Chapter 7: Nice Guys Don't Lead Fangirls On

So....check out the song Eleven Minutes Away  Yungblud/Halsey.....it is the inspiration for Adam's description of Mac and Leed's performance in this chapter---in this chapter, Soundcrush's latest single is a bit of a departure in Soundcrush's normal sound....it's kind of a plot point later on...

Adam

I deliberately give Mac some space this afternoon. Bodie and I go a few rounds at a nearby boxing gym, and after a quick shower back at the hotel, we pile into the SUV's to head to the arena--commonly known around these parts as the Benz. Trace is missing but he texted me to say he's on his way and will probably beat us there.

Mac is sitting  with Leed, and I'm kicked back with Bodie. Spirits are high. It's a huge hometown show for Trace, Leed and Mac—probably our biggest crowd draw ever—and we want to deliver the performance of our lives. Mac and Leed are lit up with excitement. I smile at Mac—she looks so cute in her everyday clothes—a pair of olive green shorts and a vintage Def Leppard T-shirt. Like the old days, when she was a little bit grunge, a little bit emo in her style.

These days, her stage look is all leather and skin.

The rock scene isn't what it used to be. The sound might be grungy, but not the look. Image is everything, and it's still doubly true for women in the business. And frontmen, too. Trace, Bodie and I can wear generic jeans and holey t-shirts on stage and nobody mentions our clothes—only our performance, but let Mac or Leed look a little off their sexy game, and that's all that gets talked about. Tamara considers it a point of pride to hit that sweet spot with Leed and Mac—just the right amount of edgy sex appeal so that it seems natural, and their amazing performances shine.

The Lawson Sibs really steal the show. We all contribute to the sound and the songwriting to some degree, and Trace has always driven the direction and the business agenda...but Mac and Leed are the stars. Leed's presence and Mac's talent.

I'm staring at her now, acutely aware that she's glowing. Get a grip, Heartley. That's her natural pre-show excitement. Women don't glow when they are twelve hours pregnant.

It's kind of crazy, how I'm already thinking that she is. But the way she woke this morning, and stared at me with those cool green eyes, and said. "Something is different," ...

Fuck me. It is goddamn possible that Mac has a fucking intuition so strong she can sense being pregnant? Jesus Christ.

Dammit...I should really clean up my language. I feel like...if there is a higher power at work, it probably doesn't appreciate my continual profaning of the miracle of life. And profaning pretty much everything else, too.

Yeah, I should dial it back. Especially, you know...with a maybe-baby on the way. Set a good example.

I should go with...Gosh. Wow. Dang. Holy cow.

Naw, fuck that shit. Mildness doesn't really work for me. I'm a fucking musician. My kid will cuss. Meh. God will forgive.

I become suddenly aware that even though all this insanity is running through my mind, Mac and I are giving each other the stare-down. I sift through the acceptable things I can communicate to her right now.

"So, Ash was at the hotel today," I say.

"Fuck! For real?" Mac blurts. I smile. Yeah, any kid we have...fuck will be their first word. "How was she? What happened?"

"Hurting. Out of pain meds. I stashed her in my room. Trace came and dealt with her. I cleared out."

"You should have called me or Mac," Leed said. "Trace is done. He's just going to send her away with money for drugs."

He might be right, but Trace is her husband. To me, that counts for something. I don't know why Trace really married her, but he did. That's a commitment. Ashlynn is his responsibility. Leed is not thinking right—they way he thinks he should intervene between them.

Discussion of Trace's Love Triangle follows. It doesn't bear repeating. It's all been said before.

When we get to the Benz Stadium, Trace is there, having a musical meltdown. Guitar-solo is a cliche way to suicide, so we all jump in to save him. Once the intervention-slash-soundcheck is over, I hunker down with Trace while he gets his knuckles re-taped. We don't talk about troubles—his or mine. We just pre-game a little bit, and by the time our opening act is performing, Trace is psyched for the show.

Before the Soundcrush pre-show toast I find Mac and pull her behind an equipment case taller than me. Her eyes are wild as I run my hands beneath her black tunic that falls to her leather pant-clad hips. It takes a long moment for me to decide where to kiss her. I know she won't want her stage make-up smeared. Finally, I pull aside her low-necked tunic and plant a kiss above her heart.

