Opening night, p.1
Opening Night, page 1
Opening Night
A Rock Star Romance Series
Sandra Alex
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ISBN 978-1-989427-46-0
ISBN 978-1-989427-47-7
Copyright © 2021 Sandra Alex
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
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Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Jimmy
The sweat drips down my face and I toss my head back, effectively whipping the hair and droplets into the air, as I tear out one of my last guitar licks of the night. With a cheering crowd in front of me, and Nick, our drummer, beating the hell out of the drums behind me, my heart rate still beats as fast as it did the first moment we climbed onto the stage tonight. Chris, our bassist, is hammering the last verse out with me, while we watch a pair of ladies’ underpants whip by onto the stage. Mike, our lead singer, while belting out the last lyrics, picks them up, and lewdly runs the lacy undergarment under his nose.
An enigma on his own, Mike’s gesture encourages yet another item of ladies’ lingerie to make its way to him. This time a bra. Hooking it onto the microphone stand, he fiddles with it, as though it’s a pendulum, and he adds the sexy underwear to his collection, as we close out the last song of the night. With a roaring audience and one hundred and ten degree heat from the lighting above us, the adrenaline is pumping through my veins, making me feel every cell in my body. Never have I felt so alive, and it’s bittersweet, because tonight is our last show of the tour. Tomorrow, we’re back to the recording studio, to our grass roots, to start jamming out for the next album.
As we join hands as close to the edge of the stage as we can safely, without being pulled down by all of our adoring fans who are all but trampling over one another in an attempt to reach out and touch us, we bow once, twice, and Mike shouts into the mic, “Thank you! Goodnight!”
A lineup of meet and greets are backstage waiting for us, as is Tim, our manager. Len, our road manager, has his hands loaded with towels. He tosses one at each of us, so we can mop our faces and heads off, because it looks like we all just jumped out of the shower. Security is especially tight tonight. Two of our security guards, who are brothers, Ringo and Bongo, we’ve nicknamed them, flank our meet and greets. Equally large with upper arms resembling stovepipes, they stand on either side of the team of fans and reporters who are waiting to have their opportunity with us.
One of the reporters shoves her microphone right in my face, just about nudging my guitar off my shoulder. It pisses me off, so I cut her interview short, giving her ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers, and the boys follow along, having witnessed the sour start. The chick is being a bitch, anyway, asking me stupid questions about my ex-wife Mandy, which is none of her fucking business. I mean, ever since our separation three years ago, these goddamn reporters just can’t get enough of the shit. Sure, they haven’t found another goddamn power couple of prey on yet, especially one as high profile as Mandy and I were, but still.
Being married to a model had its perks, sure, but both of us knew after the first bout of infidelity that we weren’t cut out to be together until death did us part, and we got out before we hated each other. Neither of us was any worse than the other. Mandy, screwing around with all the male models, fitness models, actors, directors, you name it, and me with the groupies, hot fans, and a slew of fellow musicians and business associates. We could both have whoever we wanted, whenever, and it’s a damn shocker that we stayed married for nearly ten years. We were smart to steer clear of starting a family and thank God for that. With her career, Mandy never wanted kids, and I think part of me did, but I digress. Our troubles were deeply routed into our inability to pay less attention to those who stroked our egos and more attention to our vows.
My brother Ken pats me on the back, taking my guitar from me. For all intents and purposes, he’s my right-hand man. He’s the one who taught me how to play guitar, mentored me on chicks, supported me through thick and thin when me and the band climbed our way up the veritable musicland totem pole, and now he follows me all over on tour, filling in where spots need to be filled. He’s even played bass a couple of times when Chris busted his arm last year while we were on tour. Ken went to law school but never finished, choosing partying and chicks over making a living, but he’s a good shit, and without him, I have no idea where I’d be.
“Interview with Entertainment Tonight in room three.” Len calls to us as we wrap up our meet and greets and about a hundred pictures. I started wearing sunglasses if the fans don’t lay off the flashbulbs. Ken’s always got a pair hooked in his shirt, and he throws me a pair if I give him the signal. Tonight, they’re not too bad, so we head into the room where the overly stuffy, pretentious bitch, who I can’t stand, waits for us. She’s wearing the same godawful peach colored jacket with shoulder pads so stiff and tall if she were to turn her head abruptly, she’d knock herself out.
“Jimmy, Mike, Chris, Nick.” She says, pasting on a smile. This woman can’t stand me and the feeling is mutual. There is a clear crush on Mike, though, but Mike always bristles around Katy, the ET witch. “How are you boys doing? That was a great show tonight.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Mike says as we take a seat on the couch. Katy sits in an armchair by the door, and I’d love nothing than to leave the door open and kick her chair, so she’ll fall backward.
Katy once blatantly asked me if I’d screwed around on my model wife. Sure, I’d had a few in me, and I answered. “Sure, yeah, but would you like a list of the dudes she’s fucked with? I can give you them in alphabetical order.” Of course, that segment of the interview ended up on the cutting room floor, but still.
