Backstage roadies 1, p.1
Backstage (Roadies #1), page 1
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Want to get more FREE from Erika
Dedication
Press review
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Press review
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Press review
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Press review
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Press review
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Press review
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Press review
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Press review
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Want to get more free from Erika
Acknowledgements
About the author
Copyright © 2021 Erika Vanzin
Backstage
ISBN: 978-1736645208
All Rights reserved.
Camilla Hanako Williams, Translator
Staci Frenes, Line Editor
Cover Design by Elizabeth Mackey
Cover Photo by Marc Roura from Shutterstock
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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To everyone who rose stronger after every fall
News That Will Make Your Strings Vibrate
Hi Roadies!
The weekend is approaching and there are a lot of concerts happening across the country. Did you get any ideas from my last post about must-see shows? Have you already decided where to spend your evenings? I have a list of at least four bands I want to see so my Instagram will be blowing up with stories from around Manhattan.
But let’s get to the headline. Word on the street is that the Jailbirds want to go big on their next tour, and they’re working on a surprise that will leave fans speechless.
Will it be an early release of their new album? The sale of VIP meet-and-greet backstage tickets? New merchandise? At the moment, there’s no official announcement, but sources close to the record label say the fans are going to be delirious.
Jeff Rogers of Rock Now! magazine sent out a tweet that leaves very few doubts: “There’s a lot of turmoil on the scene, and even industry insiders have their ears raised, ready to be the first ones to share the news.”
So, keep your eyes peeled because the Jailbirds are coming back!
Be kind and rock’n’roll,
Iris
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I get in the car, struggling through the door. I have the distinct impression it was a bad idea to leave the party the label organized and take a cab in the middle of Los Angeles. I slur the address to the man behind the wheel who has the worried look of someone afraid of having to clean up a stranger’s puke from the back of his car. I lean my head against the window and watch the lights of the city flash before my eyes.
I miss New York, its tall buildings that surround you as if protecting you. Los Angeles looks so unfamiliar to me. Here, away from the heart of downtown, it’s a long stretch of low-rise houses and commercial warehouses. Neighborhood after neighborhood, you feel like you’re naked and exposed walking down wide streets lined with tall, narrow palm trees. In Manhattan, the buildings make you feel small and the roads are like closed in tunnels, protecting you from the world as you walk. It’s an overwhelming and reassuring feeling—one of the many paradoxes of that city.
I must have fallen asleep at some point along the way because what feels like only a few seconds later the driver slips his hand through the small partition between us and shakes my leg. I give him some money from one of my pockets and, when I see his eyes gleaning with surprise, I gesture to him with my hand to keep the change as well. He doesn’t make me say it twice; he puts the money in his pocket and indicates for me to get out.
At this moment I realize my first mistake: I didn’t call Max, the driver. A group of fans has been lurking near our hotel for two days. Max would have had access to the underground garage; this taxi driver dropped me directly in front of the shark tank.
“Holy shit!” I mutter to myself. “The paparazzi is gonna have a field day with this one.”
I’ve stopped counting how many times I’ve been in the papers this month, but it’s not my fault someone’s constantly putting a glass of French wine in my hand that costs more than a car at those goddamn parties.
“You wouldn’t happen to be able to take me to the underground garage, would you?” I ask the cab driver, praying like a kid who wants to extend Saturday night curfew with his parents.
The man looks at me and waves me out again, more impatiently than the first time. I take a deep breath, hold on to the handle of the car, and grab onto the roof of the cab to drag myself out. I try to close the door as gracefully as possible, then I lower my head and let my long dark hair cover my face.
One, two, I can’t even count to three before the girls start screaming and the paparazzi starts taking pictures over and over again. Two fucking wobbly steps and my cover’s already blown. Not that I had one, since I’m the lead singer of the most famous band in the world at the moment. I’m also 6’6” with broad shoulders, but I really hoped till the last moment I could have gotten away with it. Goddamn alcohol and the shit it makes me do.
I raise my head since there’s no point in hiding anymore, and I try to locate the front door. It looks blurry so I squint my eyes a couple of times but it doesn’t get any better. After a few steps, I lean against a barrier which the girls are standing behind. One of them grabs me by the neck and pulls me toward her in a confused tangle of arms and hair. Their screams almost make my head explode. I lean against the cold metal of the barrier and try to get away, but a second girl grabs me, sticking her tongue in my mouth without warning. I push her away as gently as possible, trying to hold her in the “safe zone” in the upper part of the arms, but two others kiss me on the lips before one of the hotel security guards comes to help me out of the chaos I’ve brought on myself.
