shut
behind them.

Disappointment and anger competed for space
in my belly. What was I, chopped liver?

I sighed, took another gulp of my drink,
which was going down easier and easier, and decided if I couldn’t
(wouldn’t) go hang out with the groupies, I would try my luck with
my supposed colleagues.

I got up and made my way over to two
loveseats where three people with media passes were sitting. One
was an older dude with extremely long and shiny hair, a
photographer, judging by the bag of equipment beside him. The guy
sitting right across from him had a bowl-cut and that stuffy,
uncomfortable posture that told me he was way out of his element
and was probably used to reviewing John Denver. The other guy had
on a Dust shirt and was busy scribbling notes. None of them looked
up at me until I nervously cleared my throat.

“Hi, I’m Dawn. I write for Creem
Magazine.”

The photographer gave me an unimpressed
look. “Oh look, another chick writing for Creem. Is it true that
Kramer has all you broads in some sort of harem?”

The stuffy guy snickered at that while the
Dust dude shot me a quick look, as if he could barely spare a few
seconds away from his notes.

“No, I don’t even live in Detroit,” I told
him, crossing my arms. It was a feeble argument. “Kramer just
believes in the feminist movement, that’s all.”

I didn’t even know if that was true, but
there had to be some reason why Creem had quite a few women on
staff. And no, it wasn’t because they were part of his harem.

“Creem,” the Dust dude mused as he took a
break from his notes. “So I take it you’re doing some sort of piece
on Hybrid.”

“Actually it’s a fairly big piece,” I
boasted. “Might make the cover.”

He smiled to himself in a patronizing way.
It made me want to rip his balls off.

“Lady, rock and roll is dead. That’s what
Creem keeps saying. Soon Creem will be dead too.”

He went back to writing as if I wasn’t
standing in front of him, giving him the death glare of all death
glares.

“A bunch of sick freaks, not even a real
publication,” the stuffy guy added. He looked at the photographer.
“Have you actually read some of that smut? Even their so-called
Messiah Lester Bangs writes like some horny teenager.”

The photographer smirked at that and turned
his head to face me. “I hope you write funny because funny is all
that magazine seems good for. Would be nice if a band like Hybrid
could get an actual serious article about them, not your getting
drunk with the band, shooting stupid questions when you can,
angle.” He eyed my drink and then said, “Oops. Too late.”

He looked behind him at the closed dressing
room door. “Oh, and it looks like you’re too late to join the
groupie parade too. Better luck next time.”

Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe I was just
so mad that all reason and thought left me. But I leaned down so my
face was right in the photographer’s blasé view and said, “I don’t
need luck. And I don’t take advice from men who look like they
belong in a Gee My Hair Smells Terrific commercial.”

And with that I straightened up, put my chin
high, pretended not to notice their gaping mouths, and gave them a
grave “gentlemen,” followed by a nod. Then I turned and strode
right over to the dressing room door.

It was a gamble. I knocked on the door and
didn’t dare turn around and look at those pompous, chauvinistic
assholes, and prayed that someone would answer and that someone
would let me in.

Please, please, please, please,
I
thought, my heart starting to pound nervously in my throat.
Please let me in. Please don’t be Sage
.

After what seemed like an agonizing
eternity, the door opened a crack.

It was Sage. God damnit.

I stared pleadingly at his green-gray eyes.
This was the closest I had been to him and it was taking all my
control not to examine each plane of his face, each scruffy hair on
his jaw.

“Hi, I was wondering if I could come in,” I
said, lowering my voice a bit so the journalists wouldn’t hear
me.

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. I heard
girls laughing in the background and someone yelling “Who the fuck
is it?”

Sage looked away from me for a moment and
yelled back into the room, “It’s Dawn.”

“Who the hell is Dawn? You mean Rusty?” I
heard Robbie say.

Sage’s eyes came back to mine and I tried to
look impassive, as if hearing him saying my real name, not a
nickname, hadn’t made my legs shake.

“I bet you think you’re allowed everywhere,”
he said to me. Hi voice was smooth and low, like rich cream that
sinks to the bottom.

“If I thought that, I wouldn’t have asked,”
I replied and hardened my gaze.

He seemed to appraise me for a moment. He
gave me a small smile that was more on the amused side of things, a
few shades south of sincerity, and then opened the door wider.

“Come on in,” he said. It was almost a
challenge.