Tim insists that we accept interviews from this chick though, since, according to him there is no such thing as bad press. For a while it was okay, because some other chick was covering our interviews at my request, but then she had a baby and went on maternity leave. Who knows if she’ll ever come back, so we’re stuck with Katy the bitch.
“So, are you boys happy to be finished the tour?” she opens with. A cold beer awaits me on the side table. I pop it open and take a long-awaited pull of it, handing the answering part over to any takers.
Nick takes the bait. “It’s kind of bittersweet.” He answers honestly. God love him. I’d tell her to take a fast flight.
“What do you mean by that?” Katy asks.
I bite my tongue, preventing myself from explaining it to her in the way that I want to.
“Well,” Chris interjects. “As artists, we love both being on tour and performing. Both parts are equally pleasing.”
Nick and Chris clink the beer bottles that I’ve passed them, hoping like hell to piss Katy off in the process. Normally we wouldn’t be so bold to crack them open on camera, but we make an exception here. Part of me thinks that Entertainment Tonight continues to interview us just because we make a point of doing things that we wouldn’t normally do in their presence.
Pissing her off further, ignoring the ‘no smoking’ sign that she’s deliberately sitting under, I light one up, and blow it purposely in her direction. Sometimes I love being an asshole.
“But don’t you miss your family when you’re on the road?” she directs the question to me, poking at the fact that I no longer have a wife to go home to. Newsflash: she hasn’t been my wife for three years. We’ve been on two tours since then. Pay better fucking attention.
“Sure, we miss them.” I say, nearly seething. “But we see them a lot while we’re on the road. And all good things must come to an end.”
She gives me a knowing look. “Interesting choice of words.”
Bitch just can’t let it go, can she. I take the high road. Instead of telling her to shove it I take another sip of beer and another drag of my cigarette. I feel like it’s a duel.
Sensing the growing tension, Mike steps up. “Yeah, we’ve got a lot of new material that we’d like to work on, and some that we were working on with the last album. We’re ready to finish up and cut a new album.”
Growing bored, Katy almost ignores Mike’s valid statement and addresses Nick. “And when should fans be looking for a new album?”
“Depends how long it takes to cut it.” Chris interjects. “It doesn’t take us long, but every album is different.”
“And will this new album have the same feel as the others, or will this one be different?” I don’t like the way she says this. It’s like what we’ve produced so far has been shit.
My eyes roll before I can stop them. “Look, all our albums have been different. It’s just what inspires us as we’re recording and jamming.”
“And do you boys have any plans to take some time off?” Katy asks, and I’m relieved that she’s finally asking a non-leading question.
“I might head off somewhere, but I’m not sure yet.” Nick answers honestly. “Depends how long it takes to c
“One last question.” Katy says, raising her index finger. This ought to be good. She’s never announced her last question before. I’m almost in suspense. The beer and cigarette have calmed me slightly, but I’ll still stop at nothing to tame the bitch if needed. “Are any of you in any special relationships? Fans want to know.”
“That’s rich.” I mutter, pretending to wipe my mouth with my hand.
We’re all single. Both Mike and I are the only two who were married. That is public knowledge. Why she’s asking such a stupid question is beyond me, and why she’s framing it like she’s doing our fans a favor is ludicrous. Like she takes polls before conducting interviews. Please.
“Nope.” Mike purses his lips together. “We’re all too busy for relationships.”
Somehow, she’s pleased with his response. The satisfied grin on her face is slappable. “Thanks, boys. Good luck with the next album.” She comments. We rise and shake her hand, good-naturedly. Although I have to stop myself from spitting on my palm first.
The second we walk out the door, I’m shaking my head.
“That went well.” Nick says blandly.
We head into a room where Tim awaits us. I slam the door in my wake, once all the guys are inside. “What the fuck was that!” I shout. “I don’t ever want to do an interview with that bitch again!”
“Take it easy, Jimmy.” Mike says, raising a hand. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“What happened…did she start asking you questions about Mandy again?” Tim asks, almost humored.
“She might as well have.” I say. “Do me a favor and call up Tracy. Tell her to nix any further ET interviews, at least with that douche for brains.”
Tim raises a hand. “Easy, Jimmy. You know we can’t do that.” He exhales. “Besides…Tracy quit.”
Tracy is our assistant. She works at the recording studio I have at my house. Answering phones, calling in techs, ordering supplies, she does it all. We hired her on Tim’s advice a year ago. Before that we did all that shit. Tracy’s a serious asset, albeit with a slight chip on her shoulder. Any time we didn’t play by the rules, she bristled and would suddenly come down with the flu. Not to mention, the woman never smiled. Nonetheless, I could look the other way when she soured on certain matters, just so I didn’t have to go back to doing all the legwork that she did. “What? She fucking quit? Why?”
“It wasn’t anything personal, man.” Tim states. “She was working towards her accounting designation. She got it and moved on. I knew that she was looking, I just didn’t say anything. I didn’t want your attention divided.”
“Well, shit.” Mike sputters.
