BY THE TIME I exit the bus, a second road crew is already outside helping ours rush things inside. Adam immediately lights a cigarette since he’s banned from smoking on the bus—even though half the time he does it anyway—and Mike stretches his arms toward the sky, growling a tired groan. When Shawn finishes shouting at the new road crew to be careful with our stuff, the rest of us follow him inside.
Seeing Van Erickson onstage—looking like a rock god in black jeans, a fitted black T-shirt, and a studded belt that’s hanging loose at the end—makes me feel two inches tall. He hops off the stage and immediately starts walking toward us, even his confident stride screaming “rock star.” His hair is black, shaggy, and dyed red at the tips, and he has tattoos crawling up both arms. His grin is completely confident as he approaches the guys of my band. His eyes scan over Shawn, Adam, Joel, Mike, and then they rake over me from head to toe. He smirks and then claps hands with Adam and Shawn, pulling each into a guy-hug.
“Owe you one,” he tells Shawn.
“You’re up to like five now,” Shawn corrects, and Van laughs as he pulls away and hugs the rest of the guys too. When he gets to me, instead of a hug, he takes both of my hands and stretches them away from my sides so he can get a good look at me.
“Damn. You’re the new guitarist?”
If any other guy was inspecting me like he is—like I’m a juicy piece of Grade A meat—I’d yank my hands away and probably knee him where it counts. But because he’s Van Erickson, because he’s one of my idols, I just stand there with my tongue tied in my sandpaper mouth. “Kit,” I finally rasp in a single quick syllable.
Van smirks and lets my hands fall back to my sides. His arm wraps around my shoulder, and he turns to face the guys.
Shawn is watching me closely, and I suddenly realize that I’m standing there with Van’s arm around me, like I’m his property, like I’m a fucking groupie. My cheeks redden, and Van’s implication is barely veiled when he glances at me one last time before saying to the guys, “You’re sticking around after the show tonight, right?”
He’s asking if I’m sticking around after the show—me, the girl with her bra mostly showing; me, the girl who just let him inspect her like a cut of prime rib; me, the sure thing.
In a moment of absolute insanity, I lift my hand to my mouth . . .
I suck on the tip of my finger . . .
I shove it right in Van Erickson’s ear.
In an instant, his arm is flying from my shoulder and he’s jumping out of reach, hollering at the top of his lungs, “What the fuck!”
A heartbeat of silence, and then every single one of my bandmates is laughing his ass off—loud, probably loud enough for the kids to hear outside—while I just stand there with an oh-my-fucking-God look on my face.
Did I seriously just give VAN ERICKSON a wet willy?
Oh my God. Yes. I just gave Van Erickson a wet-freaking-willy.
“Why’d you do that!” he shouts at me.
With my eyes still wide, I simply say, “It seemed like the thing to do . . . ”
“It seemed, it seemed—” Van is stuttering his ass off, which only makes the guys laugh even harder. Mike grips his side as his laughter echoes off the walls of the venue. Shawn and Adam are cracking up so hard they’re crying. Van stops stuttering to gape at me and say, “You’re fucking crazy!”
Mike howls, and I just nod. “A little . . . But I play good guitar.”
“You—” Van cuts himself off as his brows pinch together. He studies me for a long, long moment, before his expression softens and he shakes his head. “You play good guitar,” he repeats, like it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard, and then he laughs a little. When his face cracks into a smile, I manage a cautious one back. “Okay, Kit. You play good guitar? Let’s hear you play guitar.”
DOING A SOUNDCHECK with Van Erickson and his band watching is even more nerve-racking than playing a full set for a sold-out venue, but I’m the only one who seems to think so. It isn’t until Adam starts belting out lyrics to Donna Lewis’s “I Love You Always Forever” that I have no choice but to loosen up. I can’t help laughing along with everyone else, and when Joel accidentally snorts, I have to let my guitar hang loose from my neck because I’m laughing too hard to support it.
With a crowd this big, here to see a band as popular as Cutting the Line, the opening act can go one way or another. The audience can like our sound and we can gain new fans, or they can get impatient and float in the pit like dead fish in the sea.