Chapter 64: Nice Guys Don't Like Games

So sometimes I have a song in mind when I write a chapter, but this is the situation where I wrote this chapter, then heard this song during the course of the day, and immediately recognized the similarities ...how much the imagery of the song matches some of the elements of the chapter--how Adam wishes Mac would take her sunglasses off so he can "steal a glimpse from her eyes", how he feels about the games, how he's feeling about her claiming her "half" without considering their "whole"...it's really eerie, almost. Many might not recognize this old-school Alt Rock band  but The Connells were very popular for a while in the college scene of the SouthEast of the USA. They put out many albums on indepenent labes, and toured clubs and small festivals relentlessly,  one of those bands who worked hard but never really got the big break ....now they all  older and work day jobs. Real estate, lawyers, stuff like that. Not every band that has great music makes it big.

Oh, speaking of Bands that haven't made it big...introducing Strut...

Adam

I'm leaning over the stadium soundboard with Trace and Andy. The Strut girls are rocking the stage in this currently empty stadium, but I'm watching Mac who is stalking the empty pit, looking sexy as hell in black leather booty shorts and a bra, overlayed with a see-through crop-top covered in stars. Somehow she and Tamara have chosen an outfit that has minimized her baby bump but is highlighting all new curves. She's my wife and I fucking love her for so many reasons, but right now it's hard to remember any of them except her fucking fine ass and her tight, plump rack, her newly updated, flaming red hair and her pouty petal pink lips.

Goddamn, I'm the luckiest man alive. My wife is a cross between a rock 'n roll witch, a Brazilian Festival dancer and a fertility goddess.

She's also braceleted, balyaged, sunglassed, and fully-styled, looking like it's go-time for a to-be-recorded performance, when in fact it's way early—not even our own sound-check yet. Normally, we'd be running a little press or having the morning off, but we've all embraced Strut like family, so we are here to support their final run-through, giving all the technical and performance advice we can.

Mac turns toward the stadium sound booth, giving a signal to turn down the mics on Sadie and Harper. I was thinking the same thing. Row's voice is sultry and understated like Trace's but it's also the show-shiner—her vocal color, and the attitude she puts behind it. I point it out to Andy, and we dial it back, both feeling the sweet spot at just the same moment that Mac hauls a thumbs up into the air and Leed gives an approving nod from where he sits atop a roadie case above a feedback monitor.

Bodie is on stage with the roadies, shouting over their song about the adjustments to the kit for Chili, the Strut drummer who will share his same basic set-up while they tour for us. Bodie likes to sit low on his kit to vibe on the bass drum, but Chili needs to be a little higher with her snares tipped a little more to get the power she likes. She asked him if she could make the adjustments and he helped her angle the drums in their stands himself.

"Think our Bodes has a little crush?" I nudge Trace as Bodie stalks around Chili as she plays, pointing out all the finer details of the differences in her set-up and his to the roadie. He's not doing it to make sure his set-up gets restored. Our roadies could put up our set in their sleep. He's doing it so her adjustments are made for the shows that will follow. Honestly, I've never seen Bodie give a shit about an opener's preferences. Usually they just deal with the kit the way he likes it.

Trace grins. "If he does, he might be shit out of luck. Saw her close-talking some chic at the bar last night. I don't think Bodie saw, though. Think she might be into girls. Harper too. Hell, maybe they are into each other."

I take a second look at the purple headed, stud-collared barely legal bad-ass drummer and the bass player with pink and black hair striped like a raccoon's. "Mmmmmm...I saw them both throwin' eyes at Bodie and Leed. Maybe they bat off both sides."

Trace grins at me. "You better shut down those fantasies, Married-Guy-With-A-Kid-On-Way. Macaroni will cut your balls off if she even gets a whiff."

I laugh. "I'm thinking of Bodie. I have no fantasies about those girls. Christ, they are barely legal."

Trace looks offended. "Uhhh, six months ago you were more than fantasizing about girls their age. They are all a year or two older than Kat..."

I shrug. "That's different. Fangirls are...fangirls. They come around to  do what they do, and as long as they are legal, no on gets hurt. At least as far as Soundcrush fangirls go.  Kat is different, too. You've known her forever. You grew up together."

Trace snorts. "I think the difference is you are an old man now."