I tried not to look
too
grateful in
case I lost some credibility, and quickly slipped in through the
door. I gave the jerkasses in the waiting area one last look before
the door closed behind me.

CHAPTER SIX

So, there is backstage and then there is
backstage
.

I was definitely
backstage
, a place
where journalists only dreamed of going.

And well, me too. But for different
reasons.

For starters, there was no shame here. I had
to check mine at the door with everyone else’s.

Robbie was sitting on the couch, dressed
only in a towel, and with some very obvious tent-poling action
going on. I quickly averted my eyes to the next thing, which
happened to be one of the groupies, the one with the largest
breasts. Breasts that were now on display. Her top was gone and she
was sitting beside Robbie in only a thong. He was drinking out of a
bottle of champagne with one hand and groping her breast with the
other.

I think blushing was becoming second nature
to me now.

Mickey was standing in the corner, also
wearing a towel, talking to one of the other girls. Noelle was
nowhere to be seen. And he wasn’t just talking, but full-on leaning
in, acting interested while the overly tanned girl had her fingers
at the edge of his towel. Assuming Noelle would have a fit if she
saw this, I kind of felt bad for her. She was nasty business, but
still.

Jacob was leaning against the wall, talking
excitedly and drinking out of what looked to be a medicine bottle.
A girl with Cher-like hair and honeyed skin was listening to his
every word. She didn’t seem groupie-ish, but interesting
nonetheless.

At the table, Chip and the other tanned
groupie were snorting up lines of coke while Graham seemed to be
getting a hand job at the same time by the incredibly spaced-out
looking girl. The minute Chip saw me standing there, how I was
watching them all in what must have been very apparent shock, he
nudged the bottle of Jameson with his elbow.

“Hey Sage,” he said, wiping his nose
quickly. “Get Rusty some of this. She’s going to keel over.”

Sage walked over to the table in two long
strides and snatched up the bottle. He gave Chip a disapproving
squint before coming back to me.

He stepped up close, very close, so that his
wide chest was inches away from mine, and his towering frame
enveloped my whole view. I stood my ground, as tempted as I was to
take a step backward.

Sage placed the bottle in my hand, our
fingers touching. It was just for a second, a brush as light as a
feather, but it rattled my nerves. I struggled to keep my eyes
glued to his.

He lowered his voice. His breath smelled
like beer and something fresh, like the ocean.

“Is my band just what you expected? Is this
what you’re going to write about?”

He was egging me on, daring me.

“I’m not writing anything tonight,” I told
him. I put on a mask of false confidence and took a swig of whiskey
straight out of the bottle, matching the intensity of his gaze.
“Tonight I’m just a fan.”

“Just a fan…” he mused, scratching at his
long sideburn, black hair against lightly bronzed skin. “Right. And
then the next day? And the next day? Do you really want to document
a band coming to its knees in its dying days? Is that what a fan
wants to see?”

His voice was so low that he couldn’t have
been heard over Jeff Beck on the 8-track and the drunken cries of
debauchery in the background. What exactly was he telling me?

I flapped my mouth helplessly for a few
seconds, trying to figure out how to respond.

He leaned in even further, staring at my
lips. I could see two strands of light gray at his temple, the
absolute way his eye color matched the leaves of a sage plant
itself.

“You’re all the same you know,” he
continued, almost whispering now. His eyes met mine, mesmerizing
orbs through his long curling lashes. “You’re just like those girls
over there. Just like those pricks outside. You take and take and
take and say you want to be a part of it all but you’re really here
to witness the fall. Be a part of history. Say you saw it happen. I
know what it’s like, Dawn. In a few more years, no one will
care.”

Halfway through Sage’s speech I was struck
by a few words he slurred, and when I stopped trying to make sense
of whatever the hell he was talking about and noticed the way his
body swayed and how his green feline eyes were glazed, I realized
that the rumors of Sage being a drunk were at least a bit true. Not
that I was judging; I was the one drinking Jameson straight out of
the bottle.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” I
told him, finally taking a step back. I had always dreamed about my
first conversation with Sage, but I never imagined it would go like
this; full of hostility and drunken ramblings, with half-naked,
fucked-up people in the background.

Even though I had just left them that
morning, my heart suddenly ached for my brother, for Dad, for Mel,
even Moonglow. Things had seemed so much easier and innocent back
in Ellensburg.