The Daymakers, page 14
She wasn’t wrong. Royal deserved his moniker. He’d held court over the cafeteria every day, a whole sea of sycophants trying to get closer to him and therefore his dad. In a world of banker brats and minor royalty, Royal had one thing that most of them wanted badly: celebrity status.
I suspected he’d been drawn to me because I legit didn’t give a fuck who he was. I had seen what celebrity could produce, and it wasn’t something I wanted for my life.
Thoughts of my parents dragged the rage I felt about my childhood to the surface. I took some deep breaths to push it back down, into the little box where it belonged. I wasn’t that rejected little kid anymore. I wasn’t rattling around a mansion with an old man who hated me and parents who pretended I didn’t exist.
I had a family now, people who loved me, in the three guys in this room and Shep. I didn’t need anyone else.
I tuned back in to hear Knight answering her. “Oh, Royal was popular all right. He got his dick sucked so many times in boarding school, it’s a wonder it hasn’t been worn down to a nub.” He chewed his lip. He clearly wanted to say more, but held it back. We could only give her the vague backstory we told everyone. We met in school, started a band in Poet’s garage, and that was it.
We couldn’t say Royal’s dad was a Rock & Roll Hall of Fame member.
We couldn’t say Knight’s parents were a famous actor and actress from the seventies.
We definitely couldn’t tell her that Poet’s dad had been a famous Formula One racer.
I never wanted her to know that I was the heir to a multi-million dollar trust fund fuelled by a meat-packing and luxury cosmetics company.
To her and the rest of the world, our friendship didn’t exist. To the rest of the world, we were Royal, Knight, Poet and Hero. The people we were before, and would be after, were ghosts until we were done with The Daymakers.
We all needed to remember that this wasn’t a fairytale. The pauper couldn’t get the prince. The ghost can’t keep the girl in the end.
But as I watched her laugh while Knight told her a highly edited story about Poet stumbling in on Royal in the bathroom writing a teacher’s phone number on the toilet door, promising a “good time,” I found myself resenting my own advice.
TWENTY-ONE
CHARLOTTE
After the night in the hotel, eating pizza and pretending we were actually friends, I didn’t see any of the guys for two days. They had a bunch of promotional stuff, including nightclub visits, intimate jam sessions for some charity, and morning show appearances.
I didn’t really mind. The book nooks I’d ordered had arrived overnight, and I spent hours stooped over the small desk in the corner of my hotel room, patiently putting one together.
Patience was something I had. Poet also bought me his favorite fantasy series, and I was slowly binge-reading it. He insisted that I text him my blow-by-blow thoughts, and we’d been discussing different plot points.
It was nice having a friend, and I realized that I’d been missing uncomplicated friendships for so long. I’d never gotten close to anyone in school, because the whole town knew my dad cooked meth. Obviously, I hadn’t realized that everyone knew until high school, but I never would have invited anyone over to my house to play anyway. Embarrassment wasn’t something you grew out of when your dad was a bad guy.
Knight had created a group chat with the band and Shep, and added me in. It was reasonably quiet, but I appreciated the fact they were trying to make me feel less lonely, especially Knight and Poet.
Hero was standoffish, but pleasant enough. Royal was a dick, but I kind of liked that. I liked butting heads with him, and I suspected he did too. I would never admit that to the asshole, though.
The night of the Phoenix show came around all too fast, and soon I had to pack up my hotel room to move back onto the tour bus. I’d enjoyed the small reprieve of having my own space, but the trip from Phoenix to San Antonio was a long one, so we’d be on the tour bus for at least two days, probably more. There were three shows back to back in San Antonio, so at least we’d be there for a while. Shep had told me to leave my bags in my room, and a bellhop would have them shipped back to the arena.
Standing in the bathroom, I looked down at my outfit. I had sheer black tights under my cut-off shorts, chunky boots and my oversize The Daymakers shirt, tied with a hair tie at the back and tucked up into my bra. Dark red lipstick looked like blood on my lips.
