Page 6

FIVE

WESLEY

Paved with good intentions, the road to hell built on gilded lies…

The devil whispers to me, and my soul dies….

Listen to my intuition, don’t let the sweet words in…

My world is built on sin…

I belt the lyrics into the mic, my voice rising high over the backing music and my bandmates’ instruments. The stadium is packed to the brim, cheering fans singing along to the lyrics of our most recent number one hit.

My throat hurts from the rasp of this song, but I push through, hitting every note perfectly.

The show is a success, but I’m keyed up for some reason, my skin crawling and my head too full.

Fuck, I need something to take the edge off. My stash is back in the changing room. This is our last song before the mid-show headliner comes out, so I’ll have time to get right before the show is over.

“Let me hear you!” I yell into the mic, and the crowd gets louder as they cheer and sing along to the chorus.

The lights are bright, flashing in my eyes. But I don’t mind. It’s the only time I feel alive. The only time I feel like a person.

I sing the last bar of the song, and the crowd explodes with cheers, throwing flowers, panties, and bras onto the stage.

Mitch, the drummer of Lana’s Mischief, grabs a pair of underwear that landed near his feet and brings them to his nose, breathing in deeply.

More applause and more panties make their way to the stage.

“We’ll be back in fifteen. Enjoy an up-and-coming band, The Blu Few.”

I hurry backstage, my skin feeling tight and my stomach clenching with need.

Mitch walks beside me, and I try to shake him off so I can get to my dressing room.

“Crowd was wild tonight, man.” He sniffs the panties again, his eyes rolling to the back of his head before he tosses them into a trash can we pass. “Think we’ll get some bitches tonight?”

Mitch won’t have an issue getting some. He’s a handsome son of a bitch.

Tall, somewhere around six four, a lean frame that’s tatted from head to toe, long blond hair and piercings lining his left ear.

If he didn’t make it as a drummer, he’d have to be a tattoo artist or a piercer because he’s covered in ink and metal.

The crazy fucker even has tattoos on his eyelids.

One says ROCK, the other says STAR. With a sharp, thin nose and wide eyes, he looks like a sexy owl. Women eat that shit up.

I shrug, though I know the answer. There will be plenty of women and men to choose from, and hell, some would be down to fuck us at the same time. Maybe the person who tossed those panties will be lucky enough to hop on Mitch’s dick tonight.

But I can’t focus on him right now. My hands shake and sweat dots my brow as I hurry to my dressing room. I need something to chase the sickness away so I can finish this show. We only have five more songs. A quick bump or a few pills and a shot or two will work to cool me out.

“You good, Ryder?” Mitch asks, using my stage name.

I’m rarely called Wesley anymore. And no one ever calls me Wes.

“Nah. Need some privacy,” I tell him, trying to put distance between us.

That doesn’t deter him. In fact, Kas, the bassist of the group, joins in, throwing his arms around our shoulders. “The fuckin’ crowd tonight! I’m flying high, boys. Let’s get a drink before our next set.”

“Let’s not,” I say, my voice sounding thin and reedy to my own ears. My skin crawls from his touch, and I shrug him off, barely suppressing a shudder.

Where Mitch is light, Kas is dark. Black hair, dark brown eyes, a dark aura, they’re as different as night and day. From a glance, you wouldn’t peg him as a member of a rock band. He could be a broody model with his symmetrical face and classic good looks.

His arm around me keys me up more, and my heart pounds. I need a line to take the edge off.

“Leave him alone,” Tech, the rhythm guitar and backing vocalist, says, his voice holding a sharp edge. I turn a narrowed gaze on him, and his glare burns into me. “Look at him. You’re getting in the way of his high.”

Tech is the outcast of the group. The one who looks like he rolled out of bed and smacked his face into the ugly tree. He’s grungy but not in a good way. I’m sure if he weren’t in a world-famous band, he would have to pay for pussy.

I bristle, hating being called out like that. They all know I use, but no one ever says anything about it. No one but this motherfucker.

“Mind your fucking business, Tech. Or you’ll find another band to play for.” I growl the threat.

“What? You think Lana’s Mischief is my only option? Please,” he says, waving me off. “If I wanted?—”

I turn around, making him bump into me, until we’re chest to chest. The touch sears into me, but I’m already on edge. I need to get my point across to this fucking asshole. “Then fucking do it, Tech. Go to another band. And I bet your bitch ass will be crawling back to me.”

Tech’s eyes grow wide, knowing I’m not bluffing.

