Fighting Weight Page 9

  Luckily, I happened to walk backstage one night and caught Ariel fucking Brad, our former manager, up against a stack of old Marshall speakers. Apparently, Brad had been offering Ariel his “connections” in the modelling world; seemed to me he was offering up his cock, but whatever. The whole thing was bullshit. And I’ll never be stupid enough to risk my success over someone who’s willing to use me to get what they want in this life again.

  So now I don’t set myself up for more than it being just a good time. I’m upfront and honest, always letting them know that I’m only ever looking to fuck. I’m Slater-Fucking-Jenkins, frontman of the rock band Sicken Union for Chrissakes. We’re up for a Grammy this year, and we’ve just come off a sold-out world tour, so the last thing I’m looking for right now is getting all tangled up with love, something I’m more than positive doesn’t exist anyway.

  Standing under the spray, washing my face, I hear a deep laugh. I knew he’d be here early to make sure I was ready.

  “You better be in there—and alone—Jenkins. We gotta bounce,” Scott says, pounding on the bathroom door.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fucking coming.”

  “Really? All it took was my voice? Damn, I know I’m sexy, but—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I cut him off. “I’ll be down in five, ya prick.”

  I chuckle, reaching for a towel after shutting the shower off.

  “You walked into that one, dude,” he calls. “I shoulda done a Facebook Live. The fans would have loved hearing me making you come.” I can hear his laughter fading as he walks away.

  Touché, asshole.

  15

  Alina

  “You seriously think you have a shot?” Dustin says, hiding a scoff behind the question, his brown eyes peering at me incredulously over the rim of his beer glass. I can’t believe he expects me to answer this.

  “I do,” I say, reaching for my water. “I think we have as much chance as any other band out there.” I take a sip, a bit defensively. We’re sitting in a corner booth at Carbon Bar, where—after working at the salon for the last eight hours and getting the news—is the last place I want to be tonight. I’d really rather be with my girls right now, but I felt guilty for blowing Dustin off the other day, so here I am.

  On a date with Dustin.

  Just he and I, while the girls have headed a few blocks down to enjoy a few celebratory drinks without me. And now I’m stuck with Dustin’s suddenly lacklustre attitude, which is starting to ruin the amazing high I’ve had all afternoon. I’m thinking this wasn’t such a good idea. My hackles go up at his disbelieving tone, and I guess it’s no wonder why I’ve been questioning my feelings for him. Where did the nice, supportive guy he was at the start of our relationship go? And more to the point, why do I feel that this is the type of relationship I deserve?

  I just finished telling Dustin about the phone call with Tommy and about our chance to audition, the details of the tour, how excited we all are, and what song we’re going to play. And he says that? What an asshole.

  I smile, despite my thoughts. God, Paisley and I had gone crazy, jumping up and down in the middle of the salon like two loons. I haven’t felt a rush like that in so long. Maybe Dustin’s just jealous? No, it couldn’t be that…

  “Relax, babe,” he says. “I’m not saying ya don’t have a chance. I’m just not so sure you guys are cut out for an eight-week tour with so many big names. I mean, you’re still lagging on your legato skills, and Roxie needs better timing from what I saw the last time you played at Fyst.”

  I sit, stunned at his admission. Here I thought he thought we were good, that he was the supportive type? I figured he’d be excited for us, sing our praises, and help soothe my already-worried and stressed mind. Instead, I feel shame at his words, deflated. I’d almost convinced myself we were good enough. That maybe, for once, I was good enough. A sense of embarrassment washes over me for being so excited, for actually thinking we stood a chance.

  Having Dustin critique my playing is fucking with me. It’s the one thing I had complete confidence in, and now he’s saying it’s lacking, and in one of the most important aspects for a lead guitarist. I mean, I’d always thought my legato skills were pretty on point. I string the notes together so fluidly, so smoothly, and without any audible gaps…but now, here sits my so-called boyfriend getting all up in my head, forcing me to wonder if what he’s saying is true.

