Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
“You guys ever heard of this thing called Nar-Anon?” Trevor asked as he busted into the garage.
Lars didn’t look up, fiddling with a new chord he’d been working on.
“No, what’s that?” I asked Trev as I tossed him a beer.
“You know how our fucked-up parents won’t go to meetings to get straight? Well, there’s an entire community who deals with the same shit. There’s a meeting tonight. I think we should go.”
I cracked open the beer and took a sip. “We have our own Nar-Anon meeting every night, right here.”
“Not really. We never talk about the shit we go through. We sit and listen to music or fiddle with these busted instruments.”
“How’d you even hear about this?” Lars asked.
“My friend, Billie. We were studying in the library, and I saw a pamphlet. I asked her what it was about. You know what’s wild? She had no problem talking about her mother’s pill addiction. No shame, no anger, nothing. It was as if she’d been dealt a shitty hand and just accepted it. Made me think about how much I hate my dad. How when he comes home in the early hours of the morning, barely able to walk with the stench of booze on his breath, I wish he’d die so I wouldn’t have to see him again. Billie loves her mom. Went on about how it’s a disease. She compared it to cancer. Can you believe that?”
I barked a laugh, wondering how delusional this girl was. “Don’t know about having cancer, but my parents sure as fuck are a cancer.”
2
Billie
“As mentioned earlier, Miss Richmond, the guys don’t answer personal questions. Nothing about their past or present,” Kaye Cavendish, Gutless Void’s manager, repeats for the tenth time as if I’m a small child who needs repetition to understand.
“I’ve got it. The questions will be strictly about the music.”
Kaye nods. “Good, good. That’s how I got the guys to agree. Satan, especially. He told me the first time you ask anything personal, he’ll walk out, and that will be the end. So this is very important.”
We walk backstage, where all the roadies are setting up for practice. My stomach flips. Gutless Void is the only band that gives me the same high I had in my late teens, sitting in an old decrepit shack listening to two eighteen-year-old boys play.
“You a fan?” Kaye asks.
I nod. “You could say that.”
Kaye smiles as if she’s discovered the mystery of the universe. She’s probably thinking I’m some bimbo who’ll write whatever she wants as long as the guys throw me a compliment or two. She doesn’t know I got where I am because I ask hard-hitting questions and keep it professional. Kaye may be a woman, but she’s working for the man, and the man always assumes we’ll buckle at the knees at a few superficial compliments.
“The guys will be out in a few minutes for a short set. They like to check the mics and the correct placement of the instruments. Nothing’s gone wrong in years, but they like the hands-on method. They want the fans to get the show they paid for. No one in the music industry cares about their fans like these boys do.”
Kaye is buttering me up, putting the guys on a pedestal. I already know how much they care about their fans. I know they give back to the community. I’ve seen all the local stories about how they feed the homeless at soup kitchens, work at food banks, and give generous contributions to small grassroots charities. None of this is unusual for celebrities. Charities bring about tax write-offs, publicity, and help clean up unacceptable behavior. But not Gutless Void. These guys do their good deeds on the down low. The only way anyone knows they do any of it is from random cell phone pictures posted here and there on social media.
I’m lost at the appearance of the stage. Instruments light up with various spotlights. I shut down the world around me. A spiritual energy floats on the empty stage. A world of possibilities, a hushed paradise creating a surge of passion that heals and rejuvenates.
I startle at someone bumps my shoulder, and a deep, familiar voice says in my ear, “Excuse me.”
I move aside, and Satan from Gutless Void brushes against my body. I’ve had many rock stars touch me over the years, some innocent, and others with lewd propositions. But this is the first time my body feels like it will ignite.
The band is a lure: four ripped guys wearing gas masks, tight black pants, and long coats. Their antics on stage also raise the blood pressure of women all around the world with their gyrating movements that mimic all kinds of sexual activities. The visual is so believable that many swear they’re having sex on stage.