1. Kaye

CHAPTER 1

Kaye

I love my job. If you’d told me ten years ago that the little girl who grew up in a trailer park with shit parents and not a penny to her name would one day be managing the biggest rock band in the world, I would’ve laughed. But here I am with a smile on my face, leaning back on a conference room chair in a high-rise building in New York City, waiting for an important meeting with a record executive from one of the largest record companies in the world. Cain, the band's drummer, and Lars, the lead singer, are here with their girlfriend, Billie. We’re waiting on Iggy and Marley, but those two are always late.

“Typical of the record company to schedule a meeting and be late for it,” Marley, the keyboardist of Gutless Void, slurs as he finally walks into the conference room.

Marley is a musical prodigy. He started playing the piano when he was two. Classically trained, he can elevate any song into something transcendental. He’s also one of my best friends.

I smile at him, but Marley doesn’t make eye contact. He slumps into a chair, fumbling to remove his gas mask before placing his head in his hands. The guys always wear their masks into the building, fearing that their anonymity will be fodder for the tabloids if they don't. A masked band loses its luster if the men behind the veil are revealed.

I take in Marley’s disheveled hair. His black jeans and blue hoodie with the frayed hems are out of the norm for him. It’s disconcerting because he’s always perfectly put together like a GQ model, despite the intricate tattoos and facial piercings. He’d never be caught dead in public wearing an old hoodie with frayed hems.

Most managers don’t worry about their bands. They don’t see the members as humans who need nurturing. To them the band is a commodity. But these guys are my family—the family I never had. Holidays, birthdays, and special events are all spent with them. So I care far beyond the boundaries of my job. I care because they matter to me.

And I’ve noticed a drastic change in Marley over the last few months. He’s morphed from a dick-ish smartass to a silent, brooding cliche. He’s still showing up for rehearsal, but he’s solemn and withdrawn. The only time he seems to have any enthusiasm is when he’s playing music.

I glance between Marley and Iggy, sitting at opposite ends of the room. They’ve placed as much distance between each other as possible when a few weeks ago, they were cracking jokes and being complete nuisances. But what concerns me the most is how they act toward each other.

Iggy taps his fingers on the white table, his haunted, red-rimmed eyes the only visible part of his face under the balaclava.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” Iggy mumbles as he picks at his nails, chipping the black polish and watching it flake onto the floor.

I nod toward Marley at the other end of the table, his head now resting on the surface as if he’s too fatigued to hold it upright. “You gonna tell me what’s up with the two of you?”

“No,” Iggy states, his tone clipped and firm.

I nod, taking the hint. I’ve always known when to push the guys and when to hang back. There have been bumps in the road during the years I’ve been with the band, but I’ve never seen this vast ocean of animosity between these two men.

Iggy’s leg bounces as he looks everywhere but at Marley. I turn to question Iggy again, but he pounds his fist on the conference table.

“What’s this shit about, anyway?”

“Probably the opening act,” Cain states, placing a cup of coffee in front of Iggy. “You look like shit. You and Marley partying harder than usual?”

“I’ve had problems sleeping,” Iggy growls, taking the mug.

“Problems with too many uppers, I’d say,” Cain mumbles under his breath.

Iggy grits his teeth and sips his coffee.

My heart lurches. Cain and Lars know a lot about addiction and how to spot drug abuse. As the kids of junkies, they’re well versed in the warning signs.

The conference door opens before I can say anything, and Mike Walters, the record company executive, steps in.

“Five minutes late, Mike,” Lars says as he taps his wristwatch.

Lars stands in the back of the room, one protective arm draped around his girlfriend, rock reporter Billie Richmond, the girl who stole the hearts of half of Gutless Void. I hoped her presence would mellow Cain and Lars, but she’s as unhinged as her lovers. Since she’s been in the picture, I’ve had to constantly get in front of stories before they hit the headlines. The three of them hump like rabbits and don’t know the meaning of discretion. Last month, I had to circumvent a story about them fucking in a Michelin restaurant bathroom in Paris.

“I’ve been late once in the ten years we’ve worked together, Satan,” Mike says as he glares at Lars. “Can’t say the same about you.”