  “Don’t be pissed, babe. I’m sure you’ll get better over time. And there’ll be other chances. Not this big, but we can practice together.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” is all I can muster as the server places my BLT and Dustin’s burger on the table. Without hesitating, I reach for a fry and stuff it in my mouth.

  “Maybe you guys should just cancel? Or—if you’re gonna chance it—definitely rehearse a ton this week. I mean, you don’t want to look like fools in front of Sicken Union.”

  He’s right, I don’t, and with my luck, that’s exactly what would happen: I’ll fall down on the job and make us all look and sound horrible. Maybe I should head over and tell the girls I can’t do this?

  Reaching under the table, I wrap my fingers around my wrist. A sudden urge to call the server back and order the burger special, a prime rib dinner, and chocolate-fudge cake for dessert rushes through me like a wave, crashing straight through my resolve.

  No. I’m better than Her. I can do this. We can do this. I know it’s our time.

  “You’re right. I’ll practice. I’ll see if I can get some one-on-one time with Travis,” I say, before retreating back into my thoughts, trying to tamp down not only Her voice, but now also Dustin’s negativity, too. But I will not let either of them take this from me.

  Yeah, I’ll call Travis. Good idea. I feel a sense of relief. Travis is my guitar instructor over at the conservatory where I took lessons once the band started to get more serious. I wanted someone I could learn some real techniques from, rather than solely relying on my natural abilities.

  “Good call,” says Dustin, around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “Last thing you need is any pressure on you, eh?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, “I definitely don’t want to feel I’ve let them down.”

  “Maybe call Travis now, babe. Sooner the better,” he smiles, as if what he’s saying isn’t breaking my spirit.

  You’ll never be enough.

  God, he’s right. I need to call Travis immediately. I’m not going to be able to pull this off; I’m not a strong enough player, am I? I’m going to end up letting the girls down. I stuff a few more fries in my mouth as I sit silently, putting a plan into place.

  “Babe, don’t eat all those fries. Don’t be that chick who stress eats. I like your ass the way it is now; that shit’ll go right down below,” Dustin says, winking as he reaches over and steals a handful of fries from my plate. “You look fucking adorable, all pissy-faced like that. Aw, does my girl need some lovin’ from her man now?”

  No.

  Hell, no.

  She needs the damn server!

  After dinner, I kissed Dustin goodnight, saying I was exhausted and needed to get a good night’s rest with all the rehearsing we’d be doing this week. He’d agreed, and said he’d see me Saturday night to celebrate. He wished us luck, and managed to give me what seemed like a heartfelt apology. He even admitted he could be a real ass sometimes, and wants to make it up to me. So maybe there’s hope for us yet? Even if he is a little mix of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

  Thankfully, later that night as I sit in front of the TV reading a couple of texts from the people that seem to have an innate ability to reach out when I need them the most—Paisley and Lucky—I’m able to shut Her out from creeping back into my head. So, instead of eating the cupboards bare like She wants me to, I sit and chat with Lucky—who’s a few hours away in Kingston at the Canadian Forces base, working on a job until tomorrow—and then Paisley. Somehow, they both manage to convince me that Happenstance is going to kick ass on Saturday. They each simultaneously
help to rebuild my confidence brick by brick by reminding me how talented a guitarist I really am, until I almost believe them.

  Dustin’s negativity was also drowned by Travis, who texted me back just as I was getting ready for bed. Resting against my headboard, I sit grinning, reading and re-reading his response to the messages I texted him earlier when I was in a panic.

  Travis: Girl, please! The audition’s so in the bag, it’s not funny. And, please, your transitions are smooth as can be. I should be paying you for lessons. You don’t need me, Ali, but I’ll be around every night this week if you want to stop by and jam.

  Me: Thx, Trav. I needed that.

  Travis: You just need to believe in yourself, like the rest of us do.

  Me: See you tomorrow night?

  Travis: I figured. LOL

  16

  Slater

  “Seriously, this is painful. The only thing missing is my gong button, or whatever that old program had to make the shitshow stop,” I grumble, shooting disapproving daggers Tommy’s way. I tap my pen to a new beat I’m creating against the wooden tabletop, because what I’m hearing onstage right now is beyond trash.

