Chapter 7

The crowd was chanting “Wayward Lane! Wayward Lane!” as I sat behind my kit waiting for the curtain to rise.

I adjusted my earpiece and nodded at Ronin, who was warming up on his bass.

Then he sauntered towards me, and I swiveled on my stool. He crouched down in front of me, reaching out to place his hand around the back of my neck as I reached up and did the same to him, our foreheads touching.

It was our thing, before every performance. It started out the first time we did a show. Ronin was so nervous he thought he was having a literal heart attack. Until I placed a comforting hand on him and reassured the big guy that he was okay. We were gonna rock the shit outta that show. And we did. And we were still doing it.

I looked into Ronin’s summer blues and nodded, feeling grounded, and at the same time, ready to kick ass.

He pulled his hand back and I watched him walk back to take his mark on the stage. A few rolls of his shoulders and he was ready to go.

So was I. In more ways than one.

Touching my best friend was becoming a dangerous distraction. So, I did my own shoulder shrug, shaking off the intense ache that started in my chest and spread to the rest of my body.

This, I didn’t need.

Not now. Not ever.

I could never lose Ronin, so I had to remind my body to get the fuck over it. These feelings were worse than playing with fire. And letting them loose would be setting my whole world ablaze.

Besides, I had plenty of male attention. Whenever we’d have a show, there were guys lined up to meet us. Before and after. Add to that, a hit of coke, a couple of drinks, and my feelings for my BFF faded away like my worries.

We were back in the States, at a sold-out stadium show in New York as we prepared to open for yet another headlining band. After almost couple of years playing around Europe, we still had no record deal. Six years of working our asses off. No lie, sometimes it was difficult to keep positive. To not let our frustration get the better of us. Especially for a group of guys in our early twenties who’re impatient for everything.

So, six months ago, we headed back to the US and started again. Not with our tail between our legs, but with an understanding that this was going to be our life. Only a small percentage of musicians got a record deal and made it big. It wasn’t giving up. It was just accepting that being a working musician meant you had to keep going, no matter the size of the show or the crowd.

We didn’t want to do anything else, and really? Life was still fucking good.

We had steady gigs lined up and made enough money to rent a studio and record a proper demo. We’d just sent it out to several labels and we were once again waiting for responses.

Tonight, we were playing our biggest audience to date. And judging by the screams and hollers already, there was electricity in the air.

I was pumped up, and like always, ready to play my heart out.

The stage manager waved from the sidelines and started the countdown.

I started our first set with the pulse-pounding drumbeat for Never Look Back. No matter how many times I played a song, the rush of making music with my friends never got old. Sometimes I’d close my eyes on stage and just marvel at the sound, my heartbeat times a thousand.

And performing, just like sex, was usually better with a partner. Or several. You can do it alone, sure, but the energy of a crowd amplifies the rush.

Music is, after all, one of the ultimate human experiences. That’s pretty deep for a rockstar, right?

When the curtain finally dropped and the flash of lights exploded, so did the crowd. Brodie belted out the opening chorus and I could hear people screaming his name. That was new. And fucking awesome. It made all my senses ignite.

Since we’d returned to the States, with new songs and a strong backlist, our popularity slowly began to rise. We now had festivals and booking agents calling us for a change. I could feel the tide shifting in our favor. It was as real as the pedals at my feet and the sticks in my hands.

Brodie strutted across the stage, touching the hands of the lucky few in the front row and using his sex appeal to work them into a frenzy.

By the time we’d finished our fifth song, I was soaking wet. Jeans may look sexy, but for a drummer playing under the heat of the stage lights, my balls were now glued to my pants. I’d ripped off my t-shirt already and threw it in Ronin’s direction. He made a big show of sniffing it, then chucking it into the audience. The crowd screamed our names.

Fucking hell, that was a rush. People knew ourgoddamn names.

We closed out the set with Nine Gone Wrong and the roar of hollers and claps had all four of us shaking our heads in disbelief. After three bows, we took our leave, but the boom of the audience followed us, even backstage.

“What a fucking night!!” Brodie shouted and hugged us each in turn. “Did you feel that? Could you believe that?”

“They were yelling our names.” Holloway grinned. “This is it, guys. We’ve arrived!”

“You were amazing, boo.” Ronin hugged me, and kissed the top of my head, both of us slippery with sweat.

“Right back at ya,” I replied. “That was incredible. Brodie, they were going nuts for you.”

“For all of us,” Brodie stated as he grabbed a towel and wiped his face.

