Rockstar

Chapter 3-2

Adam stands at the edge of the stage, arms crossed, angry, and looks out at the crowd as the members of Frankie’s rap-rock band Da Bomb set up for their gig. He doesn’t see any suit-and-ties out in the mesh of bodies, no one that cries out ‘rep.’ He wonders if Steff lied about that, too. There’s probably no studio out on the floor tonight. She just wanted a free go at Trace, that’s all. Damn slut.

Behind him Trace is beating out a rhythm with his sticks, tapping along the wall, the curtain, Adam’s back, wherever he can reach and still keep time under his breath. When he goes into a timpani roll across Adam’s shoulders, though, Adam hunches up and pulls away. “Stop it,” he snarls. “I’m not a f*****g drum.”

“Well, damn.” Trace winks at Mike, who leans against the wall and watches them as he smokes his first cigarette of the night. “Someone’s pissy. So we didn’t go first. So what? We’re next.” He picks up the rhythm again on Adam’s back.

Adam shrugs him off like an annoying insect. “I said stop it or I’ll break those f*****g sticks in half.”

“I won’t let you,” Trace taunts. “Come on, Adam. Lighten up. It’s the Lot, for Christ’s sake. We’re playing the Lot. Doesn’t that—”

“Just leave me alone!” Adam glares at his friend until Trace drops his gaze. Turning away, he crosses his arms harder in front of his chest and mutters under his breath, “Jesus.”

Out on the stage, Da Bomb is almost ready. As if he heard Adam’s outburst, Frankie glances toward the wings and winks. Adam’s hands curl into fists as he resists the urge to flip off the asshole in lieu of wishing him luck.

Trace taps the top of Adam’s head with his drumstick, just once but hard enough to sting. When Adam whirls around, Trace laughs and runs off. “Hey, is that Janie calling me?”

Yeah, right. Adam rubs his scalp and frowns at Mike, who can’t quite hide the smirk toying around the edges of his mouth. “You think this is funny?” Adam wants to know. Is he the only serious one here?

“Just relax,” Mike tells him. “We’re next, Adam. We’ve done this a million times. So it’s the Lot. So what? Nothing to be nervous about.”

“I ain’t nervous.” Adam’s foot begins to tap when Da Bomb warms up their instruments but he stills it quickly. He isn’t nervous. He doesn’t get nervous. He just needs some time to himself to get ready mentally.

It’s like this every show. Mike should know that by now. Trace once said the genius needed to be left alone and even though Adam laughed with him at that, he secretly agrees. He can’t just rush out there and perform, not like Trace or Mike seem to be able to. Music’s like s*x—when he’s getting some ass, he can’t just jump into bed, can he? No; he has to stoke the fires, set the mood, get himself good and hard and ready to go…then he can get off.

Same principle applies. He can’t just walk out on stage and think he’s going to pull off a good show when he isn’t in the mood. It would be like a half-assed f**k in the back seat of a car—it might feel okay in the moment’s rush but once it’s over, it just tastes sour in his mind and he’d hate it because it wasn’t all it could have been. He knows that one all too well. Been there, done that, as they say. Trace probably has a T-shirt with something witty written about it, too.

Adam only half listens to Frankie’s opening spiel. He doesn’t see any studio reps in the crowd, and he has a pretty good feel for picking out those types. When Da Bomb launches into a hip-hop rendition of Duran Duran’s “Wild Boys,” Adam laughs. The night’s first act, an angry redhead Steff called Clary, did her own piano-punk version of Madonna’s classic hit, “Like a Virgin,” which Adam thought had to be the world’s biggest joke. And now this, Frankie doing Duran Duran.

Turning to Mike, Adam asks, “Is this all we’re going to hear tonight? Covers and remakes, nothing original? What’s up with that?”

Mike laughs. “Fall back on something familiar, I guess.” With a sidelong glance at Adam, he adds, “We’re doing ‘Stairway,’ aren’t we?”

“No.” Adam shakes his head, clenching his hands into fists beneath his arms. “I’m not doing that song. You know I’m sick of it.”

Mike sighs. He knows, and this is an old argument. Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” is probably the first rock anthem any guitarist learns how to play, and one of the only songs they do that always manages to rouse the crowd simply because everyone in the audience knows it. Adam hates the song but he sings it so well, like it was meant for his voice. Crowds love hearing it. If they sing it tonight, they’re a sure win. “Adam…”

“No,” Adam says again. “I mean it, Mike. I’m not singing that s**t tonight.”

“There goes our contract,” Mike mutters.

“f**k that,” Adam growls. “We’ll get it on our own songs, not recycled crap.”

Mike glares past Adam into the crowd. “We weren’t doing anything original tonight, remember?” he reminds him. “Your strength is ballads, you know that. And these past two songs have been fast, upbeat. This crowd is begging for something mellow. Something like—”

Adam says, “These past two songs have been old. f**k, Mike, old before your time, if there is such a thing.” He waits for Mike to reply but his friend holds his tongue. “I’m just saying we need something different, okay? I’m just saying we need to do something new, something fresh, something to get us noticed—”

“Are we a group?” Mike asks suddenly. Adam glances over his shoulder, confused at the anger coloring Mike’s face. “Are there three of us here who make the decisions? Or is it Adam Blue’s rock band? I don’t remember signing up for a solo act.”

Adam doesn’t know how to answer. He wants to point out that it is his band. He’s the one who recruited Mike and Trace, who came up with the band’s name, who pushes them to practice. Viral Blue is his future, his…hello?

Before he can say anything, Mike shoves away from the wall and steps into Adam’s space. Adam resists the urge to back up. When Mike pokes at the bunched muscle in Adam’s arm with one forefinger, right at the heart of Adam’s band logo tattoo, Adam glares at the ire clouding his friend’s eyes. “I’m not a backup singer,” Mike tells him, “I’m a f*****g bassist, Adam, and I sing vocals, and this is as much my band as it is yours, so if you want to do something original tonight, that’s fine, but we have to talk about it first. All three of us have to decide on it. We don’t just walk out on stage and each person does their own thing. This isn’t a variety act.”

For a long moment Adam doesn’t answer. His jaw aches where he’s grinding his teeth together, livid. Who the hell is Mike trying to kid? There’s no way the band means the same to him as it does to Adam, no f*****g way.

Finally Mike sighs, turns away. “We practiced ‘Stairway.’ We do that one, Adam. That was the plan, remember?” He waits for an answer.

It’s long in coming. Finally Adam sighs. “Yeah.” He’s tired of arguing. Hell, right now he’s tired of being here, and he isn’t looking forward to performing tonight, even if this is the Lot.

“We decided on ‘Stairway,’” Mike says, as if to drive the point home.

“All right already,” Adam tells him. When Mike opens his mouth to speak again, Adam turns away. “You want to do a ballad? Fine, we’ll do a goddamn ballad. Just shut the f**k up about it, will you? I have to get in the zone.”

He turns away, retreating to the wings of the stage where he can stare out at the crowd and let the heavy riffs from the other band wash over him. They go on in less than a minute. It’s too late to change their set anyway, he tells himself. Everyone else is doing covers tonight. With a bitter laugh, he thinks, Why shouldn’t we?

Steff better not have lied about those scouts.