Chapter 64: Drummer Boys Switch Hats

Bodie

I'm standing outside the venue loading dock, flipping my Best Parent's Trophy between my hands, watching two girls pull up in a rented convertible right to the side entrance where the security guard automatically steps forward to them.

I stop fidgeting as the girl in the driver's seat—who is wearing a hat with her hair tucked up inside— turns her head and I recognize her profile. I stare hard at her dirty blonde companion in the passenger's seat.

Well, fuck a duck.

A lucky break, her being here. Maybe that's a sign.

I send the passenger a quick text. I see her look down at her phone, see her typing the reply and looking around. She spots me.

Chili waves at me. I shoot her another text. She looks at her phone, talks to Row, then gives me a thumbs up.

I bow thanks to her with folded hands, but then I put a finger on my lips to let her know to keep it on the DL for a minute, when she goes inside. Chili is always chill; she gives me a furrowed brown and the chin tip to indicate she's got my back.

A shaggy bleached blond haired kid careens past them in a white van, screeches to a halt in front of me and leaps out like there's a fucking house fire. He races toward me with a large expensive duffle bag.

"Thanks for this, man," I tell Garvy as I pull my attention from the girls and take my go-bag from him. "But you can chill a minute," I slap him on the arm as he breathes heavily. Somebody told this kid not to keep the talent waiting and he took it for Gospel.

"Everything good at the hotel?"

"Yes sir. Your suite's set up just like you like it," he assures me. "All your riders are fulfilled. Doc Gor...I mean...Dr. Watkin's dry cleaning came and I put in the closet. The kid's xbox is set up. Your Red Bull is in the fridge. And I picked up your package from the desk and put it in your room in the fridge."

I frown. "I didn't order anything."

"I think Dr. Watkins did. Some super-special arthritis cream. It came from Switzerland on dry ice?"

I look down at my hands. They hurt—all drummers hands hurt on tour, or during an intense period of playing like recording an album—but I don't complain. How in the hell did she know?

She's incredible.

I smile at Garvy. "Thanks, man. Everybody else's shit set up? I mean the band..."

"Yes sir."

"Cool. Why don't you hang here for soundcheck? Grab some food, then see Tig and tell him I said for you to help Darius tilt all my drums ten degrees back towards level. Darius knows how, he'll show you."

"I know how, but really?" His eyes brighten. He's a musician I think, but just a hobbyist. He hasn't set foot on a stage in any capacity.

"Yeah."

Why?" he asks.

I grin tolerantly. Kid hasn't learned not to ask too many question from the talent yet.

The why is two fold. First, I actually do need my drums reset, cause I'm not gonna be the one playin' 'em tonight. Marley is not going to need to find a studio replacement for me. I already found a drummer that knows our whole show by heart.

Chili just agreed to stand in for me for the next three shows, and Row apparently signed off on her absence from Strut business for a few days. Strut is on a press tour right now for the album, but let's face it—nobody ever misses a drummer if we don't show up for the radio spot or the trade mag interview.

The second reason I'm giving Garvey a shot to learn some roadie skills is he kinda reminds me of Preston. I tried to get Preston out on the road with us and away from Sixmob, but Daemon nixed that.

"Preston is white," Daemon told me, as an explanation of why he couldn't afford to lose him from his organization to mine.

"I noticed."

"Yeah well, all these money laundering business we have? The landscaping, the mobile car-cleaning, the body shop? They sometimes require us to get legitimately paid by knocking on somebody's door to give invoices and take payment. Boojie white ladies don't open their doors to black dudes lurking on their porches. Preston is one of my very few my door knockers. Unless you wanna take Preston with you this summer and leave my son with me? He's light-skinned and damn good-looking and too young to seem real dangerous...he would do, too."

Leaving Darius to a summer job laundering money for Sixmob with Daemon instead of a summer job as a roadie was not an option.

I wish I coulda argued with him about his need for Preston, too. I really do. I'm sad to say Daemon's right about that, though.

There's a reason we aren't trying to clean money using exterminating or home appliance repair as a cover. There are a bunch of people in this world that don't even understand their own natural inclination to prejudice. They would never label themselves as racist or having prejudices based on appearance. They wouldn't even recognize that they aren't comfortable opening their door to a black man.

They would say, "I don't open my door to any stranger," but that would just be a thing they tell themselves. They wouldn't even conceptualize the word stranger would be the much more likely label their mind applies to a black man on their doorstep. Yet they would assume a white guy dressed in the same clothes at their door must be the new homeowner down the street come round to introduce himself, and they would open up for fear of being perceived as rude to a new neighbor.

My celebrity, and maybe even my biracial ethnicity, obscures that reality for me. My face is familiar to so many Americans I guess. I get curious glances and surprised smiles when I pass people on the street. So many other brothers with variations of my shade are met with guarded expressions or outright suspicion.

