ROUGHNECK: A DARK MOTORCYCLE CLUB ROMANCE (54 page)

T
urns out
, I’d been a little harder up after my brief skirmish with the bikers than I’d thought. As much as I hated to admit it, Old Greg had been right to send me towards a clinic.

My body had been already seriously aching by the time I arrived there, and it was only going to get worse.

The overnight doc who saw me patched me up, nice and well. Turned out that I only had a slight concussion, nothing too major. She commented that whomever had tended my wounds had done a good job of it, but that was small substitute for getting a few bruised ribs checked out.

Still, the place had a pharmacy built in, so I walked away with a bottle of decent painkillers and a smile on my face.

That smile faded when I got back.

The manager of our band, a scrawny, middle-aged fuck named Steven, climbed out of the bus as soon as I pulled up. His hands were up in the air – a classic sign that he was
pissed
– and his beady little eyes blazing with fury.

“Where the fuck
were
you, Trent? You can’t just traipse off like that in the middle of the fucking night drunk as shit!”

“I wasn’t drunk,” I commented blandly, tossing him the keys to the rental.

They bounced limply off his chest, and he quickly bent over to scoop them up. When he jumped back up, he followed me back towards the bus.

“You must have been. The others said you were drinking like a fucking camel.”

“The
others
were too busy with their tongues down some groupies’ throats to have half a rat’s ass of what I was doing,” I corrected him.

“You need to cut the prima donna act, you son of a bitch,” he grumbled angrily. “How the fuck am I supposed to do PR on you fuckers when you scatter to the winds after a show?”

“I don’t know. Figured that’s what you were paid to do.”

“I ain’t your goddamn babysitter.”

“Never said you were. Frankly, I’d hate that. But if you want some advice…” I poked my finger into his chest, “…back the fuck off. The others, I can’t really speak to their maturity. But I haven’t given you shit that you haven’t started first. Trust me. I wanted to clear my head, took a drive. That was it.”

Steven snatched the prescription bag from my hands. Before I could grab it back, he was eying the small, orange bottle inside.

“Just out for a drive, eh? Is that the load of horse crap you’re feeding me? What kind of bullshit is
this
, then?”

“So, I got into a fight.”

He glowered at me.

“A fucking
fight?
”

“Yeah. Went to a bar. Stepped aside for a piss. I walk back in, and these biker fuckers were trying to rape the poor bartender. I roughed them up. They outnumbered me, so I took a few hits.”

“Look at you, Mister Hotshot ‘Knight in Shining Armor,’” the manager sardonically told me. “You’re on thin ice, and I’m holding onto these.”

I tugged the bottle back.

“Nice fucking try. The last thing I need is a reprisal of your goddamn pill problem. We’ve only got a few more shows on tour; just keep your shit together and we’ll be home free.”

Steven simmered with mounting anger, but I took the last few steps towards the bus. Being intelligent for once, he didn’t bother to follow me inside, waking up anyone.

As I closed the door behind myself, I wondered why we even had to deal with him. Music labels didn’t usually assign managers out anymore, but this guy was dumped on us as a condition of our contract.

Probably because we’d pissed them off by bringing a decent lawyer along to renegotiate the terms of our royalties and earning potential, because
fuck
making pennies on the dollar.

I stepped over a few sleeping bodies – it looked my guitarist, Waylon, had barely escorted his pair of sweet little honeys inside before fucking them in our tiny little kitchen.

Well, Papa’s home now.

And Papa says “No bare asses in the kitchen.”

I nudged one of them with my foot. She murmured in her sleep a little, and I persisted. Finally, she rose up, yawning and looking at me in the semi-darkness.

“Time to go, sweetheart. You and your friend. How long did
Pound Town
last?”

She sighed sleepily. “Not long enough.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so. He talks a tough game, but that’s about it. I think I’ve clocked him at about forty-five seconds before.”

“Well, it was longer than
that.
”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Anyway, you should get going. Need a ride? I can call you a taxi or something, but you need to get gone.”

“Nah, we drove. Thanks though.” She smiled quietly, her sultry little eyes locked onto me. “You want to pick up where he left off?”

I seriously considered that for a moment, but Angel’s face entered my head. My cock twitched a little, but only because of how close I’d been to fucking her.

Nah. I’ve already made my pick.

“Don’t do sloppy seconds.”

“Fair enough,” she muttered.

The groupie woke up her friend, and they bid me goodnight before leaving my sight.

My drummer was asleep with his cougar. I could tell that he was still dressed in his wife beater – he was unusually attached to those. Paired with cargo pants and sweat stains in some interesting places, Dylan usually went with a style that I affectionately called
Divorced, Single Nebraskan Dad Chic
.