  “Relax,” my brother Fife chuckles beside me. “They’re not that bad. Only four more acts to go. Then we can bounce and find you some pussy for tonight. I know you’re going through withdrawal. We know how hard it was for you waking up to your palm in the morning.”

  “Right, right. Anyway, of course this sad excuse for music doesn’t bother you ’cause you’re a tone deaf motherfucker who wouldn’t know a good sound if it smacked you in the face, so you don’t get a say,” I deadpan, as the last band, Solitude, thanks us for the opportunity to audition for us before leaving the stage. Good riddance.

  “Fuck off, Slate. You know they weren’t that bad,” Rain pipes in. “Besides, did you see the tits on that drummer? I could definitely get used to watching those beauties bounce with each crescendo and comping beat she adds,” he smirks, raising his brows.

  “And here I thought I was the pig…” I shake my head. “They’re a no, Tommy,” I say, despite Rain’s compelling plea.

  “Okay, they’re out,” Tommy says, crossing Solitude’s name off the big white board we’ve got the bands listed on. Out of the fourteen bands we’ve heard already, there are only four we’ve agreed might be possibilities.

  “Tommy, who’s next?” Scott, our bassist, asks, placing a beer in front of me as if he knows I’ll need one if I gotta sit through this bullshit much longer. The torture show began at nine this morning, and if we don’t find another kickass band to fill the bill, we could be sitting here at The Escape Room for another few hours, watching a parade of bands until we all agree. And I’d rather not.

  “Next up is Stone Owl, and then Happenstance,” Tommy announces. “That’s the band I was telling you guys about. The all-girl band, the one I think would be perfect for the tour,” he says. He signals to Murdock, our head roadie, to bring in Stone Owl. His enthusiasm for Happenstance has me rolling my eyes. Guy’s got another thing coming if he thinks we’re picking some band just cause he’s banging one of the chicks’ sisters.

  “All right, let’s get this shit done. I got a good feeling about these two bands,” Zack, our lead guitarist, says, pulling up a chair close to the stage.

  “Hi, I’m Kyle, and we’re Stone Owl.” I look up and see some preppy-looking kid smiling a toothy college-boy grin that kind that exudes way too much confidence, as if the kid thinks they’ve got this in the bag.

  “Here we fucking go,” I lean into Fife, “a hundred bucks says they suck ass.”

  “Ten to one, they’re solid,” he nods. A cocky smile etches his face, and his brown eyes beam as if he knows something I don’t, as if he’s listened to more of their demo than the rest of us.

  Betting on bands like this is something we’ve done for years. It’s our version of the horse races, only we aren’t privy to a bunch of stats and shit. The only thing we’ve got to go on is the two or three minutes of their demo we’ve heard. It literally takes me all of twenty, maybe thirty, seconds of play for me to tell if I’m going to like a band or not. And I remember these guys; I wasn’t impressed then, and I’m sure as shit not impressed at all now, seeing this walking Gap ad of a band standing in front of me. I’m a shoo-in to win, so I accept the ten-to-one odds. “You’re on, asshole.”

  I clap Fife’s back as the blonde drummer taps out his count, giving way to a horrible guitar riff that encompasses a whole lot of speed, but absolutely no control. The racket drifting in the air sounds like strings breaking (and not in a good way), rather than the echoes of precision and harmonized picking we all expect to hear at this level.

  After less than a minute, even Fife can’t stand it anymore. He shakes his head and waves both arms to shut Stone Owl down.

  “And another one bites the dust. Even I have to admit that was brutal,” Zack says, wiggling his finger in his ear, trying to dig out the last of the shrieking feedback from the amp as Tommy deals with the prissy boy band who’s bitching about not getting a fair chance.

  “And that’s how it’s done,” I gloat. I look to Fife and give him the universal money gesture by rubbing my thumb against my index and middle fingers.