“Don’t worry. I put an ad in the paper.” Tim advises. “I’ve got an interview lined up for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll table it, so you boys don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“Tomorrow?” I’m flabbergasted.
“Yeah. We catch a flight out of here in a couple of hours, Jimmy. It’s no problem.”
When things move too quickly, my nerves are shot. Sitting down next to Tim, I rake a hand through my hair. “I need a break, man. This is the last thing I needed to hear.” My point is valid. The recording studio is my turf. The boys can easily walk away from it, but it’s part of my address.
“Not to worry, man.” Nick says. “I’ll camp out in the recording studio until we get this sorted out.”
I pat him on the back. “Thanks, man.” I’m only half impressed. A sinking feeling comes into my gut. Somehow, I feel like the worst is yet to come. And as we’re pulling our shit together, stuffing clothes and gear into suitcases, watching roadies scramble to pack our equipment, the feeling gets worse. Sensing my nerves, Mike orders me a double scotch on the plane ride home.
Mixing beer with scotch is never a good idea, but I digress. The beer buzz has worn off, and I can feel my chest tightening. Tim sits in the seat on the other side of me, nursing a double scotch, too, and I forget that we’re all in this together. As much as I’m feeling anxious, all of us probably are.
“So you think this chick you’re interviewing tomorrow is going to fit the bill?” I ask.
“Assuming it’s a chick.” Mike interjects.
“Yeah. Her name is Cindy.” Tim says after sipping his scotch. “She’s actually perfect for the job. She’s got a bunch of experience but isn’t looking for anything too heavy, which is exactly what we want.”
“Yeah, but is she cool with being there at weird hours some days?” I ask.
“I didn’t speak with her long on the phone when I set up the interview.” Tim explains. “But the job description stated that.” He downs the rest of his scotch and pats my hand. “Don’t sweat it, Jimmy. If she’s not the one I’ve got more resumes to look through.”
“Does she know that she’s helping out with a band?” Mike asks. Tracy was a friend of a friend who was looking for work at the right time. It was never an issue that she would be working for us, but this, this I worry about.
“Yeah, I don’t want a fan working for us, you know? That might complicate things.” I state.
“I think that it’s okay if they like the music.” Tim argues good-naturedly. “I mean, think about it if it’s someone who can’t stand you guys? That would pose way more of a problem.”
“He’s got a point there, Jimmy.” Mike says.
I trust Tim implicitly. He’s been our manager since day one, and he’s the only one who is physically present for just about everything. That is unheard of in this industry. Managers are usually there when needed and that’s it, but Tim is in a class all his own. Like my brother Ken, Tim is like a permanent fixture in this band. Even Len, our road manager, can’t beat the presence that Tim has. I turn sideways so I can see Len, Chris and Nick in the seats behind us. “What do you guys think of hiring a fan to do Tracy’s job? That cool with you?”
“She a fan?” Nick asks.
“We don’t know yet, but she may be.” Mike answers.
Nick shrugs. “I’m cool with it. That would certainly make it easier to bang her.” he says flippantly.
I smile but shake my head. None of us would dream of that with Tracy. She’d pound the first one to touch her. I can hear Tim chuckling, covering his face at Nick’s comment. “I’ll ship you out a groupie, okay?”
“Fine. Whatever.” Nick waves.
The plane lands and we take a limo, going our separate ways. I give Tim a bear hug before he leaves, as I always do, and the rest of the guys feign jealousy. We end up all giving bear hugs before heading into our airport limos to go home. Ken comes with me, since we share a five thousand square foot abode in Southern California, this after my divorce and building my recording studio, and the setup works for us, so we don’t change it. In the limo on the way home, I catch Ken drifting off to sleep. It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning, but for some reason I’m wide awake. That unsettling feeling still lays in my gut. I can’t shake it. Even with the beer buzz and scotch.
Once we arrive home, Ken hits the hay while I stay up, waiting for our luggage to arrive, and I roll a massive joint, nursing it on my second-floor balcony that overlooks a large green area. With the mellow numbness, I answer the door, accepting our belongings from the road, and attempt to get some sleep. An hour later, I’m still too revved up for shuteye, so I start unpacking my things, and then Ken’s things, and as the sun starts to peak out from the horizon, the anxiety is subdued enough that my eyes finally feel heavy as I sit on the couch, strumming my guitar.
In my sleep, I hear my phone ringing in the background. Can’t figure out if it’s a dream or not, but when I’m awakened a few minutes later by Ken nudging me on the shoulder, I know it was reality. The look on Ken’s face is telling. Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong. His skin looks pale and pasty, when he’s usually flushed with energy. Standing in his boxer shorts over me, his face is grave.
“What’s going on?” I ask, lifting my head off the back of the couch.
For the first time in my life, even after my brother suffered a serious bike accident, painfully breaking his shin through the skin, even after our parents kicked us both out because we refused to go to college or get a job, and even after my brother watched my ex-wife Mandy tear me to pieces with a lawsuit, I watch Ken, the most important person in my life, break down into tears.
