The Daymakers, page 25
Poet opened the song with a killer bass solo, and I was lost in the music, watching the guys I had feelings for make the entire stadium fall in love with them again. Pulling out my phone, I recorded them from the side of the stage. They were electric right now. Maybe they could use it in their Gram posts or something, so the whole world could see how fucking talented they really were.
I zoomed in on each of the guys, getting their frenzied movements, their sheer stage presence, because it would be impossible to watch this and not fall in love with them.
An email notification suddenly popped up on my phone, making me freeze. It was from Tom’s personal email. Just delete it, I told myself, but I found myself pressing the notification, opening my email app.
You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you, bitch? I don’t need the legal system to destroy you and those fuckers who think they are so much better than me. Have fun being crucified by the court of public opinion, slut.
There were several links at the bottom of the email. I recognized the web address of a gossip site immediately.
Oh no. No, no, no.
Feeling sick, I clicked on it and everything I feared was there.
Sex, Drugs and Rock’n’Roll: Meet The Daymaker’s Secret Tour Concubine.
I scanned the text. Tom had told them everything. Every terrible thing that had ever happened in my life. My mom leaving. My dad being in jail. The shitty foster placements. The fact that I was a bartender. The amount of lovers I’d had.
Everything, except for the fact he used to beat the shit out of me.
Somehow, he’d found out about my contract, and pieces of it were published, redacted except for sensationalized lines.
Oh god. Why couldn’t he give me one good moment? One memory of happiness to hold onto when everything eventually turned to shit.
“That fucking fucker!” I shouted loud enough that several roadies turned.
Shep was in front of me in an instant. “What’s wrong?” he barked, looking around for a threat. I thrust my phone at him. His eyes got stormier and stormier as he read, first the email, then each of the links.
Fuck, I hadn’t even looked at the other links.
I turned and ran from the arena. I needed to run. Needed to get away. To think. I ran out into the lot where all the buses and trucks were parked, not really running anywhere in particular, just away.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, because there was no mask there to catch them now. Turning a corner between two of the RVs, I barreled right into Helen. I only managed to pull up at the last moment, grabbing her so I didn’t knock her over and break her hip or something. That would be just my luck. I was a fucking curse to anyone who’d ever shown me kindness.
“Woah there. Where’s the man buffet?”
“What?”
She raised an eyebrow at me. “The only reason to run at a speed like that is if the Chippendales decide to ditch the thongs and lay themselves out for my own private carnival ride, if you catch my drift.”
Nothing dried up tears—and other things—like the idea of a nearly seventy-year-old riding a stripper. I blinked several times, dragging in a shuddering breath. “Uh. No. No man buffet.”
“Then why are you running like the hounds of Hell are on your heels, kid?”
“Not the hounds of Hell. Just one demonic ex-boyfriend.”
Helen’s eyes slitted. “I should have run that little asshole through with my fabric shears when I had the chance.” She dragged me into the costume van with a spindly hand around my upper arm, and she was surprisingly strong. Pulling out a bottle of gin from between two heinous, gold-sequined bolts of fabric, she handed it to me. “Take a drink of mother’s milk and tell me what’s happened, and how we plan to make his body disappear.”
I let out a choked laugh that was half sob, then sucked down a mouthful of gin and coughed. That shit was rough.
I let the whole sordid tale tumble right out. My white-trash childhood trauma. Finding out that my dad had died in prison while being questioned by the police. The feeling that I could never escape my history. The agreement the guys and I had. Tom. The tabloids.
When I was done, she stared at me with wide eyes. “Where’s your etiquette, kid? Pass the dutchie.” She made a grabby hand at the gin bottle and took a healthy swig.
I laughed, because the woman could down gin like it was water. “Isn’t a dutchie meant to be a blunt?”
She raised a single penciled-on eyebrow. “Child, if I had some Mary Jane, do you honestly think we’d be sitting here drinking bad gin? No.” She swigged another mouthful, then pointed the bottle at me. “Here’s what we are going to do—a tried-and-true plan straight from the School of Helen.” She stood and grabbed a scarf, waving it like a war flag we were rallying around. “We are going to stop crying. We don’t cry over stupid men. You are strong. You are a warrior, and while sometimes warriors might cry, they might bend, they do not break. Do you hear me? They. Do. Not. Break.” I nodded furiously.
“Good. Now, I am going to dress you up like you are a fucking rock and roll queen. Don’t worry, if anyone can make you a goddess, it’s me. Then you’re going to stand in front of the paparazzi—because there will be paparazzi; there always is when there’s a sex scandal.” She rolled her eyes, like a sex scandal was so tedious. “You’re going to stand there, with your boys at your back, and you're going to flip off those misogynistic pearl-clutchers. You’re going to look down the lens of the closest camera, stick out your tongue, give them the two-finger salute and you’re going to become an icon.
“Fuck Tiny-Dick Tom. Fuck the tabloids. Fuck the stuffy old label execs who think they know what’s best. You are going to be a goddamn institution. The Daymakers’ muse, Dreamer. Women might not know if they want to hate you or fuck you, but they’ll all want to be you.”
