Page 51 of More Than Scars
“I couldn’t agree more,” I smiled wide, catching Bowie’s eyes across the crowd. When he winked at me, my stomach did flip-flops, and I swear my heart grew larger right then and there for the man who held the only key to it. “I love him more than words can express.”
“The look in your eyes and Bowie’s too says it all. I’ll always be a mother bear, but knowing he’s in your capable hands, I won’t be losing as much sleep anymore.”
With both family meet-and-greets behind us, Bowie and I were well on our way to forever. Now, to get them through their biggest performance to date without a hitch. Speaking of sleepless nights, tonight might be mine…
Bring it on, Rocktoberfest!
Chapter Twenty-One
Bowie
Rocktoberfest
“Claude? Holy shit, guys, it’s Claude!
“Dude! What the hell are you doing here?”
Twin waves of exuberance swarmed us, right along with a wave of bubbles that poured over our heads and made seeing who the hell we were talking to extremely difficult.
“Jagger! Johnny! Chill with the fuckin’ bubbles for a minute so we can talk to Claude!”
A bubble landed on my nose, and I sneezed and batted at the cloud around my head, blinking as they cleared enough for me to see purple hair beside long, blue tresses framing a face I’d have known anywhere.
Holy shit, Johnny Amaral.
I was about to have a serious fanboy moment. How the hell did Claude know them? Before I could turn and ask, another wave of bubbles covered us. Someone seriously had to be wielding a bubble cannon for the bubbles to be swarming us like this.
“Kayden! Telling them to quit was not a damned invitation for you to retaliate!” A gruff voice cut in, only slightly muffled by the bubbles swirling around my ears. “You are all going to wind up on leashes, I swear to fucking dog!”
Dog?
Had I heard that right?
“Give me that dog – damned thing.”
Okay, I definitely hadn’t misheard.
Brushing the bubbles out of my eyes again, I cleared them just in time to see Robbie fuckin’ Marsh yanking a bubble cannon out of Kayden’s hands. The crew that comprised Damaged Saints and Blissfully Immune stood in front of us, some looking a bit sheepish as their manager, who also happened to be the former lead singer of Damaged Saints, shot them all scathing looks. I did not ever want to see Pressley look at any of us like that.
“Please excuse our miscreants,” Robbie said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They seem to have left their home training back in Maine.”
The only one who didn’t seem amped up and out of control was their bassist, Mickey, who I only knew from the articles I’d read about the band. He was not as outgoing as the rest of his bandmates, if the interviews with them were to be believed. Sitting obediently by his feet were two of the most adorable St. Bernards I’d ever seen, tongues lolling out of their mouths as their tails kicked up a cloud of dust as they wagged them on the ground.
“Hey Claude,” Ozius ‘Ozzy’ Wilson said as he stepped closer, a flyswatter in one hand, a bubble still clinging to the flat surface. “Why didn’t you say anything about being here?”
One look at Claude’s face and I saw that our usually overconfident drummer suddenly looked like a kicked puppy.
“Just, uh, didn’t want to say anything until I was sure it was really gonna happen.” Claude replied, though I sensed there was more to it, especially when he didn’t make eye contact with Ozzy. “How’s it going?”
“We had an…entertaining ride out,” Ozzy replied, shaking his head as he glanced at the men around him, all of whom I recognized, save for one.
“Hey Kit,” Claude said.
“Hey man, good to see you,” the guy replied.
Him I didn’t know from any of the articles I’d read or podcasts I’d listened to, but it was clear Claude did.
“You playing?” Claude asked.