She makes the sweetest sound. Somewhere between a giggle and a sigh. It's not a sound Mac the Maneater makes. I know the Maneater-I like to wrestle her. But beneath the Maneater is a kitten. The girl I met that first Soundcrush rehearsal—the girl in that yellow cropped top tee—the one that giggled and sighed like that the first time I undressed her under the covers in the dark in her single dorm bed.

I squeeze her waist. "Big night."

"Yeah." She scratches my jaw, raking through my beard. It feels amazing when she does that.

"You got this."

Her mouth twitches in a shy smile. She nods.

Our latest single just dropped three weeks ago—timed to peak perfectly before our big hometown show. The song is...sound-shifting for us. It's the first time Mac has a lead on vocals—taking the first verse and second verse, and Leed coming in with a solo that's a little more hip-hop than our normal alternative sound. We dig a jam-band sound, but keeping relevant on the Alt-Rock subscription music apps means we also have to have short and tight singles. The label has been asking us to feature top 40 female artists—they play well. We all stood firm—Mac is just as good as any of them.

Ain't no pop star trumpin' our girl.

So this is Mac's first single taking the lead and her first live performance in the vocal spotlight on an original. I have no doubt her performance will be amazing. The song...

Fuck. The song is a tough one for me to play live. I layed down the bass tracks in the studio, and we've played it in practice—even in soundcheck today—dozens of time, but the live performance—when we bring the full energy, and Mac brings all her emotion to bear—it will be tough.

She wrote the song about our last big implosion.

It's called Seven Minutes, because seven minutes is exactly how long it takes to go door-to-door from my place to Mac's in Calabasas.

Mac's old place...before she moved in with Leed.

The song is an irony to me. After the last time we ended, so many nights, I was never seven minutes away. I bought a used ten year old nothing-special BMW just so I could stalk her condo and she wouldn't notice. So many nights I sat there with a bottle of cheap bourbon, making sure she didn't bring home another guy like that guy that choked her in the green room in Portland. There were guys...but never any signs of violence that I could see through the windows. Mac always left the lights on. I took some small comfort in that. No dimmed lights. No candles. No romance. Just needs met.

I push away all the old memories, and smile at her. The song is a moment in time, and it's beautiful the way she and Trace can take their problems and work them out in the lyrics. I don't think Mac feels bad when she sings the song. I think she feels...released from the pain. Like she felt it, she wrote it, and now she gets to used like a tool, to make other people feel things.

I'm glad she has this outlet. Music is my outlet, too. I feel the energy of my emotions blending with the vibration in my bass every time I perform. I just don't usually write my feelings out in lyrics that are so personal. But it's all good. I'm proud of Mac for bouncing back.

"So..." I I draw my fingertips down her ribs, just underneath her bra... "let's kill it out there tonight. And maybe after—"

"Yeah, after," she nods eagerly and gives me the wild look that makes my dick twitch. Then Dawes is yelling—it's go time.

The crowd is lit and the night is perfect, and we kick out one of our best openings ever. When we debut Seven minutes—the crowd doesn't know they are in for something different from our performance.  Dawes and the crew decided that the song is getting so popular on top 40, that we need to highlight it with a little more stage drama than our usually performance.

The stage goes dark for a few seconds, and then I'm spotlighted as the bass line starts the song. It's a slow, slurry song, so I'm sure it looks dramatic—me, with my eyes closed and my shoulders slumped as I feel the melancholy . The crowd screams at the now familiar lick. Mac is lighted as she pushes forward into the mic behind her keyboards and hurls bitterness into the emphatic opening. I can't help it—despite the spotlight on me, I turn and play for her and only her. Her eyes are on me, and she looks like a disappointed angel.

As I play, my feelings bleed into rhythm that underlies her hurt. Her lyrics are all about her messed up head, when we fought, when she let that guy hurt her, when we avoided each other after.

I play my pattern over and over, sending my sorries to her in the driving buzz of my bass.