The mask went back on, and I stepped back to look at myself. I’d transformed myself, and that would have to do. Grabbing my rucksack, I filled it up with what I could, leaving everything else packed in the tiny carry-on size suitcase.
A knock on my door told me I was out of time to second-guess my outfit. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I answered the door. Shep stood there, looking harried. His eyes took me in, and I could see them darken. I watched his throat bob, wondering if he was remembering our kiss too. He’d distanced himself since then, and I’d let him. I was already in enough trouble without falling for the forbidden fruit.
“Ready?”
I nodded, doing one more visual sweep of the room, before stepping out and handing him my room key. He led me back up to the guys’ room silently, and the urge to make small talk rode me hard.
But I didn’t. Shep was comfortable in the silence, and I wouldn’t betray my nerves by being the one to open my mouth first.
A couple got onto the elevator with us as we went down, and the girl did a double-take at me, taking in my mask and my band shirt. They flicked to Shep, then back to me. She leaned in and whispered something to her boyfriend, and I didn’t miss them subtly raise their phones to take a photo. Shep stepped between them and me, his body language telling them to fuck off without even having to look at them.
The doors opened on the guys’ floor, and as the doors closed, I distinctly heard the girl say, “Was that Toy?”
My eyes darted to Shep. “What did she just say?”
He shook his head, striding down the hall, making me walk twice as fast to keep up. “We’ll talk about it later. We have to leave now—the transport’s almost at the front doors.” He knocked on the door, and the guys all appeared.
Now I’d spent a little extra time with them, they could all be wearing completely different outfits and masks, and I’d know exactly who they were, even from a distance. Hero was the tallest, his body wide across the shoulders and narrow at the waist, but he wasn’t muscley so much as rangy. Royal had the most conventionally attractive body, which he showcased in just tight enough clothes. Knight and Poet were close to the same height, but Knight was more solidly built than the rest of them. Thick thighs. Thick arms. Wide chest. That ass. I knew it all intimately now.
Poet wore baggy pants and was the most pale, but he was still fit as hell. He also walked with a limp, though it wasn’t obvious unless you were looking for it.
“Let’s go,” Shep huffed, herding us all down the hallway, back into the elevator. Fortunately, no one else hopped in, and we rode it to the lobby. I hung back, but Hero pushed me so I was forced to walk in front of him.
“Don’t want you getting lost in the crowd,” he said softly into my ear, and when we stepped outside, I understood. Hero’s hand stayed on my back, and Shep maneuvered us all into the van again. People yelled and screamed, but the guys just waved this time instead of stopping to talk to the fans.
The paparazzi were there this time too, and I could hear their shouted questions. “Who’s the girl? Hero, is that your girlfriend?”
The rest of the questions blurred together, and soon I was in the van, Hero blocking the cameras with his large body behind me. Shep slammed the door shut, climbing into the passenger seat as Steve, the other security guy, pulled out into traffic.
“Seatbelts,” Shep ordered.
I grinned, remembering Knight’s quip on the way there. “Yes, Daddy,” I purred back, and the groan that echoed around the van made me smile.
Shep’s shoulders tensed, but when he looked over his shoulder at me, his face was alight with desire. “Do as you’re told.”
I winked, but did what he asked. Knight was laughing his ass off, and I grinned over at him. The mask made me bold, that was for sure.
The arena was about ten minutes away, which meant no one could escape my question. “So, a girl in the elevator called me Toy. Does anyone want to tell me why?”
They all looked at Royal. I should have known. “What? It’s not my fault. Someone took photos of you going into the hotel with us, and the die-hards wanted to know who you were. Some girl said that I called you a toy, and here we are.” He gave me that cocky damn smirk I wanted to slap right off his face. “So now you’re Toy. We needed a moniker to protect your identity—may as well be this one, right?”
“Wrong!” Man, I was kind of pissed. I didn’t want to be known as some band’s toy, even if it wasn’t really me. “Is it too late to change it?”