Then again, I suppose, if those boujie white chics did open their door to my Sixmob brothers, technically they would have a reason to be worried. They are thugs, after all.

Still. It ain't like they would bother houswife during their day job. Naw, they'd just spray for her bugs or fix her dishwasher.

Most likely. Unless some rival gangster in his gang's front business also showed up to clean her gutters or whatever at the same time.

Fuck.

My world is full of contradictions. It's so fucking confusing, I don't even know what I think about that kind of shit anymore.

All I know is that for now at least, Preston has to put on a polo shirt and carry a clipboard by day and oversee drug packers in their underwear by night. I can't help him yet, but I might help Garvy.

Garvy is just an eighteen year old kid who is the cousin of a stepbrother of one of the roadies or something like that. Hell if I can remember the connection.

Barely finished high school, no prospects. Not because he's not smart or lacks drive, only because no one every told him was the former or encouraged the latter. He's doing a good job, being one of our runners between the venues and hotels. If he stops asking too many questions, he might even graduate to being a roadie.

"Cause I said so, G," I give him a quick shake of the head. "You wanna shot at roadie or not?"

"Yes sir," he scurries up the steps and inside.

I jump off the loading dock and walk to a few of the emptied tractor trailers parked back here. Between two trucks labeled with the Double Impact Tour graphic, I pull two burner phones from the bag and make my calls—those up the chain to Connor Ryan and those down the chain to Daemon.

Then I call Preston and tell him to call my regular number and talk a bunch of shit about nothing to me in approximately twenty minutes and to yell back real loud if I start yelling at him. I switch his name in my contacts to Avery Thompson and make the real Avery Thompson Douchebag Drummer.

It only takes fifteen minutes to find Trace and Adam and insert myself into conversation with them. When "Avery" calls, they hear my blow-up with him—my whole fake argument.

When I finish, pinching the bridge of my nose, Adam asks, "Everything still a go with Dharma?"

"No," I like. "Avery is trying to use loopholes to back out of our deal. He's more pissed about the brawl with Riley than I realized. Said I didn't have his back then, how can he expect me to have his back in business."

Trace shakes his head, toes the floor. "What are you gonna do?"

I punch one fist to another. "I feel like...I gotta go get straight with him. I mean, fake straight. Obviously I'm still gonna ruin him. But I don't think it can wait."

Trace clears his throat. "Fuck. We can't do without you, man."

"That's what we thought when you were out two weeks last tour, because of Ashlynn's accident and getting right with Kat," Adam reminds him. "We made it through. Maybe we can..." he looks past me and laughs. "...shit...I think maybe you are supposed to go."

We all turn around to see him pointing at Marley, talking with Row and Chili.

I grin at Adam. "The Lord provides, it seems."

Trace snorts. "All in favor of Chili subbin' for a few gigs, if she will?"

Adam and I throw up to hands along with Trace. It's a majority and Leed and Mac certainly would have made it unanimous, if they were here. They love Chili.

"'Preciate the latitude, man. Really."

Trace gives me the chin tip and I stroll over to the ladies.

"Hey!" Marley says warmly. "Look who's here! Strut was doing the a radio interview with Bobby Bones in Nashville and Row and Chili drove over to catch the show tonight!"

"Hey...you." Chili is giving me a look that's a little too-wide eyed and a smile that's a little too forced. I don't get it. Is this cause we slept together and she's chattin' up my girlfriend or because I asked her to keep my sub drummer request on the downlow?

"Hey girl," I try to coax a more natural reaction.

Silence. Row watches us with interest.

"Strut going mainstream?" I ask.

"Huh?" Chili says. Row, ever unhelpful, smirks and looks between me, Chili, and Marley.

I give her a slightly exasperated look. I tip off Row's hat. "Well you still got your gray hair, Row. What happened to the purple?" I ask Chili.

Her hands fly up to her dirty blond razor bob. "Oh. Riley. He said all of having extreme colors was a little too try-hard. Row's looks so great...and she's the front...we all took one for the team. "It's so...boring," she rolls her eyes.

"Naw...looks nice," I respond automatically.

She blushes.

Row outright laughs.

Marley's eyes narrow. At me.

Chili bites her thumbnail.

Awww shit. What the hell and where is the badass drummer I vibed with last tour? The one that mostly likes girls and acted like our one night was just an experiment? Cause nailbiting, blushing, sketch-acting Chili is about to get me in trouble.

I salvage the whole situation by launching into my I-need-a-sub-pitch for Marley's sake, and Marley's eyes soften up as she realizes the significant advantage of having Chili—a member of our extended family—as my sub instead of a stranger. And when I turn the conversation so that Marley understands I mean for Chili to sit soundcheck and sub for me tonight, her eyes soften even further.