I decided not to bother either of them.

Dylan was a total idiot, but he was a more rational idiot than my impulsive guitarist – although I didn’t like how chummy those two had been getting lately.

The bassist, had already sent his piece of ass away for the night. Lying in bed with a book, Terence gave me a brief nod as I passed by in the hall.

Our bassist didn’t talk much.

He was a thoughtful guy. Reserved.

It made him someone easy for me to work with.

Settling down in bed, I curled my fingers behind my head and waited for sleep to rear its ugly head. Unfortunately, it was a bit busy that night.

Instead, I wound up thinking about Angel.

Those sweet hips of hers.

That nice rack.

Her gorgeous hair.

Those beautiful eyes…

As I’d done so many times in the last few weeks, I rubbed one out to help myself sleep. It was dispassionate, unfeeling, just a burst of chemicals in my head to subdue my thoughts.

My self-loathing.

My lack of emotion.

My private little clusterfuck of imbalances.

I felt filthy. Disgusting. The groupies, the fame, the attention, none of it fucking mattered. But when I saw the way that
girl
was looking at me…I forgot, briefly.

Forgot how screwed up I was inside.

Huh. Imagine that.

T
he driver
, a friendly backup tech for the bad, pulled behind the private area behind the main venue. We came to a stop beside a group of other private vehicles. On the other side of a tall wall, I could barely make out the roofs of what were likely the band buses.

“By the way, you’re gonna need this to hang around backstage,” the tech told me.

He tossed me a special, tagged lanyard, which I quickly studied before promptly sliding it into place around my neck.

VIP – Platinum

Trent Masters and the Whiplash, Guest

A tall, beefy stagehand peered through the door after we knocked. Checking my tag, he nodded promptly and let us through. With him in the lead, we navigated a few unorganized corridors and turns, eventually winding up close to the stage itself.

“This is the VIP area,” he pointed out. “Here’s where the after-party usually goes down. Band buses are over that way, just outside.”

It was a reasonably sized dark room, with several other areas behind curtains or separated out from the main floor. Some couches, chairs, and assorted seating were placed seemingly without rhyme or reason. A large bar stood proud along the main wall, with a few servers scurrying around and checking on the details.

“This is where Trent and company decompress after a show,” the tech told me. “Along with the other bands, of course.”

“Other bands?”

I’d actually forgotten all about that.

The tech looked at me funnily. “Yeah, the other performers.
Whiplash
is one of seven bands playing this venue. There’re one or two smaller outfits, but most of them are household names. Couple of veterans from the Eighties…”

While he droned on, I glanced around. It was easy to imagine several dozen rockers, splitting into their own little cliques, and surrounded by VIPs and groupies.

I wondered where Trent sat.

“…And if you’ll follow me,” the stagehand continued impatiently, “I’d like to take you to where you’ll be situated for the concert.”

“When are the guys playing?” I asked.

“
Trent Masters and the Whiplash
are the final performers tonight. You’ll be present for the entire concert, front to back.”

“Oh yeah?”

I hadn’t really signed up for all of that, but I guess it made sense to watch the other rockers too…even if I was really only there for his band.

“Right. So, if you’ll follow me…”

The tech waved goodbye and ducked out of sight, and I followed the stagehand down to the backstage area.

Well, more accurately, the
side
stage area.

He left me with a small group of other fans, each featuring the same sort of lanyard – but with different colors. Each one seemed to correspond to other bands – four for a group called
Thunderspear
, another called
The Scoundrels
, and so on.

I’d heard a few of these.
The Scoundrels
, in particular. They were these rock legends from the late Sixties, which only made it more impressive that Trent and his band were going to be on this stage.

As luck would have it, my arrival was timed to coincide with the opening band.

Not five minutes after I joined the group, the performers came out from the other side of the stage: four guys in their upper twenties, dressed less like powerful rockers and more like surf bums with surprisingly decent fashion sense.

The crowd went wild, and so did most of the people with me.

The lanky singer approached the mike, flashing a quick grin of acknowledgement and a thumbs-up our way before addressing the huge venue.

“
Good evening, Alabama! We are The DeVitos! How are y’all doing tonight?”

The crowd surged with pleasure.

“Fan-fucking-tastic! The boys and I were thinking about maybe playing a few ditties for you now, is that alright?”

Cue the same reaction.

“Awesome! Jack, hit it!”

“ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!”

Guitars began riffing rapidly, each one waiting a few bars to add upon the building melody, while the drums chaotically blasted in the back. The singer was already head banging and hopping around stage, finally jumping back to the mike and bellowing out indecipherable punk lyrics.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard music like this.

