GRIFFIN: Red and the Big Bad Reaper

CHAPTER 1 GRIFF “Alright, I’m bored,” I tell the group of Reapers sitting around the roadhouse’s banquet table. I’m not the president of our biker g**g, but I do expect plenty of answers when I demand to know, “How’re we going to fix this shitty vibe?” Waylon, who actually is one of the Reaper's presidents, rolls his eyes and ignores me. Like I’m some mouthy brat—not the guy paying him six figures a year to run security at all my shows. With the mood I’m in, that’d normally be enough for me to put a fist through his mouth. Nothing cures a bad case of the Bored as Hells like knocking out teeth. But I let it slide. Waylon and Hades, the other Reaper prez, are two of the only guys I could call true friends prior to my music fame. Waylon’s the one who pinned me with my road name, Rockstar, years before I signed my record deal. And, trust, it’s a whole lot better to have him as a best friend you tolerate than an enemy you punched because he pissed you off. I don’t want to use the word psycho, but Waylon has a reputation for ending anybody who crosses him. There’s a reason DON’T PISS OFF WAYLON is written in huge block letters on the list of rules hanging above the roadhouse owner’s office door. It’s probably a sign of our enduring friendship that he just ignores me instead of pulling a g*n and shooting me in the face. That could 100% happen with our co-prez. We call him Viking sometimes because he’s been known to go totally berserk when crossed. Besides, I am acting kind of bratty. Borderline '80s-era Mötley Crüe. That happens when I get bored—which Waylon’s probably thinking I shouldn’t be, considering we’re at the Reaper's favorite Tennessee roadhouse with friends who know how to party, top-shelf blow, quality w**d, and biker groupies willing to do just about anything to get invited to our table. One of my hit tracks is playing overhead, and two topless blondes with big smiles and even bigger breasts appear to replace all our empty bottles and whiskey glasses with fresh pours of bourbon and Yazoo beers. Yeah, this scene is as close to biker Valhalla as you’re gonna get. “You want a mug for your Yazoo, Griff?” one of the waitresses asks. She presses her fake breasts into my shoulder as she sets a bottle of local craft beer down in front of me. It’s so cold, it’s got a wisp of smoke wafting up from its mouth. Hmm . . . there’s a good chance I've f****d this girl on a previous occasion. But I can’t remember. A few of the Reapers eye me expectantly—probably because the last time a waitress batted her eyes at me this hard, I convinced her to crawl under the table and give us all blow jobs. Now that was real '80s-era Mötley Crüe. But tonight, my d**k does nothing in response to her rubbing up against me like a cat in heat. All I feel is dead inside as I answer, “Nah, I’m good.” I take a swig of my fresh Yazoo to end any further conversation, then announce to rest of the Reapers, “Still bored.” “I got Molly,” Rowdy yells over my song. He’s one of the Reapers who’ve been on tour with me all year. I’ve been letting him stay at my place in Nashville during the holiday lead-up to my record label’s big New Year’s Eve show, along with Crash, another Reaper on my security team. Unlike Waylon, these guys know how to entourage. They start making suggestions as soon as they see the under-the-table blow job thing isn’t going to happen. “We could throw down with The Bandits,” Crash says. “They’ve been looking over here funny all night. And Waylon hasn’t shot nobody in a while.” Waylon tilts his head with a thoughtful frown, like the opportunity to dead somebody might just get him out of his seat. But Hyena, who came up as a prospect with me over a decade ago, points out, “The last time we tried to beat down another g**g for staring, we got over there, and all they wanted was Rockstar’s autograph. It was stupid as shit.” I turn to glare over my shoulder at The Bandits anyway. A weird, ugly energy’s been brewing inside of me since I turned thirty a few weeks ago. I could use a good fight to blow off some steam. But I guess The Bandits want to prove Hyena’s point. As soon as I make eye contact, most of the heavily bearded MCs sitting at the table behind us start pointing up at the song playing overhead. The few guys not pointing tear off pieces from one of the shitty brown napkin rolls placed at each banquet table and pantomime the international symbol for Can I have your autograph? Meanwhile, The Bandits’s prez shouts across the distance, “I requested them to play this one soon as I saw you in