Into sadness, because she's not ready for me to leave.

But Doc Gorgeous has a job to do and she takes Chili off to find Mac and her stylist in the hopes of costuming Chili in something more than her jeans and yin-yang t-shirt.

When she returns, I've already used the contact info she texted me about my charter jet to move up the departure time.

I pull her into a backstage supply closet, cupping her face. "Listen, baby, I gotta go do this thing, okay? The sooner I go, the sooner I'm back."

She nods, putting her hands on my hips, lowering her head, stepping between my feet. "I know."

I hate to tell her this part. "Don't call me, okay? Let me call you, when I can. And explain to Darius why he shouldn't call, as best you can. I don't want to draw any attention to my private life, while I'm with Connor Ryan, or whoever else I might have to deal with."

"Makes sense," she agrees. "Go," she mumbles. "My loves goes with you."

"And you are my home, no matter where I go," I kiss her lips.

She lingers in softness, her lips pressed against mine. "Did you sleep with Chili?" she asks.

Everything changes. All the softness between us grips, like a fist.

Still I try to play it off, plying her with more kisses.

"Why would you even ask me that? You know you are the only woman I want from now on until forever."

She is still against my kisses. "That's not a no."

I remove my lips from the only skin they crave. My hands are firm on her shoulders when I look her in the eyes.

"I'm not going to lie to you. About anything big. Or about anything as small as this. I had sex with Chili Malone one time. Worked with her for a couple months and then she...asked for a fun night, no strings. She's bisexual, hadn't been with a guy in years. Wanted to...try it out again. It was a nice night. She's a nice girl. It was...nothing like me and you. I love you, and that makes all the difference."

She's nodding, but she's already stepping away.

"Okay. Thank you for your honesty and I'm not...upset." Her voice is a little hard, but it's masking hurt.

I catch her by the wrist. "You are upset and it has nothing to do with Chili. And I can't go. Not like this."

I back her against the wall, caging her, planting my forearms beside her head. "I need you. I need all your love and all your fury. Now."

She understands. She needs, too.

She pants for five long beats. I count them, like splashy brushes of a cymbal. My own heart booms in my head like a bass drum.

Then she grabs my head, and my determined mouth is crushing her petal lips.

One thought of complete gratitude: thank god she's wearing a skirt.

Leather. I jerk it up her thighs with no tenderness and no goddamn time to spare.

It's a violent gorgeous fuck.

Her smell is fear and desire, her cries are capitulation, and her grip—her hands, her legs, her walls—relentless.

"That's right, Jasmine," I grit out, as the spasms of her coming push me to the edge, "Keep. Fucking. Going."

"You...come...back..." she sobs.

My answer is my essence, pouring my promise into her at the same moment she arches in ecstasy. After a long moment of bowed bliss, I press her flat against the wall, both of us raspy, struggling for breath and grasping for our faith in the future.

Insane, but right this moment, my only thought is ferocious and unreasoned: I fucking hate her birth control.

For the first time in my life, I maybe understand, for one fleeting moment, Daemon's motivations.

All I want to do is fuck her again. And again. Until I overcome those fucking pills she takes everyday and I get to see her like I never did before—belly full with our child.

When fear runs your life, and your bed fellows are killers? The only future you crave is innocence.

A new beginning.

I shake my head slowly on her shoulder, primal wrongs warring with my core rights.

That's some fucked up shit I'm thinking, and I know it.

Primitive fever cools, and reason returns.

I would never leave her alone in that again. There will be no new beginnings, until I emerge from this chapter of our life, certain in victory.

She's still holding on tight. I kiss her with all the surety and all the desperation all at once.

"I fucking love you."

"I fucking love you more."

I laugh at her obviously untrue declaration but I won't argue with her anymore.

"I need you to do something for me, okay?" I smooth her hair back. It's so soft, but I'm still hard inside her.

She nods. "Anything."

"Remember how strong you are. Run this tour like a boss. Be the incredible mom you have always been, will always be. I'll be back to do my part as soon as I can."

She nods, her forehead to mine. I kiss her once, twice and I ease out of her, zipping my jeans as she straightens her skirt.

Three minutes later I'm scanning the green room for wherever the fuck someone moved my go-bag and Marley is running after me, urging me to double check it for my passport when Matt strolls up.

"Hear you're bailin'," he says casually.

"Just a quick field mission to stop a business bleed. Be right back," I say casually.

He's staring at Marley's legs. His eyes flit quickly away at the same moment I see her thighs tense, pressing her knees together. She smiles at him. A little too brightly.

Shit. I probably shouldn't have torn her panties off. She's got nothing to prevent...gravity.

