“Have you heard from your dad?” Owen asked Adam.
“Yeah. He bitched me out on the phone less than an hour ago.”
“Still in the hospital?”
Adam nodded. “And apparently they don’t subscribe to his favorite TV channel.”
“Well, fuck, Adam, you don’t expect him to watch the Disney Channel, do you?” Owen said.
“That’s the channel he was bitching about. Can’t miss Hannah Montana.”
Owen jerked back in surprise. “No shit?”
“Shit no,” Adam said. “I swear, Owen Mitchell is a synonym for gullible.”
“Adam Taylor is a synonym for asshole,” Owen countered.
“Gabriel Banner is a synonym for let’s get the fuck on the stage,” Gabe said. “Isn’t it already after nine?”
Owen turned to watch the crew standing around a bank of amplifiers on the stage. The head of their road crew, Jack, was squeezed behind the sound equipment, wiggling wires and garbling swear words around the penlight he held between his teeth. Owen moved closer and waved down one of the onlookers.
“What’s the hold-up?” he asked.
“One of the new guys caught a cord with his foot and loosened some cables. Jack is fixing it.”
“And he needs an audience? None of you has anything better to do five minutes after the show was supposed to start?”
The group scattered. In his earpiece, Owen heard Cash, their soundboard operator, say, “That’s got it, Jack. Owen, we’re ready when you are.”
Owen was always ready to be on stage. He loved that he got to start every show—a few precious seconds to have twelve thousand screaming fans all to himself. Not many bassists got to stand in the limelight.
He gave the rest of the band the thumbs-up to let them know he was starting and took the steps up to the edge of the stage. In the near darkness, Gabe hurried to settle behind his massive drum kit, careful not to make a sound by bumping a cymbal with those long limbs of his. As soon as he collected his sticks, Owen began his bass riff. The crowd roared and whistled as the first sound thrummed. The curtain dropped and a blinding white light lit Owen from above as he sauntered across the stage playing the repetitive bass line of “Darker.” He gave no indication that a surge of adrenaline had his heart galloping a mile a minute as he slowly made his way toward center stage. Owen lived for this shit. He couldn’t believe this was his job. For the rest of his life, Owen would worship at the altar of rock god Kellen Jamison for sending him down the path of wickedness. Kelly had been the one who’d forced Owen to learn to play guitar in an effort to get him laid in high school. It hadn’t worked then—chubby bassists didn’t get the girls—but it worked like a charm now.
The crowd got louder and louder as Owen pretended to ignore them. When he reached his target—a white X taped at the exact center of the stage floor—Gabe entered the song with a wickedly rapid drum progression. Owen pivoted, beamed a smile at the crowd, and dashed toward the audience as the rest of the band entered the stage and the song.
The entire band was pumped tonight, which guaranteed an amazing performance. Shade was in a great mood and joked around with the audience and with Adam. The pair had talked out some of their problems that morning, but Owen had had no idea that a simple conversation would make such a noticeable difference in the feel of the show. Owen and Kelly always had a great time onstage; they were completely relaxed in each other’s company and loved hamming it up for the crowd. Shade and Adam, on the other hand, had spent the last couple of years acting as if they were at war with one another both onstage and off. Owen couldn’t believe how much the atmosphere had changed overnight.
Between “Going Down” and “Heaven to Pay,” Owen slipped into the wings and grabbed a bottle of water from a roadie. He chugged the cool fluid while Shade told the crowd a story about their lead guitarist falling off the stage in New Jersey.
“Face planted right on the cement,” Shade said, slapping one palm against the other. “Wham!”
“It wasn’t funny,” Adam said. “I almost broke my neck.” But he didn’t sound angry about Shade’s teasing.
Owen was grateful Adam had regained his sense of humor. His short fuse was a liability.
“Luckily, I was drunk enough that I didn’t feel a thing,” Adam said.
“Until the next morning,” Shade said.
“I can’t believe how well they’re getting along,” Kelly said to Owen as he sipped from his water bottle. “Calm before the storm?”
“Maybe. I keep waiting for one or the other to explode.”
“Shade’s been acting happy all day,” Jack said. “It’s just not right.” He took the empty water bottles from Owen and Kelly.
“You can blame that on his bedmate last night,” Owen said, grinning. “She must have a magic vagina.”
“I don’t care if it shoots glitter and rainbows,” Kelly said. “That relationship can only end in disaster. We’d better enjoy this while it lasts.”
As the pair returned to the front of the stage, Shade asked, “Did you have a nice break?”
“No,” Owen said. Shade’s microphone was close enough that it picked up his words and they were broadcast through the stadium. “I was hoping the clear stuff in my bottle was vodka, but it was only water.”
“Mine had vodka,” Kelly said. “The crew has seen you drunk, Tags. Not something they want to see again.”
“I’m a fun drunk,” Owen said. “Everyone loves to hang around when I’m drunk.”
“Yeah,” Kelly said, “everyone who wears a skirt and wants it up around their waist while you go down loves to hang around when you’re drunk.” He rolled his eyes.
Feminine approval roared from the crowd.
“If it bothers you so much, stop wearing skirts, Cuff,” Owen said.
The crowd’s laughter egged them on.
“It’s called a kilt. And how else am I supposed to show off my legs?” Kelly asked.
“Kilts don’t come in floral patterns.”
“Okay,” Shade said, “that’s enough out of you two. This isn’t open mic night.”
“These people came to hear music, not your lame jokes,” Adam said.
Since Gabe didn’t have a live mic, he played a mini drum solo to enter his opinion on the matter. Owen and Kelly kept their jokes to themselves for the remainder of the show, but they still managed to have fun.
And the crowd responded, stomping on the floor and thrusting their fists into the air.
“I’m heading for the shower,” Owen said after the encore. He handed off his bass to one of the road crew and looked at Kelly expectantly.
“I’ll join you,” Kelly said. “I’m drenched.”
“Last chance for you pussy-whipped disgraces to join us tonight at Tony’s new club,” Owen said, looking to his other three band mates.
“Not happening, Owen,” Shade said. “Have a good time.”
“I’ll have a good enough time for the three of you,” Owen said. He glanced at Kelly, knowing he probably wouldn’t utilize the club to its fullest capabilities. “For all five of us,” he said under his breath. He vowed never to fall hard for a woman. Monogamy. Where was the fun in that?
A pair of hands appeared over Shade’s sunglasses. “Guess who,” a soft, sultry voice said from behind him.
Shade’s hands reached back and began to explore the feminine body at his back. “I know these tits,” he said, a huge smile stretching across his face.
“Are you sure?”
Owen cocked his head to the side, and his suspicions were validated. What in the fuck was she doing here? Amanda made Shade happy—hell, that was obvious. But she was trouble for him. Big trouble.