I looked at Hero, who shrugged. “Maybe if we formally introduce the idea of you. Some will continue to call you Toy, though, or whatever else.” I had a feeling the other names wouldn’t be quite so polite as Toy. “We’d have to pass it by the tour management, and probably the label. I don’t know, Lottie. It might be easier to lean into it.”
Poet had his head leaning against the wall, but he passed me his phone, open to the Gram. #DaymakersToy was trending. I gritted my teeth. There were pictures from cell phones of me being herded into the lobby by Shep. Others of just the guys and the captions speculating who the girl with The Daymakers was.
Some were guessing Knight’s ex-girlfriend, posting a photo of the ex to compare. She was fucking beautiful. Had she gotten to see his face? Had she seen the other guys too? Obviously, since they’d had to pay her off not to talk.
Inadequacy rose up in my chest. God, if he was used to girls like that, he must have felt like he was slumming it with me. I didn’t look anything like that. I couldn’t do my makeup like that. I wasn’t golden and beautiful, the way she was. She looked like sex personified.
I scrolled a little more, then passed the phone back to Poet. “Fuck.”
He reached between the seats and squeezed my shoulder. “It’s okay, Lottie. Shep will talk to management about it. If you’re going to be around for three months, it’s in their best interests to take control of the narrative.”
I sucked in a deep, calming breath. Poet was right. I couldn’t change this, so if it didn’t go away, I would lean into it. I was already thinking of outfits I could wear to play off the Toy persona.
Knight reached over and gripped my hand. Having seen his ex, I firmly told my heart and my head to not read into the gesture. I was going to finish this tour without a broken heart, thank you very much.
I was also clearly delusional.
He squeezed gently. “If you could pick your name, what would it be?”
I shrugged. I had no idea. Honestly, Toy fit just as well as anything else. It was better than other things I’d been called in my life. Trash. Whore. Scum. Redneck.
“What about Dreamer?” Hero said softly. I turned to look at him, though all I could see was the soft hazel of his eyes behind the mask that was the scariest of all four.
Dreamer. Hadn’t I always dreamed of something more? Dreamed of happiness and security? Big dreams that were finally coming true.
I gave him a lopsided smile. “I love it.”
Shep looked at me over his shoulder again. “Dreamer it is. I’ll talk to Whitt and the label.”
Gratitude threatened to make me cry. The worst night of my life had set me free. Fate really did work in strange ways.
TWENTY-TWO
DREAMER
The guys went off to do soundcheck, and I went down to visit Helen in costumes. Hero had insisted I should at least ask if she would mentor me. Lottie was a scared little baby, but Dreamer was someone braver than that.
She dared.
I found Helen in the back of one of the vans, muttering to herself as she ran fabric through the sewing machine. I knocked on the door. Racks of clothes ran down one side of the van.
“Hello, sweets. I see you’re still in the mask.”
I waved. “Hey. It’s surprisingly comfortable. Thank you. Shep thinks I should wear it whenever I’m out of the bus.”
Her lips tightened, and her eyes ran over me. “I see. And are you feeling okay about your situation? Because if not, I know a guy who knows a guy. Well, Vincenzo was a strongman for the mob in the sixties, but some skills don’t age, you know. Including breaking the knees of little boys who don’t show a lady the proper respect.”
I blinked at her, because… the fuck? Then I shook my head vigorously. “No, they’ve been fine. I promise. Vincenzo can stay in retirement.”
“Oh. Well, good. Never doubted them for a moment. What can I do for you?”
I shifted from foot to foot, because asking for help had never been something that sat well with me. “I was wondering, and it’s completely okay if you say no, because I know you’re super busy and honestly, it wouldn’t help you at all—”
Helen raised an eyebrow. “Spit it out, girlie.”
“Could you use someone to help out in the costume department? I mean, I have no experience, and if I get in the way, you can definitely tell me to get lost, no hard feelings, but I have steady hands and I’d really love to learn. And I don’t want to be paid or anything, just the skills you could teach me would be amazing. And maybe, after the tour is over, I’d have something to show on my resume other than unskilled labor. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” I personally thought hospitality and custodial work was woefully underpaid.