I don’t want to be standing here when I could be getting high, but Tech pushes my fucking buttons.

He wasn’t my first choice to be my rhythm guitar player after the original guy, Vic, died of an overdose.

I wanted to drop the number to three and change our style, but our manager, Zed, said we needed a well-rounded sound, and Tech fit that bill.

But his fucking attitude has grated on my nerves for the past ten years, and it’s all Zed can do to keep me from firing his ass.

As if materializing from thin air, Zed steps between us, pushing against Tech’s chest. “It’s cool. Tech, walk it off.” Zed looks at me, sees my clenched fists and my obviously sweaty brow, and shakes his head. “Go get right, Ryder. We still have another half of the show.”

I glare at Tech before turning away and heading down the hall. Mitch and Kas follow behind me, whispering about how out of line Tech was. But I don’t care what’s going on, I need to get to my stash.

Mitch catches my arm before I step into the room, a concerned look on his face. “Ryder, listen man. If you need help…just?—”

I snatch away from him. I don’t like people touching me without my permission. It’s why I no longer have shows where people can crowd the stage. “I don’t need help with anything. I’m good.”

We stare at each other until Mitch sighs and nods, stepping back and heading to the dressing room across the hall that he and Kas share.

I slam the door and hurry over to my guitar bag. Stuffing my hand inside, I pull out my baggie with pills, a few joints, and a vial of coke. I remove the vial and quickly take a bump in each nostril.

Almost immediately, euphoria spreads through my limbs. The shaking stops, and my heart rate eases before it picks up from the drugs. “Fuck,” I groan, rubbing my chubbed cock through my leather pants.

This high will hold me over until the show is over and I can get what I really need. Maybe a bitch to hop on my dick and ride me until I pass out.

I light a joint and take a few tokes, calming my racing heart. The back of my head hits the leather couch I’m sitting on as I relax against the material. My eyes drift closed, the high making my brain shut off, no thoughts or lyrics or melodies floating around.

We have four more shows on this tour, then we can take a break for at least three months. I’m fucking tired. I want to rest for a bit and not worry about sound checks, recording albums, and fucking tour stops. It’s all so fucking exhausting.

Banging on my door has me nearly jumping out of my skin, the cacophony of noises assailing me. “Ryder,” Zed says, opening the door and peeking inside. “We’re back on in three.”

I drop the joint on the ground and stomp it out, then straighten my leather vest. It’s too hot to have a shirt on under it, so my tattoos are on display. I’m not covered like Mitch, but a good portion of my torso sports vibrant colors from the needle.

“Let’s go,” I say, brushing past him. Energy thrums through me, and I feel like I can conquer the world.

I shake my arms out as one of the backstage hands passes me my brand-new Fender. After I loop it around my neck, I play a few chords to make sure it’s in tune, nodding to myself.

“Don’t fucking flame out up there,” Tech growls. “Fucking junkie.”

Without hesitation, I turn around and punch him in the mouth, making him drop to his knees and scrape his guitar. Mitch and Zed pull me away before I can hit him again, and Kas helps Tech to his feet.

“You’re fucking done,” I snarl. “Get the fuck out of my band.”

“You can’t do that!” he shouts.

That’s where he’s wrong. Lana’s Mischief is my band, and I have say on who stays and who goes. I had it put in our contract right after Vic died because I had a feeling whoever they brought on would clash with us.

Me, Vic, Kas, and Mitch met when I moved to California after my dad got custody of me when shit went down with my mom and Perry.

We lived on the same street and started a band in my garage.

After a few sessions, we knew we’d work well together.

Losing Vic fucked us all up, but we’d already had tracks for most of our debut album recorded and had no desire to break up .

Tech doesn’t fit. He’ll never fucking fit. Now he’s fucking done.

He looks over at Zed who sighs, but nods. “You’re out, Tech. This is Ryder’s band.”

Snatching off his guitar, Tech raises it over his head and smashes it on the ground.

I smirk, continuing to play chords on my guitar. “That’ll come out of your last check, bitch. You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue your ass.”

“Fuck you, you fucking coked out motherfucker!” he yells, and all heads turn to him. I’m glad the crowd can’t hear. The press would have a fucking field day. “This isn’t over.”

I shrug and tell Zed, “Make sure security gets him the fuck out of here.”

“Don’t bother,” Tech says, pushing Zed away. “I’m fucking leaving.” He storms down the hall, shooting a glare at me before he disappears from view.

Zed sighs. “That wasn’t smart,” he says. “Consider giving him another chance.”