I roll my eyes, but if I'm honest, he's right. Bodie getting with one of these Strut chics doesn't make me bat an eye, even though he's three years older than me and a solid eight to nine years older than these girls. If Bodie bedded a Strutter, he'd take care to make sure they knew it was just a friendly thing. He's too nice of a guy to mess them up in the head in any way, and too fun for any one of these hardened LA girls to take seriously, anyway. But to me, now that I am working up a marriage and a family with Mac, I can't even imagine anything close to a Chili or a Harper or a barely legal fangirl anymore. These chics seem like...kids to me.

Mac has wandered out to the control booth now, she rolls up her sunglasses, looking between us as our conversation stops abruptly. She licks her lips suggestively and grins. "Thinking about Unicorn hunting, boys?" She turns and examines the Strut girls critically, a hand on her hip. "Sadly, Trace, I don't think your girl is the sharing type, but I'm much more experienced than KitKat." Harper—the one with black and pink striped hair, is sticking her tongue out at Row, revealing her piercing and a rather dexterous tongue muscle. Mac chuckles darkly. "Hhhhhmmm... I could maybe go for Harper. What do you think Adam? Do you like her? Want to make her an offer?"

Trace sniggers. I sigh. My wife, ever the bad girl.

Naughty girls need lessons sometimes...

I run a hand along her hip, as I step close, mimicking her posture and pretending to assess the Strut girls. "Mmmm...I think Harper is probably a natural brunette. But the green-haired one..."

"Sadie," Trace interjects helpfully.

"Yeah, Sadie," I repeat, winking at him. " Why don't you give her a second look?" I whisper in Mac's ear. "She's fair, maybe even strawberry blonde like you. You two would look real sweet together...peaches and cream twins..." I run two fingers beneath the hem of her booty shorts, trailing suggestively toward her inner thigh.

She whips around on me, hands ready to do violence, murder making her eyes go vivid green.

I grab her by the forearms before she can slap or punch and pull her against my chest as I smirk at her. Her rage diminishes as she realizes I was just giving her shit, like a bandmate.

"Don't sling bullshit if you can't swallow bullshit, Shortcake." I pop her ass lightly, and she giggles.

"Fine, no more jokes about the Strut girls." She pulls my arms around her possessively, and I oblige, tucking my chest against her back as we watch Row thrash out the finale of the song. I can't help wondering for about the tenth time what's up with Mac this morning. She's really got her tough-girl, hottie mo-jo on, like I haven't seen since we were in LA, a month ago. She's got new clothes—again, and these are more like club clothes than rock show clothes—and a new, richer, hair color, abandoning the trendy false shades that the Strut girls have OD'ed on. I'm not sure if having the Strut girls around is making her feel the need to bring her A-game, or maybe define herself separately from them, or something.

Or maybe it's the idea that Angelo Moran is expected before the show that's making her need a bigger, bolder shield.

"You okay?" I murmur into her ear.

She nods, the back of her head moving up and down against my chest. The she looks up at me and her eyes cut to Trace, and back to me with question. I lean down to kiss her temple and murmur in her ear. "All good. He meant what he said last night. We're all good."

Last night on the bus, we finally put our cards on the table about the tour.

When Mac and I told the guys she and I wouldn't go to Europe next year, Leed slapped his chair in approval and immediately said, "Canceling Europe works for me. You guys aren't the only one with a kid on the way you need to bond with, you know."

Bodie shrugged and said, "True. Three with an urgent need to be domestic for a minute. That's that. Tour not happening. No biggie."

Trace stared out the window for a tense minute, nodding slowly. "I figured," he shrugged. "I guess, in the end, I have just have one thing to say."

"Say what you need to say, Trace." Mac had her killer face on.

"Noyoko," he grinned.

I heard Mac sigh in relief—and that was over my own chuckle. "I see you've talked to Matt already."

"Yeah," he nodded, looking between us. "Don't be mad at him, but once I told him about everything going on, he came clean about running into you at the hospital in LA. He gave me the "Noyoko" pep talk, too. He's right. This is a no-brainer. We're canceling Europe. We have to, I know that, but I don't know what will happen as a result. Matt says the promoters will definitely file a lawsuit for lost wages and breach of contract damages...business is business. The question is...will the label have our back? Matt says Angelo Moran is smart, and hopefully he will recognize that Soundcrush could make the label billions over the long haul. The industry is looking at us as second generation Skid Marcs, now. Matt said if we play it right, Angelo might make the call for the label to cover our asses for the short-term damages. But he also said, Angelo is a tough negotiator. He won't give away the farm for free."

