2. On Tour Two years later

two

On Tour Two years later

L ooking out at my bandmates over the stage, a sense of anxiety and anticipation rolled over me. What the fuck was I doing? Why and how had I ended up with these guys? None of them were paying any attention to me. They chatted with their roadies and techs. It was only our second show, and we were still working things out—tweaking the setups.

All the guys in the band were all happily paired up. Even Miami and Jinx, who had been so combustible before, were now in a golden twilight. And me?

Unbuttoning my pants, I shimmied out of my jeans. I’d gone commando because, yeah, these jeans were fucking tight.

I hadn’t made up with Coleman, and now we were on tour—officially. Great. Jacksonville fans would storm in later tonight. But Coleman? He hadn’t called. I told myself he was busy, but that was bullshit, but to be fair, I hadn’t called him either.

Griffin, the salesman from whom we bought all of our equipment, looked over at me from behind my kit. He quirked an eyebrow. He’d become a friend of sorts with the band and had a cool little dude for a son and a hot snowboarder for a man. They’d both be at the show later, but they weren’t here now. My tech, Simon, glanced up to see what Griffin was staring at and smirked at me. Neither said anything as I continued undressing. The buttons on my shirt were tricky, but I managed them. A sleeveless in soft blue to bring out my eyes and show off my guns. The tails covered my junk, barely.

A lot of shit swirled around in my brain, and I needed to silence the voices. The soft cotton-poly material slid over my shoulders, leaving me in nothing but my Nike sneakers. I took off across the stage before the shirt hit the floor. I threw my hands in the air and hooted loudly. On the other side, I wanted to jump over the barriers and get out into the seats, but as soon as I got my foot up on the glass barrier, someone grabbed me from behind. I kicked my legs in the air and yelled again.

Even though someone, probably security, had me reined in, I felt free. For so long, it had only been me. Before Midnight Hunt had ever hit it big, before I even knew Miami, Jinx, and Wolf, before I became Ziggy, and back when I was only Jack Braswell, there had been no one. Through the years, I fucked ‘em and forgot ‘em. Roadies, fans, or groupies, guys I picked up at the bar. Didn’t matter. I didn’t care. I was Jack-don’t-give-a-fuck Braswell, and later, I was a rockstar, living up to that rockstar persona, Ziggy. I was wild and crazy and gave not one single mother-fucking fuck.

Then Coleman.

Well, fuck Coleman. Fuck relationships. Fuck everything.

I laughed maniacally until the security guy sat me down on my feet next to the pile of clothing I’d discarded. “Whew!” The endorphins fired me up. “What a rush.”

Jinx’s face got right into mine. “Are you high?”

“No. Maybe later.” There was always time to smoke a joint later.

Jinx scoffed. “You’ve lost your mind? That it?”

“Also no.”

“Fine.” Jinx turned and stomped back across the stage to where Bobby, his tech, had his Fender strapped on, working on tuning. But Miami was still there, staring at me.

“What?”

“Anything you want to tell us, Zig?” The self-proclaimed leader of the band waited. He was sucking on a lozenge, which was part of this pre-show ritual. He didn’t have a tech waiting on him. He worked closely with our sound and lights guy, Pete, but he took care of his own microphones. Because he was an egotistical asshole. Not that I gave a fuck.

“No.”

He slurped a bit. I could see his mouth working as he tucked the lozenge in his cheek. “Then get some fucking clothes on and count us in. Time’s wasting, dude.”

I refrained from flipping him off, but it was a close thing. Instead, I stuck my tongue out at them. It had been hard enough getting my jeans off over my sneakers. They weren’t going back the same way, so I kicked them off. After a few minutes of wiggling and jumping around on the stage, I had them over my ass but left them unbuttoned. I left the shirt and shoes right the fuck where they were and padded barefoot over to my kit.

Simon handed me a pair of sticks. “Thanks, man.”

“Thanks for the show.” He smacked my ass and walked away, but not without throwing a wink over his shoulder. He was playing. He flirted with everyone, including Wolf’s tech, Ross, who was super close with Bobby. I thought they had something going. Super drama among techs. I didn’t give a fuck.

Everyone seemed to be ready, the techs moving off the stage. Griffin leaned closer. “You’re good to go, man. Knock ‘em dead.”

I tipped a salute with one of my sticks. The guys were looking at me, Wolf and Jinx, with their axes strapped over their shoulders. Miami bounced on his toes. There was nothing left to do for soundcheck except play. I counted off our first song and banged my toms, cymbals, snare, bass. This was my world. I tipped the hi-hat.

Miami started screaming into the mic.

It happens more than I like

It's a whirlwind of spitfire

Fucking hell it's another fight

We had decided the lineup before we’d played the Miami show, and we were starting with our classic, The One About Fighting . Everyone loved it. Classic Midnight Hunt. And I had a fucking killer drum solo that I’d updated from when we originally recorded it.

I pounded my feet on the double bass. Left-right, right, right-left. And banged it out over the toms.

My mind wandered.

To Coleman. I could imagine his sexy smirk and perfectly styled hair…

Maybe it was because the song was old, and I knew it to my bones. I could and did play by rote. Until I fucked it up.

I stopped playing and everyone turned to look at me.

God damned Coleman. Why couldn’t he at least shoot me a text?

Fuck this. Hadn’t I made my own personal declaration to forget his sorry ass right before we started playing? I tossed my sticks over my kit, not caring where they landed.

Wolf yelled, “Hey, fucker! Watch it.”

I stood up and flipped them all off, double-fisted, before heading backstage. Fuck this. Fuck them. Fuck playing. Fuck Coleman.

No one stopped me, and when I made it to my dressing room, I dug through my duffle until I found the fifth of Crown in its little purple pouch. I pulled it out, opened it, and drank right from the bottle. That first sip was warm and comfortable, always giving me a deep sigh of relaxation.

I heard the band kick off again. Took another swig of whisky, enjoying the sweetness. Most likely, Simon was behind the kit. Couldn’t hurt to take another sip. I sat on the couch that took up most of the space in the small room. Part of the reason we hired Simon was he knew all of our songs. He was good. I listened. I sipped. He could play them almost as well as I could. Fucking traitor.

I threw what was left of the bottle across the room, and it shattered against the back of the door.

If I walked over to clean it up, I’d surely cut my feet. So fuck the Crown, too. I’d get another bottle. I scrunched down and stretched out on the couch.