It’s like this every time: I become the target to jump on, the mouth to stick a tongue into so they can tick the “I kissed the rock star” off their bucket list. Not Damian Jones, the person, but the celebrity, whoever who he is. My lips are always sticky with some lipstick I’m struggling to wash off from a kiss I got without so much as a “How are you?” or “How was your day?”
Let’s face it, I’ve never had trouble getting the women I wanted, when I wanted and especially for what I wanted: sex without emotional complications. Always consenting adults, always healthy adult sex—just without the drama. Our fans, however, are something entirely different. They’re often underage girls who dream of Prince Charming and are absolutely off-limits. Which is why this current scenario is a mess that I’m unlikely to come out of unscathed, especially with photographers who seem crazy for action.
I lean against the revolving doors of the hotel and when I get to the other side I stumble on the carpet, falling face down, unleashing another burst of flashes. Great. The path from the floor to my bedroom is a series of confused and foggy images consisting of cream-colored walls and dark red carpet.
In the sitting room next to my bedroom door, I catch a glimpse of two confused silhouettes rising from the sofa. When they are one step away from me, I realize that they are two girls, one blonde, the other a brunette. I can hardly make out their features clearly, but I can they’re barely dressed.
“Do you feel like having some fun tonight?” the brunette asks, whispering in my ear and leaning against my side, while the blonde takes me by the other arm.
It takes me a while to realize she’s spoken to me, I’m too busy staggering and holding on while she grabs my shoulder. She’s petite, but manages to make me lose my balance as she leans her weight against my body.
“Look, I just want to go to my room,” I mumble. I’m having a hard time stringing words together.
“We’ll help you, don’t worry,” the blonde encourages me in a soothing voice.
I’m not one to back out of sex, but I also want to enjoy the moment. Just as I don’t take advantage of drunk women who can’t unde
“No, I’m going alone. Go away,” I say out loud. They get off me suddenly, making me sway.
“You think you’re the only one in the world with a dick? Yours isn’t golden, so don’t be such a show-off,” says the brunette, with her arms crossed.
I lean against the door, grab the magnetic card from my pocket after looking for it everywhere, and put it against the lock until I hear the buzzing sound signaling that it’s open. I stagger into the room and onto my bed, curling up as soon as I hit it. My head is spinning. I feel like vomiting. I try to keep my eyes closed and breathe deeply.
The mattress next to me lowers. I can feel my shirt rising, and with one hand, I try to lower it again, but someone takes my arm and holds it above my head. There’s something wrong with this situation, but I can’t get my brain to work enough to understand what’s going on. I can’t even open my eyes. All around me is black, muffled sounds, then silence.
A few days later, New York City
“What the hell were you thinking?” Evan, our manager, asks me, lining up three different gossip magazines in front of us on the coffee table.
I’m not gonna answer that. I’m looking down on those pictures, reading the ridiculous headlines. “Satan’s Kiss,” “Damian Reaches Out!” and “The Cursed Tongue of Rock.” Next to me, Michael, Simon, and Thomas are sitting still, probably holding their breath. They have nothing to do with this since they stayed at the party, but Evan likes to lecture all of us, gathering us together to refresh our memories about what we can and can’t do. If only I’d called Max, this whole mess wouldn’t have happened, but it’s too late now.
Evan goes around his desk, picks up a stack of papers, and puts it in front of my nose. “Do you know what these are?”
I look up at him. He’s got a stern face, impenetrable gray eyes. I’m afraid he won’t let me get away with it this time. “No.” My voice comes out weak, too weak for someone who should be trying to defend himself.
“It’s e-mails and letters from feminist associations railing against you. Alarmed parents who see you as Satan himself, and especially angry fans who say you have no respect for them.”
He spreads them out so I can read them, and I feel more mortified than ever, especially at that last statement. If there’s one thing I feel towards our fans, it’s sincere and profound gratitude. Without them, we’d still be playing in the worst bars in New York City, and cleaning toilets after closing time to make a living, like we did when we were kids.