She was standing on the couch now, giving me her best impression of what she wanted me to do, and I saw it at that moment. The icon she had once been. The one who toured with bands, who was the muse to more seventies rockers than I could believe. I could see why they’d written songs with her name in them, begging for a chance to be her man. I could only hope to be half as badass as she was.
She pointed the scarf at me. “Now, what are you?”
“I’m a warrior.”
“I said, what are you?”
“A survivor!”
“I said, what are you?!”
“An ICON!”
She grinned, downing more of the gin. “Too fucking right you are!” She winked at me. “Now, help me down, because I’m not as steady as I used to be, and healing from a broken hip is a real bitch.”
I laughed, helping her down and then hugging her tight, no matter how much she grumbled about the mushy stuff. “You’re the real queen, you know that, right?” I whispered. “Thank you so much.”
She stepped back, patting my arm awkwardly. “We gotta stick together, Dreamer. Now, let me make you something that will slay them all.” A smirk spread across her face. “I have just the thing.”
THIRTY-NINE
KNIGHT
When I got off the stage, I looked around for Lottie, but she was nowhere to be seen on the side of the stage. We walked through the roadies, who slapped our backs and congratulated us on our amazing performance, and I dodged the press, who wanted interviews. I’d come back for them. First, I wanted to find my girl.
I went back to the green room, but still no Lottie. There was, however, a furious Shep who looked like he was ready to commit murder. He had his phone to his ear, yelling at whoever was on the other end.
“I don’t give a fuck about source confidentiality. Take it the fuck down or the label, the band, and the tour company will all sue the ever-loving shit out of you.” He ripped the phone away from his ear and mashed the end button. “Motherfucker!”
I took an involuntary step back. I’d never seen Shep so angry. He’d always been our rock. The wall between us and the world. But right now, he was a volatile mess of rage.
I looked around for Lottie. I knew he’d never hurt her, just like I knew he’d never hurt us, no matter how much Royal annoyed the shit out of him. But if he was this mad, there could be only one possible reason.
“Where’s Lottie?” I asked, searching the bathroom, behind the racks of clothes.
“She ran out of here like she was running for her life.” He slumped on the couch and put his head in his hands.
“What? Get the fuck up. We have to go look for her.”
He shook his head. “She’s with Helen. She’s okay.” He showed me his phone.
Helen
I’ve got your girl safe. She’s a hot mess. Figure this the fuck out before you lose her forever.
I sat down opposite him, reeling, because what the hell was happening? “What’s going on? Go and get her!”
Shep growled. “I can’t, because I can’t make this better. No one can—she’ll have to weather it. I can’t shield her from it.”
I wanted to shake the big fucker. “From what?”
He grabbed the phone back and opened up the browser to a website article, a picture of Lottie in her mask right in the center.
The Secret Life of The Daymakers Live-in Sex Toy
The actual fuck? I scanned the article and everything about Lottie and her history was just there, for public consumption.
“There’s a dozen more articles on a dozen different sites. I’m trying to get them shut down, but we both know it’s out there now. There’s no putting it back in the bottle.”
I reared back, my brain whirling about what this would mean for Charlotte and the band, and our relationship. “I need to find her,” I told Shep, and he stood, shaking his head.
“You need to do the damn meet and greets, so the label doesn’t have a leg to stand on about non-performance. I’ll go find her and bring her back to the bus.”
“Fuck the label, and the meet and greets. Tell them I ate a bad burrito or something; I don’t give a fuck. I’m going to find my girlfriend.”
I pulled on a plain black hoodie and took off my mask, leaving it in the dressing room. Pulling on a cap, I probably looked suspicious as fuck, but at least my normal face would give me a little bit of anonymity in the crowd.
The irony.
I flashed my badge at the security guys and jogged through the back lot to Helen’s van. I slowed as I heard music pumping from the RV. Not The Daymakers or anything. Was that… disco music?
When I got closer, I realized Helen was pumping “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor, and the singing from inside was enthusiastic. Not good, but enthusiastic. I leaned against the wall and listened for a moment.
“Sing it, girlie!”
“Oh, now, now go! Squawk out the door…”
Were those even the words?
“Just spin around now, because you’re not fucking welcome anymore!”
Okay, they definitely weren’t the words.
Helen cackled a laugh, and Lottie’s giggle sounded almost hysterical. I knocked, not that they’d be able to hear me over the pumping music. Pulling open the door slowly, I peeked inside. Lottie was standing on a box in her underwear, a bottle of really shitty gin in her hand, while Helen draped her in black lace. It looked like an oversized men’s shirt, if the shirt was entirely made of mourning lace.
“This shirt was meant to be for Royal, but the lace was too delicate. One tug during a show and poof, basically confetti,” Helen said as the music ended, before moving into “Rasputin” by Boney M. Lottie drunkenly tossed her head from side to side, and I saw Helen wince as she stabbed her in the thigh with the needle, but I had a feeling that Lottie was too drunk to feel it.
A breeze from the open door swirled around the van, and Helen looked over at me. Her eyes asked me questions. Or maybe they were statements. Silent conversations were open to interpretation, I guess, but their meaning was the same.
