Saving Landon Part 29

No.

Nuh-uh.

Ain't happenin'.

I groaned angrily at myself. I held myself to a higher standard than this. Sure, I owed him for what he did for me but did I owe him that?

I mean... he was really hot.

UGH.

No.

Still mentally grumbling to myself, I went on with my morning routine. After brus.h.i.+ng my teeth, I hopped into the freezing cold shower for the millionth time. I'd learned to clean up fast without access to hot water in the improvised bathroom for over a year.

It was only while I was toweling off that I thought back to the concert he'd mentioned. Didn't he say that he was going to send someone for me?

I looked over at the time.

It was coming up on 11 AM.

Great. Only five hours of waiting.

Throwing on a long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt and a pair of shorts, I cracked a few eggs, slapped on some bacon, and made myself fried egg sandwiches for breakfast. A tumbler of frigid tap water from the bar rounded out my breakfast of champions.

As I dwelled on recent events, I found myself savoring the warmth of the eggs. Alabama rarely got what you could consider cold, but there was a slight chill to the air outside a cold front must have snapped through.

Didn't help that this bar had the approximate insulation of a paper bag.

Should I go? I wondered to myself.

Could I have been wrong?

Does he REALLY want to see me again?

Trent probably saw me as just another notch in his bedpost. It had been a long time, and he was really hot. Could I be okay with that? After all, I thought to myself, maybe he'd already lost interest from being interrupted by my landlord.

It was just so utterly lame that the only time I brushed with fame, with someone from well beyond this s.h.i.+tty little town, it was with such a conflicting, obvious a.s.shole.

He rescued me.

He wanted to f.u.c.k me.

I had wanted to f.u.c.k him.

Well... that thought had only lasted a few minutes. I'd been caught up in the moment, in my brush with fame. But I couldn't let him have that kind of control over me... and wouldn't you know it, the guy looked the type to get angry over that.

UGH.

Why is this s.h.i.+t always so complicated?

I had to admit, though if he was telling the truth about the concert... that would definitely be a h.e.l.l of an opportunity. I'd only ever seen small, s.h.i.+tty shows here. This was way different. An opportunity I wasn't sure that I could pa.s.s up.

Being backstage for a major rock venue.

Watching the rock stars go b.a.l.l.s out.

It could be fun.

Resigning myself to this course of action, I decided to stop f.u.c.king around and just see where that went. However, I made it very clear to myself that he and I were not going to be doing anything that might sully my innocence.

So, I put on the radio while I tried to clean the back of the bar up. I went ahead and took my inventory count, swept out the storage rooms, reorganized the cold stock, and tried to fix one of the creaky shelves back there.

Just for kicks, I tuned it to the Top 40 station.

All the while, I kept my ears open for one of Trent's songs, dragging the little battery-powered boom-box around from room to room as I worked. The stuff that was playing was mostly the kind of c.r.a.p I didn't have any patience for. Lots of young TV stars given a platform on the radio. Some super repet.i.tive electronic music or whatever.

Is this the s.h.i.+t that people listen to now?

Luckily, there were some familiar sounds, older pop mainstays either making a comeback, or showing that they still really ruled the roost.

I missed the days of alternative rock on the radio. Living in this bar had given me an appreciation for country music, but still... the Nineties really pushed some stellar alternative rock bands to the forefront.

Finally, what I wanted to hear came on: "Featuring, by popular demand, their latest single, here's 'Wicked Wilds' by Trent Masters and the Whiplas.h.!.+ Go see 'em live at RIPFEST tonight! This is The Pitbull, and you're listening to 106.7 The Pit!"

A low growl of the guitars swung into gear, building up a crescendo. A few bars in, the drums kicked in, complementing the instruments until Trent's voice finally poured in over the music: "My lonely walk along the highway / A silent king with feet a-peelin' / Empire of dust that shattered my way / My soul regret, I've lost the feelin'..."

I smiled to myself.

It was him. Definitely him.

I could see a clear picture of Trent Masters in my head, scrawling notes in a dirt-stained notebook. His boots were kicked up, while his band practiced chords and strummed along to their own hearts.

I liked the thought of it.

That's why, when the private car finally crunched gravel just after 4 o'clock, I was dressed up in my best.

I'd even been waiting for half an hour.

9.

Trent

Turns out, I'd been a little harder up after my brief skirmish with the bikers than I'd thought. As much as I hated to admit it, Old Greg had been right to send me towards a clinic.

My body had been already seriously aching by the time I arrived there, and it was only going to get worse.

The overnight doc who saw me patched me up, nice and well. Turned out that I only had a slight concussion, nothing too major. She commented that whomever had tended my wounds had done a good job of it, but that was small subst.i.tute for getting a few bruised ribs checked out.