“Why don’t you think before you do that shit?” he asks me, softening his tone, and I realize I got away with it, at least this once. “Sooner or later, people are gonna get tired of your rockstar attitude. There’s a fine line between the fickle VIP persona and the troubled one nobody wants to work with. Don’t cross it, you understand?”
“Can you fix the situation in any way?” asks Thomas, our drummer and the most reasonable of all of us. The original manager of our band, it’s because of Thomas and his practical nature that we’re living the dream life. Once again, his instincts kick in to help Evan. He’ll never be able to set aside this part of his character, even if we pay someone to take care of our problems. He’s our own personal mother hen.
Evan sits in the armchair in front of us, elbows on the armrests, hands to his mouth, and remains silent for what seems like an interminable amount of time. It’s literally killing me, this waiting. I get the distinct impression he wants to tell us something that we absolutely do not want to hear. My relief at having gotten away with something is clouding with worry.
“We’ll keep doing what we’ve been doing, interviews, public apologies, and so on, but we need to shift the focus away from Damian, and this whole thing that has blown up in the papers. We need to focus on your fans,” he says seriously.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I can get out of this mess. I haven’t exactly been a role model lately, but I haven’t killed anyone.
“How do we do it? Make them the center of attention, right? Meet and greet? Dinner? Awards? Concert tickets? Please tell us,” begs Michael, guitarist, and the craziest guy in the band. Patience is not his strong suit. Once, he decided he didn’t have time to wait for our driver to move the tour bus, and he did it. I still remember Evan swearing when we called him to tell him that Michael had utterly destroyed the rooftop of a gas station because he hadn’t noticed that the bus was too tall.
Evan breathes in and looks down, looking defeated.
“It’s not that simple,” he says, sounding almost emptied of his usual proverbial patience.
“There’s sure to be some up-and-coming bands among your fans. We’ll do the contest we’ve talked about before, but you’ve always refused to organize. Everyone will upload a video cover of one of your songs, then we’ll select the three best entries to come play it in the studio. The winning band will open all of the dates on your next tour. Obviously, they’ll have to send us a demo of their original songs; we don’t want people who don’t have anything to play. If they’re legit, we’ll sign them to the label.”
The words hover over us in absolute silence for a few seconds. Nobody seems to breathe.
“But that’s absurd,” I explode. “The big bosses have taken advantage of this bullshit to stick us with a marketing stunt the label geniuses have been planning for months.” I stand up and throw my chair back, banging it against the wall. “It wasn’t even my fault! I tried to get away from the crazed fans. I apologized publicly, I did interviews. They’re taking advantage of the situation to blackmail us. We’re talking about our tour, our image!”
My deep voice thunders inside the office. My bandmates look at me with expressions halfway between resigned and worried. It’s true, we’ve been through worse times together. That doesn’t mean we have to accept this. A tour is a stressful event in a thousand ways, but it’s also a time when the band gets even closer together. The tight spaces, the forced cohabitation, the miraculously avoided fights, the blatant outbursts, the moments of absolute loyalty to my friends, are part of a sacred rite. They can’t rob us of that by making us babysit kids.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s your fault or not. It’s what it looks like that counts, not what actually happened. You’re lucky those girls were all of age—otherwise you’d be in much more trouble. The label’s got the ball rolling, and they know we can’t turn them down. They’re clinging to the image protection clause and threatening to terminate the contract and make us pay the penalty. You made them suffer because you didn’t want to do the contest, now they’ve found a way around it.”
Evan’s voice is firm and strong, the tone of someone who’s doing the impossible to protect our business and our rights. I know he’s done everything he can to defend us, to honor our wishes. He’s been doing it since we were little more than kids who could barely change our underwear. I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at the label: they needed a new band to squeeze and a media campaign to draw attention to them.
“There’s no chance of appealing this decision, is there?” asks Simon, our bassist, in a resigned voice. It hurts me to hear him so downhearted. He’s always the quiet one, looking for mediation so as not to get into a fight. He sees the glass half full, and sometimes I hate him because he seems like a fucking Disney prince with that smile. But he manages to point out the positive aspects that we, in the heat of the moment, do not notice, saving us many times from getting pissed off.
“No.” Our manager’s tone is both harsh and apologetic.
I can see the defeated expression on the faces of my bandmates, and the anger bubbling up inside me almost makes me want to punch the wall. Without a word, I swing the door against the wall and leave the room with such fury radiating from my body everyone I encounter gets out of my way.