Helen waved a hand. “Of course not. When you work in the business I do, getting to know the housekeeping staff in hotels can be a lifesaver.” She eyed me up and down. “Can you sew?”
“I was poor as shit. I can mend holes in just about anything. But I’ve never made anything from scratch. I’m no seamstress.”
“Can you follow direction?” I nodded. “And you don’t want to be paid? Because there's nothing left in my budget for another person. Goodness knows I would’ve hired someone already if there was.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Free help? Sign me up.” She thrust a black shirt at me. “Here, start by sewing the buttons back on this shirt. I swear on Hendrix’s guitar that boy rips open his shirt every concert. If I have to sew one more button back on, I’m going to start stuffing them up his nose.” She gave me a pin cushion and a little box of thread, then went back to sewing, muttering about viscose.
I sewed each button meticulously, tight enough to keep his shirt on, but if Royal ripped it open on stage, there would be no damage to the material. When that was done, she had me mend a hole in Poet’s shirt, where he’d gotten it caught on a nail backstage in San Francisco.
As we worked, Helen talked. Her stories were all fantastical, but somehow they didn’t seem improbable. From sleeping with a rockstar in the seventies and traveling around with his band like a muse, to when she’d traveled across Europe on a bus filled with choral nuns on some kind of exchange, after she lost her passport in Frankfurt.
Before I knew it, I was sitting at a little bench in front of a wall of tiny drawers. A blank half mask was placed in front of me.
“I haven’t had time to make you your own mask, rather than Poet’s cast-off. But now you’re here, you can make your own. I suggest you start with the half mask, though I’ll teach you how to make a full resin mask also.”
I looked up at her. “Really?”
She patted my back. “What kind of mentor would I be if I didn’t give you the full scope of the job? First, you’re going to want to do a rough draft of what you want. Do you have any ideas?”
Excitement I hadn’t felt in so long filled me as a design flew from my fingers, like it had just been waiting for the opportunity to be free.
My laminated pass tapped against my stomach as I moved backstage, past the security holding back the hordes. I was in my tight jeans and my long-sleeve crop top again, though if I sucked my stomach in, I didn’t look quite so skeletal anymore. I guess that’s what happened when I could eat what I liked and didn’t have to work out for hours a day. I liked the soft curve of my hips, now that my hip bones didn’t jut out viciously.
A murmur followed me through the crowd, and I kind of hated it, but at least I had the mask to hide behind. Maybe I’d try and do a full-face one sooner rather than later, so I could hide completely.
I spotted Shep arguing with one of the roadies, and I moved toward them. “I mean it, Bergman. If you hand him that guitar on stage, he’ll hit you over the head with it. Find his Fender asap or there’ll be a riot.” The roadie, Bergman, rolled his eyes but talked frantically into his walkie-talkie.
I stopped in front of a stressed-looking Shep. “Need help?”
He shook his head. “No, Vegas fucked up the load out, so now nothing is where it’s supposed to be. They can’t find Knight’s goddamn guitar, and he will absolutely throw a shit-fit. Musicians,” he grunted, putting a hand on my lower back and propelling me forwards. “I’ll take you out where the guys are.”
His hand was firm and warm against the skin of my back, and I tried hard not to shiver. I saw the support act rushing toward the stage, looking harried. Roadies ran around like chickens without heads. Fans screamed as they filled up the arena.
It was alive in here, and I could see why people would become addicted to touring.
Shep knocked on the door quickly, before striding in. A girl I’d never met was there, putting skull makeup on the lower half of Royal’s face. She sat on a small fold-up stool in between his thighs, and I resisted the urge to growl at her. Jealousy wasn’t an emotion that I had the privilege to feel right now.
Knight bounced to his feet. “Dreamer, baby, you look like all my wet dreams all rolled into one. The name definitely suits,” he purred, gripping my hips and dancing closer to me. It didn’t even matter that Shep was at my back, Knight just wedged me between the two of them.