Mac just nodded. "What will he want?" I asked Trace.

Trace shrugged. "Matt said he'll make us his bitches, if he can. Only we can decide what we can swallow."

"I guess we'll find out when Angelo gets here tomorrow," Leed said. "In the meantime, I'm calling the bunk. Too hungover to give a damn about any spunk back there," he grumbled as he pitched unsteadily to the back of the bus and collapsed without bothering to pull the privacy barrier.

That was that. Meeting adjourned.

Mac seemed a little shell-shocked at how easily Trace accepted the bad news about the tour, but in truth, I think Trace's easy attitude had more to do with Matt working his magic than anything. I have a feeling, before our long Soundcrush career is over, we'll all have a lot to thank Matt del Marco for.

Speaking of Matt, Trace's phone is lighting up with one of those classic Skid Marcs songs, which means Daddy del Marco is calling. Trace grins and whips it to his ear. "Hey Man." Pause. "Speak up, Strut is raisin' all kinds of hell in practice..." he laughs. "Naw, just in practice so far." Trace laughs again. "I'll tell 'em." Another pause. "Naw man, the only one that's standing aournd is Adam. No worries from him, of course. Fine, Jesus Christ," Trace grumbles as he lowers the main sound switch and calls out from the control mic, "Ladies, take five," he gives Row the cut-it-hand-across-the-throat gesture.

Row glares, as the other girls disjointedly stop their playing. She yanks her blue-gray hair back in an angry pony.

"What the fuck, Trace!?!? We were hot on that!"

Trace says nothing, he just jabs his phone and thrusts his phone speaker against Andy's control mic.

"That was sic, Doodle. Pump that shit just like that, tonight." Matt's friendly, fatherly voice booms through the stadium. "Wish I could be there. Oh wait, I could be there," he sing-songs, "gotta a private jet, you know..." he teases her.

"Daddy!" Row yells in her mic, crushing her head between her hands. "Stop calling Trace to check on us! And you can't come tonight! We don't want you here for the first show. Wait a few weeks, til we've worked out all the kinks!"

"Fine," Matt sighs in resignation. "I didn't call for that, anyway. I called to give the Dad Speech."

Row turns around to the Strut girls. "Oh.My.Fucking.God." she whispers through the mic.

"Yep," Matt says cheerfully, blaring through the entire stadium like he's the one giving a show. "So all you bastards listen up—all you roadies,sound-techs, PA's, you rock stars, and I'm especially talking to you, Leed fucking Lawson—do not mess around with these girls and get them crushin' on you. They are out there to get serious about their music. They are the talent, not your fucking fangirls. You fuck with my daughter or her friends and get them distracted, I will not be happy. If you like employment in this industry, you don't want me unhappy with you. You got it?"

Mac is covering her mouth, doubled over, trying not to laugh. Otherwise, the stadium is dead silent.

"I said...you got it, motherfuckers!?!?!" Matt roars over the sound system.

Cries of "Yes, sir! gnd Got it, Mr. Del Marco!" echo through the arena from the crew on and off-stage. I note Riley side stage, rolling his eyes and adjusting his glasses with an unimpressed look on his face.

"Trace, I don't think I heard that fucking lion, or that dread-locked drummer of yours," Matt warns.

Leed hops off his roadie case and plucks Row's mic from her stand. "Heard ya loud and clear, Boss," Leed says in his lazy lion voice, an amused grin on his face. "Bodes," he prompts, swinging around to look at Bodie, who has about the same look on his face as Riley.

Bodie kicks his feet over to a back-up mic. "You're killing me, del Marco. I'm a sweetheart. I ain't gonna mess nobody up."

"Ya damn right you ain't gonna mess nobody up, Bodie Jamieson. Yeah, I know your name. I know all about you, son. It's scary how much I know about you. I know you got a mean left jab, but that you drop your guard when you haul back to throw a haymaker. And unless you want me to show you how fast and hard I can take advantage of that, you keep your dick confined to your fangirls, and let my daughter and her band focus on their music. I don't mind if they find a few fans of their own for a one night flirtation, but they ain't got not time for fallin' in love on the road."