“Excuse me, can I speak to your manager?”

A sudden, strange voice interrupted our celebration.

All four of us turned around to find ourselves face to face with a middle-aged guy in a pair of expensive looking jeans and a crewneck sweater. Not our typical fan. And judging by the severe expression on his face, not a happy one either.

“You’re looking at him.” Brodie pointed to his chest.

“It’s about your set, I have to tell you—” the stranger started.

“Look, if you’re here to run us down, or if you have a problem with our songs, you can go fuck yourself. You can still hear the fans out there screaming. That should tell you everything you need to know.”

The guy shook his head and stepped forward.

“That’s not why I’m here,” the stranger insisted, and the boom of his voice had all of us, Brodie included, jolting. “I’m Greg Haddley, the CEO of Bandit Music. I represent Chaotic Chains.”

The headliners tonight were represented by Bandit Music, the biggest label in the country.

Holy fucking shit.

“I’d like to see your full demo. Email it to this address,” he explained as he pulled out a business card. “ASAP, because I’ve got a very long list of bands who would kill for the same opportunity.”

Was this guy for real or was this a prank? Or was I still high from the coke I’d had before showtime?

Brodie looked at us and we nodded like trained seals.

“We’ll do that.” Brodie cleared his throat, as he reached for the card. “But first, I want to check that this is legit.”

What the hell? Was he crazy?

“Go ahead.” Greg shook his head. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”

“And then what?” Holloway asked.

“If my exec team likes what we hear, we’ll fly you to our head office in Nashville for a formal meeting.”

“Cool,” Brodie replied, cocky as fuck.

Greg nodded and stalked past us, heading for the dressing rooms.

“Did that just happen?” Ronin asked.

Brodie’s hand shook as he held up the card. “Come on, I need my phone. Let’s do some digging. If that really was Greg Haddley, then fuck me, we have more than just a concert to celebrate.”

We all but ran to our dressing room and as soon as we had our phones in hand, we were googling everything we could about Greg and the label.

“Yup, that’s him all right.” Brodie nodded, his eyes widening. “Fucking Jesus, it’s really happening.”

We emailed Greg our demo not fifteen minutes after we met him. Still sweaty and dehydrated from our performance, we were too stunned to do anything but sit in our dressing room and stare at each other.

The next morning, we had a response. Along with tickets to Nashville.

Brodie hadn’t lied when he said we didn’t have a manager. We had a temporary one when we moved back to the US, but he turned out to be a skeevy perv, not to mention a thief. Stealing our hard-earned dollars to supply his gambling habit.

“They sent a fifth ticket for our rep,” Brodie explained as we sat in our hotel room, eating breakfast. “Even though we don’t have one. If you guys are okay, I’d like to invite my dad. Which sounds really lame, like I’m sixteen again or something. But at least he has experience with contracts.”

“If they offer us one,” Ronin added.

“They wouldn’t be flying us down there unless it’s a done deal,” Holloway offered. “Right?”

“For sure,” I replied. “I mean, I assume so. If we do get an offer, we should have a lawyer review the contract. To make sure we don’t get screwed.”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” Holloway shook his head. “Meeting first. Brodie’s dad can give us his initial impression and we go from there.”

Three days later, we flew down to Nashville. First class.

We each had our own hotel room, but it was weird for me to sleep alone. So much so, that an hour after we’d gone our separate ways, I slipped out of my room and knocked on Ronin’s next door.

“I can’t sleep,” I admitted. “I’m too amped up.”

Instead of replying, Ronin gripped my arm and dragged me into his room.

This time, I was the big spoon. But I still couldn’t sleep. And no wonder. Between the prospect of signing a record deal and having my best friend all to myself, I was floating.

“Things aren’t going to change too much, are they?” Ronin whispered in the darkness.

“Between you and me? Never.”

He sighed. “If we do get that deal, though, everything else will be different.”

“Hopefully. That’s a good thing. This is what we’ve worked the past six years for.”

“I know, but it’s weird. Now that it might happen, I’m really fucking scared.”

“It’s not weird at all. But we’ll have each other’s backs. No matter what.”

Ronin gripped my hand tighter, holding it over his chest. His heart was racing as fast as mine.

There was no point in trying to sleep. I pulled my hand away, rolled over and turned on the lamp and then the TV.

“Movie?” I offered.

“Anything to distract me from the thought of this meeting tomorrow,” Ronin agreed as he sat up.

“Anything?” I teased as I turned up the volume.

“Shut up, I can’t hear the show.”