I'm so sorry, Sweetheart. I'm so sorry I pushed you too far. The biggest regret of my life so far is that I didn't follow you after we fought—that I wasn't there to stop him. I'm so fucking sorry that guy hurt you.I'm sorry I let your brother take the lead, when they took you to the hospital, and after. I'm sorry I let you go—for a year—because I didn't know how to fix us. But I swear, I'm never letting you go again. Not as long as you still want me. You can act out in fear all you want, I'm not going anywhere this time. This time it IS different. This time it's urgent, and it's real.

The spotlight hits Leed as his hip-hoppish bridge starts. He's crouching on the stage for the first three lines and then he leaps up, exploding into the rage of the jilted lover's lines. I swear, that dude can front any style—even when he's singing a break-up song with his sister. Mac eventually leaves her keys and meets him center stage as they pour anguish at each other in perfect harmony and ferocity. Everyone in this stadium feels them.

Even though it's a break up song, Leed's emotion is real, too—he was wrecked when he found Mac and that guy in the green room, and worse afterward--while Mac was in the hospital. Hearing Mac's rasping as she gasped for air, not knowing if her injuries were permanent, worried that she would never be able to sing again, feeling like a piece of shit because he didn't intervene earlier, because he didn't protect her—it affected him. For a long time after.

Basically, he felt just like me, because we both love her.

Mac and Leed separate at the end of the song—Mac returning to her platform. It ends with a haunting, final refrain from her, and a few fading bars on her keys.

The crowd erupts as the stage goes dark. We can't even start the next song because they won't stop screaming for Mac and Leed's performance. I take the opportunity of the complete darkness to stride over to Mac's slightly raised platform and reach up with an extended hand. She shakes her head at me, and I grab her hand anyway, and squeeze it. In the dark, she squeezes back.

It's not so dark that my gesture escapes Leed's notice. He meets me side-stage as I get an instrument change.

"FUCK NO!" He shouts at me. "Don't start that shit again. You're like a black hole. She can't help herself-she's just drawn to you. Do you hear the fucking pain—the damn devastation in that song!?!?! That's over you. That's on you, Adam!"

I say nothing. It's the middle of a show—not the time for us to have this conversation. By the end of our incredible show, Leed seems to have forgotten his momentary anger at me. Mac, however, took note of our exchange. She avoids me at the afterparty backstage.

When I go to take a piss, manicured hands push me into a storage area. The expressive hands are attached to my beautiful, sweaty, leather-clad lady. She kisses me hard, and I can taste cinnamon whiskey on her lips. My little fireball. I engulf her mouth, sucking the taste off her tongue.

Oh man. She's so sweet. And so spicy. And maybe she shouldn't be drinking, but I know it's not my call, so I try to push the thought away and yield to the pleasure of her mouth melding into mine. God, I've missed her so much. I attack her neck, licking the salty sweat and sucking at her neck. I want to mark her, make her mine, but of course I won't—not with us performing every other night and her needing to show so much skin. She groans in pleasure, but pulls away too soon.

"So here's what I'm thinking," she says. "You pick up a fangirl here at the afterparty, hotel her, and then ditch her, and come to my room. That way, Leed won't suspect a thing."

I laugh and nip at her collarbone. "Funny."

She's running her hands inside the waist band of my jeans. "Not so much."

I pull back to check her expression. She's fucking serious. Now I'm laughing for an entirely different reason. "You're out of your pretty little head, Shortcake. No way." I wrap her hair in my fist—she likes that—and tug her head back gently to expose her throat again. I suck  again hard enough to make her whimper. I can't suck any harder or there will be marks. I know her body inside and out—I know exactly how much suction to use, how she likes and needs to be treated.

She pushes away again after a few more trailing sucks and sweet noises. "I'm not kidding. Go pick up a fangirl." She gives me a shove.

I run my hands through my hair, leave them atop my head. "Mac, that's just...wrong...on so many levels. First of all, no matter what you say right now, you are going to get pissed if I flirt with a fangirl. She'll touch me or I'll smile at her, or there will be something else you don't like, and our night will get fucked up. Secondly, it's not very nice...to lead a girl on like that. Think about what she will feel like when I one-eighty her at the hotel...it will hurt her feelings."

