Rise by Cassandra Robbins

 

 

 

 

RHYS

Past – Twenty-seven years old

Minneapolis, Minnesota

“Goddammit, BT. What the fuck is going on, man?” I pull off the piece-of-shit ear monitor that shot static into my ear, causing it to ring.

“Let me get the new ones,” BT yells from somewhere.

“Watch your back.”Two stagehands maneuver behind me, carrying one of our huge lights. The stage is a disaster. Equipment is scattered everywhere, and we’re in Minnesota where it’s a whopping seven degrees outside. Needless to say, I’m not happy.

The way this morning is starting off, I need a cigarette and maybe a bottle of Jack.

“Granger.” Jerry walks up with a microphone. “I know we’re waiting on the others, but if you don’t mind.”

Sighing, I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t mind.” I need to stop being an ass. It’s not my crew’s fault I haven’t slept for days. I’m haunted by a pair of long legs and green eyes.

That and my music. It’s loud, demanding to come out of me. I’ve given up worrying when I get like this. I just let the music tell me where I need to be, like a lover who can never hurt me.

“Testing…” I don’t even bother saying more and shove the microphone back at him.

“Fix it, Jerry. We sounded like shit in Texas too.”

He nods. “I’ll reprogram again,” he grumbles, talking to himself as he walks away.

Misty sashays past Jerry, shaking her head at the way he incessantly talks to himself. She steps up to me, saving me from all the dark shit I’ve been thinking about, most of it concerning the Brat. The way her lips felt taking my cock. Her tight, wet cunt that’s made for only me.

“I thought you might need this.” Her voice makes me focus on her as she hands me a large coffee. The smell of Irish whiskey filters out from the top of the plastic cup.

I grin. “Misty, you never disappoint.” She smiles back as she bites her bottom lip.

“Nope, I never do. You need me to refresh your memory?” Her aggressive behavior is usually fun. I’ve fucked her numerous times. She’s willing to do anything. Unfortunately, this morning it does nothing for me.

Wrapping my arm around her, I kiss the top of her blond hair, pretending I didn’t get her blatant invitation.

“BT, how much longer, man?” I bellow, causing her to look up at me in confusion. Not that I blame her. I want to tell her I’m fucked up and to not take it personally.

“Arena’s fault.” BT walks up looking like a mad scientist. “It’s a miracle we’re doing as good as we are. The Wild played the Kings last night.”

“Perfect, maybe I should hire their crew since they broke down an ice rink in a night, and my team can’t seem to finish our rig.” I remove my arm from Misty. BT laughs while he tries to wrestle open a box wrapped tight with clear tape.

“Jesus, Granger.” Nuke walks by carrying a bottle of Jäger and it’s not yet noon.

“Lighten up, Frances.” He steps up to his throne and removes his shirt. “Misty.” He motions for her to come to him.

“Nuke.” She almost skips over to him. He takes a swig and hands the bottle to her. I swear I can smell the dark spice of licorice from where I’m standing. Nuke’s getting worse by the day, but I have my own demons and shit to deal with.

“Where the fuck are Ammo and Cash?” I grit.

“No idea where Ammo is, but Cash’s fucking Amanda. I saw his white ass on the way in.” He says all this as he starts fondling Misty.

BT finally rips the box of IEMs open. “Here, brother, I’m sending that faulty box back. Fucking pisses me off,” he grumbles. His hair is down to his ass and held in place by wires and two sets of headphones around his neck.

BT’s been with the band for years, so bitching at him goes in one ear and out the other. He’s either become immune to one of us being an ass or he just doesn’t care.

“Let’s go red for you, Granger.” He grins, shoving the custom tiny ear monitor at me. I take off my electric guitar and hand it to Dallas, my personal tuner.

“I hope to hell this one works. My ear is still ringing.” I put the tiny monitor in. BT’s voice instantly becomes clear, along with Nuke’s conversation with Misty.

“This one works,” I say dryly, clicking it off.

BT gives me a distracted nod, glances down at the box, and walks over to Nuke.

One of our equipment trucks slid off the road last night. The teamster didn’t see the black ice, and Nuke’s drums were on it, so they brought in a new set.

“You want to give her a try?” BT hands him his sticks, moving Misty behind him. I’d laugh if all this wasn’t so pathetic. Our head roadie is having to force us to do our jobs.

“Misty?” Nuke twirls his sticks, bringing them down in one hard, quick show-off solo.

“Yeah, Nuke?” she yells around BT’s large frame and lets out a laugh.

“You. Me. Blowjob.” He finishes off with a dramatic solo. Misty claps and BT shakes his head and hands him his IEM, telling him to focus.

“Cash. Get your cock out of Angela,” I bellow.

“Christ, Granger, I’m here, you angry fuck.” Cash walks out from backstage, zipping up his jeans. I don’t even respond to him. He’s right; I’m angry. His attitude isn’t helping, or the fact that Ammo decided not to even show up.

“Dallas, call Ammo to see what the fuck is happening.” Dallas stops tuning and reaches for his phone.

“And you got a cigarette, brother?” Misty’s loud laughter makes me grit my teeth.

“Yeah.” Dallas hands me his pack of cigarettes. He’s old-school rock ‘n’ roll. Not that he’s old, but he’s got the eighties’ Tommy Lee-look going on.

“I also got some serious hash if you need to chill out.” He waggles his eyebrows, then talks into the phone. “Hey, man, just checking in. Everyone is waiting…”

Snorting, I light up and block out Dallas’s conversation with Ammo so I can drink my Irish coffee and smoke in peace.

I should leave. I’m getting mean, and that’s gonna end up with one of us having a black eye. I’ve basically done my sound check. If they don’t give a fuck, why stick around?

Cash stretches his arms out and swings them back and forth, jumping up and down like he thinks he’s the shit. I fight the eye roll. His ego is out of control.

Cash has nothing to be arrogant about anymore. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, wears his hair in his eyes half the time, and has a wardrobe of stupid clothes.

Today he’s wearing a trendy red T-shirt held together by safety pins. I’d love to blame Cynthia for Cash’s clothes, but he probably picked that shirt out himself.

I met Cash back in high school. He went to Harvard-Westlake, one of the most expensive private schools in LA. How he started hanging out with all of us is anyone’s guess. I think it was David who found him. Anyway, his parents are big-time lawyers.

He had a BMW; I drove my mom’s old-ass Volvo that was held together by duct tape and prayers.

None of us cared that he was different. He could play the fucking bass like Flea from the Chili Peppers. Also, his parents were one-hundred percent believers in us. They bought all our earliest equipment. I think half our early gigs were favors to his dad.

He didn’t judge us. Even with half of us hanging out with bikers, it never fazed him. He was a cool kid who loved music and had big dreams.

That changed the moment we started to get popular. As soon as we made our first million, Cash started to distance himself. Suddenly, he was hanging out with other musicians, dating models, dressing like a douche.

“Okay, I’ll tell them.” Dallas’s voice brings me back to the loud stage.

“He said he’s almost here. Gia’s shooting him.” His voice cracks like a goddamn teenager mentioning Gia.

Which makes my head pound. He wants her, but I can’t even get pissed since she seems to have enchanted everyone. Well, besides Rafe.

In the last week and a half, she’s befriended my crew. Christ, I don’t even know all their names.

But she does.

Taking a drag of my cigarette, I exhale and grind out, “You finish up for me, man.” I jump off the stage and walk through the huge arena toward the doors, ignoring the numerous people calling my name.

“I need to take care of something,” I yell over my shoulder.