“I’m the talent, Mike. I get to do fucked up shit,” Lars drawls. “You are a paid suit and don’t get to waste our time.”

“Yeah, yeah, spit it out.” Cain’s deep voice booms. “I’ve got much more enjoyable things to do than listen to a corporate shill.”

“As you know, the second leg of the American tour is coming up,” Mike says, looking around the room, “and the higher-ups would like you to feature some of the newer bands on the label for your opening acts.”

“As long as it’s not a prissy fuckin’ boy band, I’m good,” Marley says.

“The label is excited to have Lifeless Lies opening up for Gutless Void.”

The room spins, and I’m not sure if I want to barf or lie down. Lifeless Lies is an indie punk rock band. Their signature sound mirrors The Dead Kennedy’s and is infused with feminine rage and haunting melody. Their lyrics are a cry against the establishment and the injustice plaguing the world. Mike’s right; booking this band is a good move for the label and Gutless Void. Lifeless Lies will give the band the street cred they lost after their former bassist left to marry a pop princess.

“Nice,” Cain says. “Shiraz is fuckin’ phenomenal. Twenty-six years old and playing like John Bonham from Led Zeppelin. The girl’s fire. She was sneaking in to play in clubs from the age of fifteen. Everyone knew about it, but her talent was beyond anything anyone had heard, so they ignored her being underage.”

Cain finishes his sentence with an oof and grips his side. I giggle as I see Billie glaring at him. “You’re sleeping on the sofa tonight.”

Lars drapes his arm around their girl and smirks. “Sweet. More for me.”

“Come on, Tinkerbell,” Cain groans as he rubs his side. “It’s an appreciation of her talent, that’s all.” He grabs Billie by the waist and hauls her to his chest before sprinkling kisses on the side of her neck.

“You okay with this?” Iggy whispers, pulling me away from Cain, Billie, and Lars.

Why would Iggy ask me that? Usually, he teases me for being a corporate lap dog. “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”

Iggy shakes his head and points to my neck. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve got a picture or that band’s lead singer inside the locket you wear around your neck.”

The window was ajar, but I didn’t go in. Not right away. I wasn’t sure if I was in the mood to fuck Larken. He said I didn’t have to, but nobody did anything for free. We both knew what was expected of me. He let me crash at his house to escape my broken home, and I opened my legs until he came.

I’d been sneaking into Larken’s window for two years. I’d had to tap and wake him the first few times, but now he left it open for me. It was a crap shoot of when I’d show up. It depended on how much my dad drank.

I pulled out the pack of smokes from my pocket. The package was bent at the edges, but the cigarettes inside remained intact. My shaking fingers fumbled with the filters.

Tonight had been worse than usual, his anger volcanic. His red-rimmed eyes had warned me that he was finally going to kill me. Or worse. My father hadn’t always been like that. He’d cared about me, fed me, hugged me, and put Band-Aids on my superficial cuts simply because I demanded it. Then my mother left, and suddenly, my sweet Daddy, who’d loved me, morphed into a drunk and used me as a punching bag.

My hand moved to my face, and I traced the tender flesh. It would look ugly the next day. The puffy white skin on my cheek would bloom into pink and purple before dulling to a brownish yellow. Another present from my father to prove his undying love.

She’d been here the last time I came to Larken’s, all beaten up—Piper, his twin sister.

I liked how Piper had touched me. Her touch hadn’t seemed predatory. No lingering questions of what I would do in exchange for her kindness. The alcohol she’d wiped along my lip had stung like I was back there taking the punch from a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man. Every time I’d winced, she’d used the pad of her thumb to soothe the wound and whispered, “It’s okay to cry.”

Crying was an emotional reaction I didn’t have the luxury of partaking in. Tears and misery were for women who had the privileges I’d never had. Perhaps I’d cried as a child when my mother still cared about me, but not since she’d left.

Girls like me weren’t allowed to weep because no one cared about our tears. Society didn’t paint us as dainty flowers with pretty petals requiring protection. No one would stand up for me and demand justice or hold my hand when I broke a nail. I could bleed out in the middle of the street, and not one person would look at me in concern. Girls like me were used and discarded. We weren’t pampered and fawned over. Girls like me were unseen.