Mac crosses her arms. "So...you are saying a—that I'm a jealous crazy and b—that you care more about a fangirl's feelings than spending the night with me?"

I drag my longish-on-the top hair down as I cover my hands with my face. I don't suppose there is any point in me saying anything else—the fight will roll on from this point with or without me—but I can't stop myself from saying exactly what I think Mac needs to hear.

"That is not at all what I'm saying. I'm saying you should stop being afraid of what Leed thinks."

She makes a disgusted look, her lip snarling. "I'm not afraid of what he thinks. I don't want to deal with his sulkiness about it. But don't bother to work with me here. Just draw your little moral line in the sand like you always do, Preacher!" She stomps off.

You know what happens next, right? Since I won't play games with one of these girls —half of whom are old Soundcrush acquaintances, college buddies, whatever—because this is a hometown show and our guest list was long— Mac zeroes in on the douchiest guy in the backstage area. This guy is definitely not on our list of Atlanta friends and relations. Either he snuck back here, stole a pass, or won a contest. He was on his way to getting kicked out by security for being drunk and disorderly until Mac swooped in with a bottle of liquor and claimed him and his dumb-ass clad in overpriced jeans.

Alright, fine. I'm not saying I know the price tag on every pair of jeans Tamara has ever put in my closet, but my go-to is still a comfortable pair of Levi's.

Anyway Mr.Douchey Jeans is all handsy and stumbling, nearly taking Mac with him to the floor every two minutes or so, which is a combination that sets my teeth on edge. "John!" I snap from across the room. Mac's security guy strolls over. "I know. I see. I'm on it. You guys have another fight or something?" he grins. I sigh and give him a glare that doesn't threaten him at all. He's ex-military, built like the Rock in body and attitude, and he's been with us for ages. He knows. He's passed me in the hallway at night leaving Mac's room more times than I can count on the last tour. "I don't know what you are talking about, John," I say.

"Of course," he nods. "So you gonna take the second shift at the hotel, or do want me to sit outside her door all night? Cause you know...I'm pretty tired from that 10k she blasted after your fight earlier today..." he takes a sip of water.

"Nobody likes a smart-ass," I tell him.

"Nobody likes to work for Ike and Tina, either."

"In what universe are you comparing me to Ike Turner?"

"Nah, boss. She's Ike...you're Tina," he grins.

"Fuck you, John."

"You shouldn't talk to your help that way, man..."

Mr. Douchey Jeans has him arm around Mac' neck, collaring her in what must be an uncomfortable way. She keeps adjusting his arm, he keeps pulling her closer to him by the neck. It makes me want to go fucking crazy. "Just...do me a favor and go check his ass a little. And if she hotels him...he is not fucking coming in our ride. Put him in one of the crew vehicles."

"Got it." John strolls over, speaks to Mac. She nods a little reluctantly and speaks to the guy. He laughs at her, pulls her in tight by the neck again, at which point John twists the guy's arm a little, shakes a finger at him, gestures towards Mac's throat. I'm sure he's telling the guy that Mac's voice is one of her invaluable assets, and not to jostle her throat again. The guy's arm slides down to her waist, and then her ass. She removes it. He replaces it. She slaps him. He laughs and nods, holds up his hands in apology. She snatches the bottle from him, drinks and then they are laughing together again. Mac's laugh is fake and his is drunken and dumbshit.

Of course he ends up at the hotel, and I end up fuming through Leed's suite party. Where the hell is Trace? He bailed as soon as we got off the elevator. Doesn't matter. Leed's suite is packed and he in form. He won't miss Trace. But I see him glaring at Mac's fanboy and giving John the same kind of instructions I gave him at the venue.

It's 3am when Mac gives me a killer stare and slips out the door with Mr. Douchey-Jeans. John follows three minutes later, just long enough to let Mac and the guy get into her room. Five minutes later I call John.

"What are they doing?" I ask him.

"Respectfully, Adam...how the fuck am I supposed to know? I'm standing outside. All I can tell you is...there are no sounds of distress. But on the bright side there are no screams of pleasure, either—"

I hang up on him.