Are you going to take care of her, or are you going to be a prick?
I did my best to convey the fact that I loved her with my expression. I must have done a half-decent job, because Helen nodded in satisfaction. “Kid, your Knight in shining armor is here. Take this off, so I can do some alterations without you wiggling around in it like a coked-up jellyfish. I’ll send someone over with it tomorrow.”
Lottie looked over at me, and her bottom lip trembled. But I saw her pull herself up, straighten her shoulders.
So fucking strong. “Hey, pretty girl.”
She stripped out of the lace and handed it gently back to Helen. God, she was beautiful. Throwing on a hooded sweatshirt and some sweats, she still looked fucking beautiful. I held out a hand, and she walked over to me silently. What I’d give to chase away all the hurt and worry in her eyes.
Pulling her to me, I held her tightly to my chest. “Heard you had a rough night,” I whispered in her ear. She didn’t say anything, just buried herself deeper against my chest. I must stink like ass from being on stage for so many hours, sweating beneath the lights, but she didn’t seem to care. “How about I take you back to the bus and we can cuddle?”
I felt her sigh, but the tension in her tiny body remained. Thank you, I mouthed to Helen over my shoulder as I led Charlotte out of the RV. I wanted to tell her that it was okay. That we’d get through this just like everything else, but I wasn’t the one having all my deep, dark secrets plastered across the internet right now.
I mean, I had before—you didn’t grow up in the public eye without having your name dragged through the dirt at least once or twice—but everyone dealt with it differently, and she wasn’t used to this.
For a brief second, I thought about setting her free. Giving her money to start over, because god knows I had enough of it, and just letting her escape the limelight and the constant eyes and the bullshit that came with it.
It would be the selfless thing to do. Maybe even the right thing to do.
But I loved her, and I was a selfish fuck. There was no way I could give her up, not without tearing my heart in half.
I scanned my pass to open the door of our bus and led her up the stairs, straight through to the back, where we’d left her room exactly how she had it. Her suitcase was back in there and unpacked, but otherwise, it was still littered with small mementos of her. Her tour passes, a scarf over the window, the unfinished little book nook thing on the desk.
I stripped off my clothes and threw them in her hamper. I needed a shower, but I didn’t trust her not to disappear. “I’m just going to have a quick bird bath. Don’t go anywhere,” I whispered, kissing the side of her face.
It took me two minutes to wipe myself down with a washcloth and splash my face with water. By the time I got back to the room, she was burrowed beneath the blankets, her face solemn.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked softly, climbing into bed beside her. She shook her head as I pulled her to my chest, wrapping my body around hers. “Okay. I just want you to know that this changes nothing for me. I will stand on stage and tell everyone to mind their fucking business, if you want me to. You’re important to me.”
She sighed heavily. “I’m a dead weight. A drain on society, just like my high school counselor said. The last stop in a generational cycle that is determined to ruin the American way of life.”
I pulled back. The fuck? “Your high school counselor said that?”
She huffed a bitter laugh. “Yeah, after I’d been caught fighting in the bathrooms. I was jumped by a bunch of girls, but it happened to coincide with rumors of someone dealing meth in the hallways. She decided who else would do it but the daughter of the local meth cook? I mean, I see her logic. It wasn’t true, but I get it.”
Fuck that bitch. “What was that teacher’s name again?” Maybe I’d pay her a visit and give her a piece of my mind.
Lottie shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s what everyone believed. And maybe they were right? Look at the mess I’ve landed you in.”
“Fuck off,” I snapped at her, and her eyes opened wide. I gripped her chin and tilted her face to look up at me. “None of this bullshit is your fault. None of your past is your fault either—well, maybe the bathroom brawl, but I’m sure those bitches deserved the beatdown. I’m the son of rich swingers who have gotten busted with cocaine more times than I can count, and keep getting let off with a slap on the wrist. Your only burden was being born poor, and if those judgy fucks can’t see the beauty that shines from within you, then that’s a them problem, not a you problem.”
I sucked in a lungful of air. “You’ve come to mean so much to me in a short amount of time, and I won’t listen to you talk about the girl I… really like”—I winced, because that was awkward as fuck, and now was not the time for declarations of feelings—“just because some piece of shit threw a tantrum at being beaten at his own game.”
My jaw ached from snapping my mouth shut so hard on the word vomit. Breathing out a calming breath, I kissed her lips. “Now, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to eat your delicious cunt until we forget about anyone outside these four walls. There’s me, and you, and the guys, and we are the only people in the universe who matter. What do you say?”
She gave me a crooked smile, her eyes shiny in the darkness. “I think I might love you.”
My heart galloped in my chest. “I think I might love you too. Now, lie back, because I’m about to do my best work.” I slid beneath the covers to the sound of her watery laughter.
I’d take that sound over her tears any day.
FORTY
DREAMER
I woke up the day after Tom’s email, surrounded by bodies. Knight was still spooned tight against me, having passed out after he’d given me an impressive amount of orgasms. Poet was in front of me, his hand cupping my boob. Hero was at his back, an arm slung over Poet’s waist and fingers touching my hip.
