Rockstar

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

The Lot is downtown by the James River, in an area of Richmond called Shockoe Bottom because it’s the underside of the city. All the trash ends up here, cluttering the cobbled alleys and broken sidewalks. The streets are narrow and one-way, weaving a maze that sucks you in and doesn’t let go before dawn. Adam spends most nights down here in the clubs, trying to talk someone into booking their act.

Problem is, most places aren’t doing live shows anymore and those that do want national acts. Viral Blue isn’t big enough to land on their radar. For a while, the band played a few of the seedier coffee houses until Trace broke up with the barista who ran Starbucks and pissed her off so badly, she had all the java places ban them. Those shops are all into poetry readings and blues music now anyway. Definitely not Adam’s scene.

Of all the clubs in the Bottom, the Lot is the best by far. It’s the place to be seen. It’s grunge and very tight—no underage drinking at all, and any hint of drugs gets you kicked out into the street. Steff runs it like a tiny queen with an iron fist. It’s funny because she isn’t much to look at, just a little slip of a woman, maybe thirty if that with more hair than any white girl Adam’s ever known. It’s poofy blonde frizz that stands up taller than she does and just screams for a comb. She favors dark lipstick and dark eyeshadow that makes her look beaten and bruised.

She’s a slut, plain and simple, and makes no qualms about it, either. At least Janie tries to hide it behind her good girl looks—glossy lips and light eyeliner, her hair spun straight like brown sugar. Steff is loud and in your face and most girls don’t like her but she doesn’t care. She’s running the best club in town. She doesn’t need to be liked.

Adam sees her the minute they enter the Lot through the stage entrance in the alley as if they’re with the band. Hell, as far as he’s concerned, they are the band. She’s with someone Adam knows in passing and hates, a kid named Frankie whose group Adam thinks of as a rival of his own. When she sees Trace, she hurries to them. “Trace, baby,” she says, her voice carrying across the room. Janie glares at her from behind Adam. “You guys go on after Da Bomb, okay? I know I told you first but—”

“Why after him?” Adam glares at Frankie across the room. He thinks she’s trying to f**k them over, putting them on last so the studio reps will be too drunk to hear their sound. He hates that she’s in control of this situation. He’s starting to think this might be a bad idea after all. “I’m not cleaning up after their s**t. I go before them or I walk. You hear?”

Mike elbows Adam in the ribs to silence him. “Steffie, we aren’t going last.”

“You’ll go when I put you on that stage.” Her hair flares around her face like a white fire. Adam thinks Medusa looked like this when she turned men to stone. Steff even has that rock hard glint to her eyes. “I only have five bands. Frankie has to get on by ten—”

“We’re not going last,” Trace says. He crosses his arms, drumsticks in one hand like nunchucks, and stares her down. “Deal’s off, Steff, if you think we’re going to get up there and give it all we’ve got when no one’s even listening. Why’s he have to be on by ten?”

Steff bites her lower lip and her gaze drifts to Janie, who bristles behind the band like an alley cat ready to fight. When she speaks again, she has two tiny teeth marks in her lipstick that slowly fill back in with color. “Fine. He’s going second, okay? I have to let Clary go first, I promised her, but he’s after her and you guys are after him, okay? How’s that? Okay?”

“Fine,” Adam growls.

He still doesn’t like the idea of going after Frankie but at least they won’t be last. She said what, five bands? That means there will still be two more after their set. He doesn’t mention that she had originally promised Trace they’d go first, too, but he can live with third. It’ll give any talent scouts out there time to size up the competition before he blows them out of the water.