"Daammmmn," Bodie says softly. "Okay, then. Whatever you say." He winks at Chili. "We just ain't meant to be, girl."

Chili pouts and shakes her purple head sadly, playing along with Bodie. "You suck, Matt," she calls out from the mic on her kit.

"I can suck, you can't," Matt says cheerfully. "Okay then, good talk! Heartley, I hope you have a son, so you don't have to give these kinds of speeches when your daughter wants to be a rock star. Anyway, have a kick-ass show...Strut and Crush!"

Then Matt clicks off. Row screams and kicks over her mic stand.

"No wonder she's always so pissed off and rebellious," Mac laughs. "Matt is a damn lunatic."

I made a sound of complete disagreement. "What are you talking about, Shortcake? Matt's a damn good dad. Pitch perfect."

"Oh god, I'm with Matt. I hope Babycakes is a boy. I am not going to let you go medieval on a daughter," Mac grumbles, but I know she's just teasing me. She's gonna protect our kid like crazy, boy or girl.

Love like crazy.

Hers, mine, ours.

Everything is so good.

Life is better than I ever thought it could be.

Like it just started. Like we are finally past all the secrets and fears and obstacles keeping me and Mac apart. I'm not even worried about canceling the tour, or what Moran and the label will want us to do to make it right. None of that really matters. What matters is this.

Me and Mac. Together. Living and laughing in the moment. Able to love each other in every shared smile, every simple touch, every played note and every sung harmony. Together with nothing to keep us apart anymore.

Somehow Trace and Riley talk Row down and Strut resumes their final practice, but we've done all we can do for them technically, so at this point we are just enjoying the sound. Mac and I make our way back up to side stage and for some reason, Tamara is concerned about touching up Mac's makeup, like that matters for hours.

As Mac moves to follow Tam backstage I hold her back. "I thought Tam was going back to LA with Ben," I say with a frown. "What happened there?"

"Well, I haven't had a chance to find a new stylist for us, with everything going on, and since she and Leed are doing better, there's not as much tension. She's going home soon, though. As soon as I..." Mac's lips hang open with words unsaid. She swallows and starts again. "As soon as I don't need her here." Something undefinable flashes in Mac's face, but I can't read it behind a curtain of makeup and sunglasses. Mac lays a hand on the side of my throat and tilts her head up to mine, but she keeps her sunglasses on. "Adam, I love you. So much. No matter what happens when Moran gets here...it's like you said. We are on the same side. Always."

I realize now, she is very worried about this meeting with Moran. This is why she looks like she's made up for a video shoot at a 10 am practice rehearsal. This is why she's changed her look, changed her hair color. I play with her locks. Once the funky colors of the rainbow, now all the beautiful hues of a sunset—coral copper and caramel at the crown streaming down so a golden setting sun at her tips.

She is my sunrise, my sunset and all the glorious sunkisses in between.

"Don't worry, Baby," I tell her. "Everything is going to be okay. You'll see."

She takes a deep breath, and plants a kiss on my jaw as she slips my grasp to go touch up her Killer Face.

It's not even ten minutes later when Riley moves through the backstage area, touching each of us Soundcrush guys lightly on the arm and giving a head jerk to follow him as he speaks a steady stream of instructions into his phone...sounds like he's giving navigation directions to a driver.

Mac swings out of the trailer as if on cue, those damn sunglasses still barring my windows to her soul. I blink a little at the energy she's bleeding. She's pouring off the go-time heat like we are taking the stage. I feel it all over—her power, her determination, her need to shine, her absolute focus. It rolls over me—more than ever, now that she and I are so connected—and it settles in my gut...a heaviness, a clench, a...

A warning.

I put a hand on Mac's slim shoulder, holding her back as the others hustle down the stairs to Moran like the bitches we are now.

"Mac—"

She cuts me off, clawing her sunglasses. Her eyes are churning chasms of worry, but she spits her words tersely. "I've done something—set something in motion. I didn't tell you, because I don't know exactly how it's going to play, and, I didn't want you or any of the guys to try to talk me out of it. You're going to be...maybe a little hurt. Maybe a little angry. Remember that you love me. All of me. The maneater. The girl with the sweet smile. The bad girl. Your wife. The mother of your baby. The Priestess who makes the magic. The girl who fights fierce. All of me. Adam...promise me you'll remember."