It sounded insane.

It sounded wild.

It sounded fucking amazing.

And it was all thanks to Trent.

I
’d spent
the entire afternoon resting my voice, occasionally poking my head out to watch the musicians before us play. We were usually too busy to enjoy the other performers, but since this was a repeat concert, I could spare some time for each set.

To my pleasure, Angel was standing over with the other backstage guests, higher up in the food chain than even the VIPs in the front.

She looked happy.

No, more than that.

She looked completely fucking thrilled.

I found myself wanting to walk over to her, to spend some time chatting with her. Maybe I could get her attention or send someone to pull her back here.

Maybe I could seduce her out of those pretty little clothes before the show even started. She sure looked pumped up.

I briefly imagined slamming her up against a wall in the bus, behind a locked door, and taking what was mine. Her nice, round lips would polish off my cock while she perched on her knees in front, worshipping me. At the moment of sweet release, I’d drain my heavy balls down the back of her throat.

Maybe instead, my fingers would clench into the sweet flesh of her ass-cheeks, slamming her down
hard
on my thick, steely erection. I’d make her yelp with pain but moan with satisfaction, craving every last inch of my rigid cock.

I shook my head.

Not yet.

I didn’t need the distraction.

Nor did I need the other fans swarming me.

I was supposed to be relaxing, chilling out with the band before our set while they idly strummed and drummed on their practice instruments, not stalking my own guest and undressing her with my eyes from over here.

But goddamn, did she look hot.

The clothes she picked were amusing punk threads – a tight band shirt, a ratty jumper over it, a miniskirt frayed along the edges, long striped socks, and a that pair of Converse again. It was an interesting ensemble – probably improvised at the last second – but it demonstrated that she cared enough to try and look the part.

The only way she could look any more punk to me was if she’d dyed her hair green and added a spiked choker.

But this?

I liked this.

I liked it a
lot
.

My twitching cock agreed.

Enough distractions,
I thought to myself as I pulled my eyes away from her. Within the moment, I’d slipped back out of sight. Retreating towards the group, I walked in on Waylon and Terence, ribbing each other over their playing.

They loved taking the piss at each other.

Dylan, on the other hand, was practicing a few rolls and clashes against a drum kit. He ended each one with a symbol crash, quickly grabbing the edge to silence the ringing sound.

“Hey, how’s your little pet doin’?” Waylon sneered, a sly grin on his face. “She alright in the sidelines, yeah?”

“Told you to not call her that,” I retorted.

Waylon and Dylan shared a look.

Terence simply shrugged.

“Yeah, well, it’s not often that the big guy hands out a free pass to a nice piece of ass,” Waylon smiled, his eyes curious. “It’s just nice to see you with your head back in the game.”

“How do you figure?”

“
Maaan,
you have been
moping hardcore
these last few weeks. Turnin’ down ‘tang in a dozen cities. Good to have the
fearless leader
back is all I’m sayin’.”

I grunted, taking a step towards him. I wanted to smack that shit-eating grin straight off of his face…but I stopped myself.

Last thing I needed to do?

Smack around my guitarist before a show.

And I owed the fans, anyway.
RipFest
had been sold out for three months. Sure, the other bands were a major draw too, but I wasn’t about to cripple the end-game of the venue lineup because my asshole guitarist was talking shit about my girl.

My girl?

I stepped back outside to clear my head.
Where the fuck did THAT come from?
Because that wasn’t a possessive thought – it was a surprisingly
tender
one.

For a brief moment, I considered the idea of waking up beside her, reaching over and kissing her shoulder, and listening for her slight, sleepy murmurs. The picture was so vivid in my head that it made my chest slightly swell.

I bit down angrily, punching one hand into the other palm. I took a couple of deep breaths, and let the tension slip away.

No. I don’t need this right now.

She’s just a nice piece of ass that got yanked out from my grasp at the last second. That’s all she is – a gorgeous little scrap to pull into my bed.

My shoulders relaxed.

That’s right.

A small smile crossed my lips again. The last thing I needed to do was fall for some chick in the middle of fucking nowhere, even if she
was
really cute…

Had to admit, thought.

That shotgun thing had been pretty awesome.

I turned my attention towards more important things. Specifically, I noticed that the night was winding down. Those old windbags from the olden days were rocking out – and goddamn if I didn’t respect them – but that just meant that we were following up veritable rock legends.

By the time I walked back into our private practice room, my convictions were clear. We were going to rock our goddamn hearts out tonight.

“Alright, fuckers…we’re on in an hour and a half. Let’s make some fucking music happen.”