The cigarette glowed red under the starry sky as I pulled deeply, letting the heavy smoke hit my lungs. I didn’t particularly enjoy smoking, but when that first hit of nicotine invaded my bloodstream, it gifted me with a sense of peace. Almost like things would be okay. It was idiotic to take comfort from a substance that could give me cancer, but I figured my father would kill me long before lung cancer ever could.

“Those things will kill you,” a soft voice murmured from the darkness.

I opened my eyes to see Piper Hughes, Larken’s twin sister, standing over me. “Isn’t your momma gonna yell at you for being out at all hours of the night?”

Piper shrugged before lying beside me. She pointed to the cigarette in my hand with a lopsided smile. “You got another one of those cancer sticks?”

“How are you gonna sneak into the house?”

Piper pulled out her lighter and sucked the filter of the cigarette, making the ember glow. “I reckon the same as you, through a window. Hopefully, I won’t wake them up like last time. I’m pretty sure Dad would send me to military school if I were a guy.” Piper laughed as she deepened her voice to imitate Mr. Hughes. “‘You’re acting like a no-good hussy, gallivanting around these streets like a woman of the night. Want the whole town talking about you? You won’t have any eligible suitors if you behave like those women who live across town. Fatherless.’”

Her mocking tone, mimicking her father, made me sad and uncomfortable. I lived on the other side of town. Was that why Larken hadn’t introduced me to his parents? Usually, when I slept over, he shook me awake in the early hours and rushed me out of his bed before his mother started making breakfast in their sunny kitchen. Well, I assumed it was sunny. I didn’t know what the kitchen looked like.

Whenever I saw Mrs. Hughes around town, she seemed like someone who would be a fan of yellow wallpaper with a daisy or sunflower pattern. She wore floral dresses and smiled sweetly at everyone. Her pies were the talk of the town, and everyone praised her for being the perfect mother and wife.

My mom had been an aspiring actress who got knocked up and forced to marry a man she didn’t love. Why didn’t my mother have an abortion? It would’ve saved us both from a lifetime of misery.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and ignored my emotions. Taking a deep breath, I willed my tears to stay at bay. “What show did you go to tonight?”

“Some garage band. They had a female drummer. She was amazing. Hot too.”

Why did Piper mentioning another girl’s attractiveness bother me? We might have lived in a somewhat close-minded town, but I wasn’t a homophobe. Love was love, and in a world full of misery, if you were lucky enough to get a hold of it, you should death grip it. No, I wasn’t judgmental. I was jealous. I would’ve reacted the same way if she’d made the statement about a guy.

She laughed and leaned into me. “Don’t worry, Kaye. You’re hotter.”

I stiffened at her words. It was almost like she’d somehow cracked open my brain and was privy to everything within.

“Were they a cover band, or did they perform their own songs?” I asked, wanting to change the direction of the conversation.

“Mostly covers. Like, in all honesty, every single member of that band was utter shit but the drummer. It pisses me off, you know? Every decent band in the region would want her if she were a guy. Women aren’t taken seriously in the music industry.” Piper turned to me, excitement flaring in her eyes. “She was good. Like, John Bonham good. I watched her hands the entire show. She was possessed. That’s the sign of an icon, when the music fuckin’ bleeds through you.”

“You can sing. Maybe you should start a band and ask her to be your drummer.”

“Yeah, right. You think my dad’s gonna be okay with his daughter going to seedy clubs to play music for a bunch of drunks?” She gestured at her clothes, and I smiled at her floral skirt and button-up white blouse. “It’s bad enough I have to go to bars dressed like Country Barbie.”

I turned onto my side. “If you want grungy clothing, come by my house when my dad isn’t there. I’ll fix you up. I know music is what you want, Piper. You shouldn’t give up your dreams to suit what others think is proper.” I glanced away, thinking about how many lives had been ruined because my mother had given up on her dreams. “Besides, your broken dreams could cause another’s nightmare. Put yourself first, Piper. Put your needs first.”

I froze as Piper pushed back a loose strand of my hair. “You gonna follow your own advice, Kaye?”