I stare down at me wife, her steely voice so at odds with her pools of hazel need. "What did you do, Shortcake?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure," she says as three shiny black Escalades roll right up into the stadium to the back of the open air stage and Trace looks up at us expectantly, from where we stand at the top of the metal steps. "But whatever I've started, I'm going to follow through with, and I need you to have my back." She grips my shirt. "Please."

I wrap my hands around delicate wrists. I want to tell her it doesn't work like this...marriage isn't like jacking a boat. It's not better to ask for forgiveness instead of giving the heads up. I don't know what she's done...but really seeing at the way she's changed her look—set herself apart from the grungy punky rock look of all the Strut girls, I can begin to imagine. Because I can put my finger on it now. Mac looks more LA than I have ever seen her. She looks sexy, but unique. Polished and assured. She stands apart. She shines.

She looks like a pop star.

"What did you do?" I ask her again.

The Escalades are coming to a synchronized stop. I think she's going to evade me again, but she relents. "When we got signed all those years ago...my contract was different."

"I know. They put a bunch of bullshit physical appearance clauses in yours...stuff about your personal training and diet doctors..."

She shakes her coppery curls. "Not that. There was a separate contract. A five feature deal, and an extended release—three solo songs."

"You signed a side-deal?" I ask, incredulous. "Behind our backs?" I can't fucking believe it. That was four years ago. Mac's had a deal to make her own music all this time and she never told us? Any of us?

"They said I had to sign to make the bigger deal for us. It's the only reason. I've been trying to get out of it for years—putting off all the features they bring to me, because I did manage to keep creative control of who I feature for in the contract. But I can't get out of it. It's a contract, and it's come due, Adam. And we are already in breach of our band contract, refusing to work with Dawes, and the tour contracts. I have to do this. For us. For the baby. For the band."

The drivers are swinging around to open the passenger doors. Trace is glaring at us to get the fuck down there and bow and scrape. "Mac, why the fuck didn't you tell me?" I hiss. "You've had years, months, days, hours, that this was becoming more and more a thing I should know—a thing we should all know."

She looks away to the Escalades, and she makes a growl of frustration as the doors open and Moran's whole fucking entourage begins to pour out. Seeing who pops out of the car, I understand that sound perfectly—her growl, why she didn't tell me. The "something" she has done is apparently coming with a whole lot of consequences. The shock of one in particular causes me to drop her hands and take a swift step back from her. I point a finger to Dawes, who has already zoned in on us at the top of the back-stage, his shit-eating smirk already telling me what I didn't want to know. "Tell me that's not part of what you've done. Tell me you haven't opened the door to that asshole again."

Eyes are on her, and Mac's Killer face remains perfectly in place as she says, "I'm sorry, Adam. Dawes is a fucking snake, but he's the snake I need on my side right now." She moves down the stairs smoothly, and she looks back.

"Are you gonna have my back?" she asks.

Have her back, she says. Fuck. She's my wife. She's carrying my kid. I love her. No matter what reckless, wrong, betrayal she has made, I don't have a choice in the matter. I promised before God to always forgive. Yes, I'll have her back. Doesn't mean I'm going to fucking like it worth a damn. Doesn't mean I don't feel an alarming anger growing strong and deep. An anger like I've never really felt at Mac before.

Not a flashing fury, not a brewing fight. A roiling, hurting resentment that she can cast me aside so easily in this decision she's made.

"Adam?" she asks, barely holding back her own irritation. "I am sorry, but this is what I have to do. This is the only thing I can do, to help us. Are you with me?"

I nod stiffly. "We're married. I meant it." That's all I can manage, but it's enough for her. She's already whipping her sunglasses off for Moran and Dawes, skating down the stairs eagerly.

Ready to play these fucking industry games. Ready to risk our whole world for her half. Ferocious in her refusal to give up her need to win for herself.

I clench my fists. My rough, irregularly shaped wedding ring pinches tender skin, and I control the wince as I wonder if Mac and I are even playing the same game.

Uh-oh. Adam went from feeling on top of the world to a world of doubt in this chapter. Thoughts? What will happen next?

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