Matt gives Marley an amused nod and slaps me on the arm hard. "Okay. Shit happens. Safe trip." His eyes dart to Marley's knees and then back to me with a shit-eating grin. "Glad you have your priorities straight, Bodie."

He saunters away.

"Oh my god," Marley groans into her hands, her thighs squirming.

I collar her in a fierce hug. "It's okay."

"It's so not. It's...unprofessional."

"Matt del Marco's perception of a pro is so much different that yours. I guarantee he's seen much worse than a little cream stream," I smile into her hair.

She makes the sexy snort. "There's a name for what I'm experiencing?"

"Jasmine, there's a name for every hot, naughty thing I can do to you," I assure her. "We're just getting started."

I bring all my rock star to the kiss I lay on her and I leave her like that, with a lust-washed look on her face. That's so much easier to walk away from than tears.

There's one more thing I gotta do before I jet.

Darius and Garvy are finishing my kit tilt when I approach.

"Hey, D. Can I talk to you a minute?"

"I was hoping you were gonna explain this," he huffs thumping the bass drum with a tennis shoe toe. "Is this just some kind of busy work? Are you gonna make us reset them how you like now?" He's sweaty and exasperated.

"No. The adjustment is legit. This is how Chili plays. She sits higher on her throne, and plays flatter. That way, she generates more boom with less force. Very smart for a drummer with a little less muscle mass," I school him. I slap a cymbal. "This is her kit now, for a few gigs. Set it up this way for her, until I get back, okay?"

He's not interested at all in the technique. His eyes narrow in the way that looks so much like mine, searching me. He says nothing, because he is so fucking smart. His eyes flit to Garvey, who is re-micing my floor tom.

"Hey, Garvy. Take five, man."

Garvy is a quick learner. He doesn't ask questions this time.

But Darius does.

"Where are you going?"

"Philippines. Dharma Business. Contract dispute."

Daruis' breathy huff of disbelief is evident. "You are leaving this epic tour for paperwork? Bullshit. Rock stars handle business with phone calls to lawyers. Where are you really going?"

Wow. How is he so much smarter than Trace and Adam?

I sigh. Really, he's not. What Darius says seems obvious to him, but it's not that way, really. Trace and Adam understand the art of the deal, the power of personal influence. I could try to explain that to him, but the truth is...that's not really the truth of this situation.

I sit down at my kit, running a roll, pumping a pattern for a few seconds, looking for some honest way to explain to Darius without giving TMI, thug version.

I stop. "Do you remember the day we met Malcolm Hyde?"

Met is a relative term. The poor boy was dead on a gurney in a medical school at the time.

"Yeah."

"And I told you I was gonna make things right, for you, your mama and me. But there were things I couldn't tell you..."

"Yeah."

"This is one of those things."

Darius fiddles with the mic bent over my snare, turning it off.

"Are you gonna kill him?" he says low.

"Who? Daemon?" my voice is high with disbelief. My automatic reaction is to say no, of course not.

But if I say it, then I can't renege on it, and the truth is, if this should go wrong, if Daemon should somehow uncover my real agenda, he will try to kill me. And he is not taking me out of this world—away from Marley, away from my standing before me—without one hell of a fight.

"Not today, Darius. Not tomorrow. Not any day that I can see, am I planning to take a life. No one's. Not even Daemon's. He's TJ brother, Pat's son. I don't want him dead, I just want him...powerless over us. I hope...this is all gonna go down better than that."

"Is it...some kind of set-up to send him back to jail?"

"Darius. I promised you I was gonna make things right. You remember what you promised me?"

He looks extremely disgruntled, but he says, "To stay in my lane."

I nod up at him from my drum stool. No more discussion is needed. Only goodbye.

I pull him to me—I've only got about three,four inches on him at this point—and hug him hard. "I think I'm gonna miss three gigs. I should be back before Mo Pop."

He hugs me back. His voice is casual, like mine. "You better. I've never been to a music festival. You said we could hang out."

"I did. We will. You take care of your mama while I'm gone."

He snorts. "It's her job to take care of everyone and everything."

I shake him by the shoulders. "Which is why she needs you to take care of her, by not giving her a bunch of mouthy bullshit."

He nods. "I can do that."

"For a whole week? That would be a first."

I fake punch him lightly on the arm. He lunges at me lightly and I skitter back with a smile.

"Get out of here, old man," he says, and he gives me the chin tip.

I give it back. Between us, it's more than cool acknowledgment. It's sort of the way we say I love you, I think.

I pick up my bag, and put on my sunglasses, and switch my hat.

Rock star off.

Drug mule on.

Everybody ready to see our other villain in this tale? Connor Ryan? Who do we dislike more? Daemon or Connor? Or does Dawes still top them both?