here. You’re my favorite rapper of all time.” My record label prefers the term "country trap artist" since I sing too. But whatever. Hyena laughs with the signature sound that inspired his road name as I heave myself out of my chair and go over to sign all their s**t and thank them for being fans. Instead of getting my fight, I get promises that I’ll see a few of them standing front row at the New Year’s concert I’m headlining in two weeks. “Well, that was a bust, and I’m still bored as f**k,” I inform Crash when I return to the Reaper's table. At least he has the decency to drop his eyes. Yeah, he should feel guilty. “What else?” I ask the rest of the table. “I got Molly,” Rowdy offers again. “There’s a whole bunch of extra holiday help this year,” Hyena points out now that he’s over his laughing fit. “You should see the hot redhead Vengeance’s got lined up for later tonight,” Crazytown, one of our old-timers, brags, nodding over at Hyena, Vampire, and Des-E. “She’s got a set of cans on her you wouldn’t believe.” Vengeance is what we call the three guys in charge of doing the Reaper’s grislier enforcement duties. One laughs and smiles like a Hyena. We already covered that. One carries not one, but three Desert Eagles on him at all times, hence the shortened road name. And one’s a pale and broody as . . . well, a vampire. Anyway, they don’t just work together, they f**k together. One girl always gets all their attention after one of them—almost always Hyena—picks them up. Not my thing. But, hey, I’m not judging. I grew up in Los Angeles. Hell knows, I’ve seen stranger arrangements. “That’s what’s up. Good for you, guys,” I say, throwing Vengeance a chin nod. Crash comes out of his guilty head hang to suggest, “Bet you could do the same thing. But, you know, in reverse,” he quickly adds. “Three girls all to yourself.” Yeah, the prospect of that would be intriguing to 99.9% of straight guys. Me, not so much. “Been there, done that,” I let Crash know. “Not as fun as you’d think. Three girls is a f**k ton of c****m work. And my number one goal in life is to make sure I don’t become some chick’s eighteen-year child support check.” “Yeah, but I got Molly, man,” Rowdy says again like there’s a chance I didn’t hear him the first two times. “And I heard there’s at least three new waitresses from Rydell, that all-girls school, working tonight.” “All women’s college,” Des-E corrects. We all turn to stare at him. Three words are two more than Des-E’s nightly average. Hell, I’ve seen whole weeks go by without him saying three words, especially all in a row like that. “Doc went to Rydell, and she gets pissed when you call it an all-girls school,” Hyena explains off all our confused looks. Crazytown and the rest of the Reapers who haven’t been touring with me all year nod like this makes 100% sense. But since this is the first chance I’ve gotten to hang out with my old crew for a while, I have to ask, “Who’s Doc?” Before anyone can answer, my song is abruptly cut off and replaced by an AC/DC anthem I’ve been thinking about sampling for my next album. “Okay, Mama Red Bird is in the house!” an amplified voice calls out over Brian Johnson scream-wailing about the girl who shook him all night long. “I’ve got shots, and I’m looking for my biker birdies! Chirp-chirp, baby! Bring your twenties to the bar, and line up if you want somethin’ good!” I look up, and holy f**k. A girl . . . A girl like no other is standing on top of the bar that runs the length of the roadhouse’s back wall—a girl with silky brown skin stretched over curves that call my name like a siren song. She’s a waitress. I know that because her supple breasts are bared for the world to see, and she’s dressed in high-rise cutoff shorts and cowboy boots—the official uniform for all servers at the Reaper’s favorite roadhouse. But unlike the rest of the roadhouse girls, she’s wearing a pair of huge wings. I’d call them angel wings, but she sounds pretty damn committed to that bird imagery. Plus, they’re cherry-red—the same color as the hair spilling in long waves over her breasts down to her waist. Her eyes are huge in a way that makes me think of innocence. But her smile is 100% wicked as she waggles a spouted bottle of some clear alcohol above her head. Our gazes lock across the distance, and she stutters, the come-hither look slipping off her face as she stares at me staring at her. Suddenly . . . Suddenly I’m not so bored. My c**k stirs, and that dead inside feeling fades away along with everything else as the entire world becomes a single question: Who are you?