Manaconda (Hammered #1)(16)

Knowing she was right there and that I couldn’t look at her, couldn’t touch her.

The damage I’d done was already epic. But f*ck me, I wanted her. More than I’d wanted anything in a long damn time.

I backed up and turned to face Indie.

“Hunter…”

I held my hand up. No way could I get into it with her. I was a f*ckup more than half the time lately. This certainly didn’t help my cause. Kenny’s low laughter chased me down the labyrinth of stairs to the stage waiting for me. I firmly pushed my reactions to her to the back of my mind.

It was time to become the front man my band needed, not the hormonally-imbalanced walking cock that I’d become the last few hours.

I strode into the shared dressing room and shucked my shirt, hat, and simple belt in favor of a black tank and a studded belt with a wide buckle that fit squarely above my zipper like a damn homing beacon. What the fans wanted. What the stage needed me to be. The sex symbol, the seducer, the voice.

I dug my ring out of my pocket. The familiar weight of the heavy platinum setting meant “go-time”.

Some people had rituals. I had a prop ring from our very first video fourteen years ago. It was black onyx with a bold platinum J in the center. The setting was hefty and withstood all the abuse I gave it on stage. Whacking it against drum kits, microphones and their stands, guitars, the damn ground—it always survived.

I fisted my hands, and the ring fell into the grooves of my forefinger where I habitually wore it. Like a switch, focus pushed out the disgust from the magazine, as well as my f*ckall attitude. Kenny and her distracting mouth was locked in a little box at the back of my mind. A flood of endorphins relaxed my aching shoulders and neck.

The outer gathering room was empty. Everyone else was on stage.

Here and now it wasn’t about me. The murmurs of the crowd, the hum of the amps, the pulse of Wyatt’s kick drum drove me from the room and to the ornate stage with its bordello red curtains.

I nodded to Wyatt. His kick drum was the heartbeat to get the crowd riled up. Owen’s bass was the hum that slid out into the crowd like greedy fingers looking for capitulation.

No matter how much we bitched at each other, the stage transformed us into one unit. Owen and Wyatt were my lifeline, Keys was the heart, Zach and Bats were the magic. It’s how it always was. The one constant in my life was my band.

Bats leaned against my shoulder, his Gibson hanging just shy of his knees. “Nice of you to join us.”

I grabbed my microphone, then hooked my arm around his neck. With just one look, he knew that I was changing up the standard set list. His dark eyes flashed the devil as his fingers climbed up the fret board.

He knew me.

Knew what a crowd needed.

Tonight wasn’t for the tried and true. Tonight was to show our fans what we’d been brewing for the last five months. We’d teased them with snippets of songs via Instagram’s fifteen-second rule. Our album had been released in puzzle pieces to create buzz. Everything had come down to this. The album was a taste, but live was where we shined. “Cathedrals” was our first single.

Dex hadn’t agreed with our decision. He wanted us to go with one of our more commercial songs, but Donovan Lewis had backed us up. He was the only reason I’d pushed for a move of record company.

We’d been ready to go indie with all the restrictions we’d found in the business lately. The only real reason we’d wavered about going indie had been the distribution angle, but that wasn’t really a factor anymore. Everyone found their music online these days. What mattered was marketing and shows.

Ripper Records let us shine. I was determined to show Donovan that his belief in an album that might be too risky in the current climate was worth the effort. That we were worth the effort.

That all the months of work weren’t going to be derailed because of the outline of my cock on the front of a goddamn magazine.

Keys repeated the same notes again and again as Zach and his Gibson blended seamlessly with Bats until a hush fell over the crowd. The intro had been practiced until fingers were numb and bleeding. We’d rented out a warehouse to play and play until everything was smooth. Perfect. Lined up and as natural as breathing. Wyatt’s drums went from a heartbeat to a slow build.

I slipped away from Bats and prowled the stage with my eyes on my feet. Scarred shitkickers with frayed laces, faded wood slats that had seen a million shows, markers for cords and foot pedals blurred in my periphery.

I followed the track of the song as the guitars soared and I finally landed in the center of the stage. I looked out and curled my fingers tighter around the mic. My voice was strong and the words were true, their meaning echoed in the faces of the fans.

Not just at a show.

Not texting and talking amongst themselves because the song was new. They were the deathblows that every musician had to fight against. No, they were with me—with us.

As Bats ripped over his strings and Zach layered in more grit and passion, my vocals roughened with the sweet bliss of a remembered moment in time. I growled out the lyrics I’d labored over for months.

Loss of faith. Hate. Love denied.

The shadows and decay of emotions that had been hidden under the guise of glamour and fame. I’d allowed myself to tap into all of them for “Cathedrals”. The underbelly of loneliness under the smiles.

I arched back as Wyatt’s drums provided a jackhammer beat to the slashing chords, and I screamed out my need for something more. I landed on my knees as the song spiraled back down to soft chords and the faint keystrokes of the piano.