  “Such an asshole,” he shakes his head. “Double or nothing on this chick band Tommy thinks we’ll love?” The dry-erase marker squeaks as Tommy draws a line through “Stone Owl” on the board.

  “You’re on. You always were a glutton for punishment,” I say, reaching for my beer and taking a long-ass pull, “easiest money I’m ever going to make.” I grin as I hear Tommy calling in the ladies of Happenstance to set up.

  And that’s when it happens. My eyes drift up to the stage, and my gaze lands on a vision so stunning my jaw drops. Gone are my smart-assed comments, my need to place bets and rib Tommy for his blatant attempts at nepotism. Instead, I’m stunned into silence as I watch a woman strap a red-and-white, limited-edition Jimi Hendrix Monterey Fender Stratocaster with some girlie designs along the front, over her shoulder. A grin crosses my face when she gives an unsure, yet sexy, nod to a pretty girl standing at the mic. My eyes drift down the body behind that guitar with a slow, leisurely regard as pure, unadulterated appreciation takes over.

  I can hear Fife spewing shit about our bet, but it falls on deaf ears, and I seem to have developed tunnel vision. She’s short, maybe 5’3” to my 6’3”, but she’s got legs for days from what I can see as my eyes trail up and down, taking in her green Doc Martens boots, and skinny black jeans, taking in shapely legs I know would feel tight and strong wrapped around me. Shifting my gaze higher, I take in her black Beatles T-shirt, noticing how she’s hiding what the other members seem to be flaunting in their tight-as-fuck tanks, which leave almost nothing to the imagination. Yet, I’m pretty sure she’s stacked with what I’d bet are a set of pretty amazing round and perky tits, judging from the way John’s and Ringo’s heads are bulging in all the right places. My ears perk up as she begins strumming flawlessly, the sound like rich, liquid silver.

  Her black hair cascades down over her face as her shoulders twitch with each stroke of her hand along the chords, almost hiding her gleaming ultramarine eyes. A desperation unlike anything I’ve ever felt before starts to consume me. I need her to move her hair so I can see her face, to look my way, to give me a sign she’s seeing me, too. It’s a foreign feeling, one that’s throwing me completely off kilter. I notice my bandmates nodding, and can hear the guys complimenting her sound as she plays a complicated rhythm, one they joke Zack might even have trouble pulling off. But I don’t give any fucks, I only have eyes for her. I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to a woman before. This girl is rendering me pathetic with her stage presence. I’m about to say something and make an utter dick of myself, but thankfully the bang of the drums and electric guitar quickly drown out our voices, as this understated beauty takes the lead once again in producing a sound so fucking fantastic, it blows my mind. The beats all come together, mes
hing; one instrument bleeding into the other, and then the sweet sound of the vocals start, perfecting the entire package that sits in front of us.

  “They’re fucking aces, Slate.” Rain bumps my shoulder.

  “Fuck me, dude, they’re killer,” Scott adds, as if I didn’t already know.

  “What’s wrong, buttercup? Cat got your tongue?” Tommy leans close to my ear, and I say nothing. It isn’t just Happenstance’s sound that has me riveted and rooted in place, it’s her. The girl with the dark hair, blue eyes, and flawless skin, who takes my breath away like a sucker punch to the gut.

  I need to know who she is.

  I need Happenstance on my tour.

  17

  Alina

  “Take that shirt off, Alina. I want to see all of you,” Dustin’s gravelly voice whispers in my ear.

  Just outside the door of Roxie’s guest bedroom, a pre-celebration party is in full swing as everyone waits to hear from Tommy about whether or not Happenstance will be going along on the Consequence of Sound Tour.

  Instantly, I retreat into myself instead of giving in to Dustin.

  He’s going to see your flab.

  He’ll regret wasting his time on you.

  You aren’t enough for a man like Dustin.

  Instead of feeling sexy and wanted and desirable, I give in to Her. I give in to the inner darkness, self-loathing, and self-disgust, a place I’ve tried to stop my mind from going for over a year now. A place I’ve fought and lost the battle against myself so many times, but felt that I was finally conquering.