Still, the place had a pharmacy built in, so I walked away with a bottle of decent painkillers and a smile on my face.

That smile faded when I got back.

The manager of our band, a scrawny, middle-aged f.u.c.k named Steven, climbed out of the bus as soon as I pulled up. His hands were up in the air a cla.s.sic sign that he was p.i.s.sed and his beady little eyes blazing with fury.

"Where the f.u.c.k were you, Trent? You can't just traipse off like that in the middle of the f.u.c.king night drunk as s.h.i.+t!"

"I wasn't drunk," I commented blandly, tossing him the keys to the rental.

They bounced limply off his chest, and he quickly bent over to scoop them up. When he jumped back up, he followed me back towards the bus.

"You must have been. The others said you were drinking like a f.u.c.king camel."

"The others were too busy with their tongues down some groupies' throats to have half a rat's a.s.s of what I was doing," I corrected him.

"You need to cut the prima donna act, you son of a b.i.t.c.h," he grumbled angrily. "How the f.u.c.k am I supposed to do PR on you f.u.c.kers when you scatter to the winds after a show?"

"I don't know. Figured that's what you were paid to do."

"I ain't your G.o.dd.a.m.n babysitter."

"Never said you were. Frankly, I'd hate that. But if you want some advice..." I poked my finger into his chest, "...back the f.u.c.k off. The others, I can't really speak to their maturity. But I haven't given you s.h.i.+t that you haven't started first. Trust me. I wanted to clear my head, took a drive. That was it."

Steven s.n.a.t.c.hed the prescription bag from my hands. Before I could grab it back, he was eying the small, orange bottle inside.

"Just out for a drive, eh? Is that the load of horse c.r.a.p you're feeding me? What kind of bulls.h.i.+t is this, then?"

"So, I got into a fight."

He glowered at me.

"A f.u.c.king fight?"

"Yeah. Went to a bar. Stepped aside for a p.i.s.s. I walk back in, and these biker f.u.c.kers were trying to rape the poor bartender. I roughed them up. They outnumbered me, so I took a few hits."

"Look at you, Mister Hotshot 'Knight in s.h.i.+ning Armor,'" the manager sardonically told me. "You're on thin ice, and I'm holding onto these."

I tugged the bottle back.

"Nice f.u.c.king try. The last thing I need is a reprisal of your G.o.dd.a.m.n pill problem. We've only got a few more shows on tour; just keep your s.h.i.+t together and we'll be home free."

Steven simmered with mounting anger, but I took the last few steps towards the bus. Being intelligent for once, he didn't bother to follow me inside, waking up anyone.

As I closed the door behind myself, I wondered why we even had to deal with him. Music labels didn't usually a.s.sign managers out anymore, but this guy was dumped on us as a condition of our contract.

Probably because we'd p.i.s.sed them off by bringing a decent lawyer along to renegotiate the terms of our royalties and earning potential, because f.u.c.k making pennies on the dollar.

I stepped over a few sleeping bodies it looked my guitarist, Waylon, had barely escorted his pair of sweet little honeys inside before f.u.c.king them in our tiny little kitchen.

Well, Papa's home now.

And Papa says "No bare a.s.ses in the kitchen."

I nudged one of them with my foot. She murmured in her sleep a little, and I persisted. Finally, she rose up, yawning and looking at me in the semi-darkness.

"Time to go, sweetheart. You and your friend. How long did Pound Town last?"

She sighed sleepily. "Not long enough."

"Yeah, didn't think so. He talks a tough game, but that's about it. I think I've clocked him at about forty-five seconds before."

"Well, it was longer than that."

I couldn't help but laugh.

"Anyway, you should get going. Need a ride? I can call you a taxi or something, but you need to get gone."

"Nah, we drove. Thanks though." She smiled quietly, her sultry little eyes locked onto me. "You want to pick up where he left off?"

I seriously considered that for a moment, but Angel's face entered my head. My c.o.c.k twitched a little, but only because of how close I'd been to f.u.c.king her.

Nah. I've already made my pick.

"Don't do sloppy seconds."

"Fair enough," she muttered.

The groupie woke up her friend, and they bid me goodnight before leaving my sight.

My drummer was asleep with his cougar. I could tell that he was still dressed in his wife beater he was unusually attached to those. Paired with cargo pants and sweat stains in some interesting places, Dylan usually went with a style that I affectionately called Divorced, Single Nebraskan Dad Chic.

I decided not to bother either of them.

Dylan was a total idiot, but he was a more rational idiot than my impulsive guitarist although I didn't like how chummy those two had been getting lately.