Fifteen minutes later, I give up trying to play it cool and I go bang down her door. Over the years, there has been a lot of me banging down Mac's doors, so she recognizes my pattern of hammering at once.

She flings it open. "What took you so long?" she asks, exasperated. "I've been dealing with this prick for half an hour!" She gestures to the living room, where the prick in question is watching tv and saying thinks like, "oooof" and "nawwwww" and basically sounding like my eleven-year old nephew.

I gesture at John who is standing right beside me. "This is what you have security for, goddammit!"

"I didn't know he was out here. I told John to take the night off," she hisses.

"Yeah, and even if Leed and I hadn't told him otherwise, you actually think John would have walked off the job and left you with the shittiest piece of shit you could have possibly picked up out of all the guys backstage tonight?"

"Well fuck, Adam! Aren't you the one who said it wasn't nice to play flirt-and-ditch? I picked a dick who would deserve the ditch!"

I scratch my beard. I guess there is a certain logic in that.

"Okay but why is he still here?" I grumble.

She flings her hands up in the air. "I can't get rid of him! He's too drunk to even comprehend I'm ditching him! He just keeps watching tv."

John nods, "I'll handle him..."

"No, I got it." I pick Mac up and twirl her around. "Stay back please, he might hurl on you.I know how you hate that."

I stride into the suite. Mac follows at my heels but steps out of the way, near the bedroom.

I pick up one of the two copies of the signed NDA, and roll it up. I bap him on the top of the head with it. "Hey! Time to get the fuck out!"

He grins bleerily. "Naw, man... You see that piece of ass? I'm gonna fuck MacKenna Lawson."

Mac laughs. I shoot her a begrudging smile. I'm glad she finds this so funny,

I jerk the dick up and shove the NDA in his back pocket. "Only in your damn wet dreams, asshole." I'm not particularly careful as I throw him out. He accidentally bashes himself pretty good on every piece of furniture, cabinetry and wall between the couch and the door. When I release him with a rough backward shove, he tumbles out the door into John's waiting grip. I just give John the nod; he needs no further instructions.

I put my back against the door and give her the a raised eyebrow. She gives me the killer cat eye stare in return.

We both burst out laughing.

She crosses the suite and butts her head into my chest. My arms go around her, rubbing her back.

"How the hell did that guy even get backstage? God, I hope he wasn't on Trace's list!" she barks through her laughter.

"You sure he wasn't a guy you made out with in high school?" I tease her. "Maybe you just didn't recognize him with that neckbeard, hair pomade and liquor sweat?"

She snickers. "Nah, but now that I think about him in that light, it's possible he might have played D&D with Leed in middle school."

I lean over and kiss the top of her reddish blonde head. Her hands feel up my sides. She nuzzles my collarbone—without shoes on, she comes just under my chin.

"Shorty?" I murmur.

"Yeah?" Her voice is throaty. It feels so good to hear her use that tone again. I missed it, this past year.

"We need a shower, sex, and sleep. Not necessarily in that order. You pick."

She giggles. "You can't guess how I want it?"

"Sex-shower-sleep-sex-shower?"

"Hmmmm...I think you left out an opportunity for more sex somewhere..."

"Between the shower and sleep?" She nods. "Well damn, we better get to it."

She surprises me by dashing away, and streaking for the bedroom, but I'm quick. I catch her, pick her up, and toss her lightly on the bed. "Help me," she groans. "I hate these fucking leather pants. They are so damn hard to get out of."

"Happy to help," I grin, as I strip her. I don't know what happens tomorrow, but tonight, I am happy. I'm happy that we are both ignoring the maybe-baby situation. I'm happy tonight we are going old-school. Because when I was nineteen and Mac was eighteen and we were playing tiny little bars in Athens, fucking was our favorite post-performance past-time.

So what's going on here tonight? Do you thinks it's nice that they took a night off stressin' the maybe-baby, or are they both just in denial? Something has to change next morning though....according to the EPIC storyline. If you remember, when Adam outed them on the plane...he told the guys Mac said their two nights of sex in Atlanta meant nothing and he was out of her system...what do you think is going to happen to cause that?

Please vote/comment/list/follow/THANKS!