Continue reading for a preview of the next book in the bestselling Connections series by Kim Karr
MENDED
Available in June wherever books and ebooks are sold
The magic of rock and roll—it casts a spell on you. And I’m no exception. I’m a band manager and I’m living the dream, touring with the Wilde Ones, helping them secure their well-deserved place in the music industry. I love being a part of it all, especially watching the band perform live—the crowds, the cheers, the music. It’s a high and a low all at once, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Every step of the way with this band has been fun, exciting, stressful—every possible emotion. Obviously we’ve had some breaks, but mostly we all put in a lot of hard work—myself, Garrett Flynn the drummer, Phoenix Harper the bassist, River Wilde the former lead singer, and now Zane Perry the new lead.
“Can you hear me now?” Zane bellows.
I nod my head as my heart pounds in my chest. My hands feel cold and clammy and a nervousness that makes me weak and shaky takes over. Doubts race through my head and I’m questioning if he’s going to make it through this. A vague awareness that something bad could happen has been kicking around in my mind, and I can’t shake it. The Wilde Ones are doing a sound check onstage and Zane’s not on his game.
It’s July and the weather has been brutally hot. But today it seems cooler. Maybe it’s the California weather. Maybe it’s the excitement of being home. The Beautiful Lies tour bus finally rolled back into our home state of California after six months away. While we’re in town, I have a laundry list of shit to do—meet with the accountant for the band, catch my assistant, Ena up on changes to upcoming stops, and stoke some fires in the publicity department at the label to ease the questions about the lead singer transition. I’m actually thinking some of the more mundane tasks of my job are suddenly looking better and better. On the road my day is always the same, but never the same—posting dailies and arranging rehearsals are automatic, but the rest evolves with the location, the people, and the needs of the band.
When the bus eased into the amphitheater, we could see tanned kids in board shorts and bikini tops already lined up at the will-call window. Security guards in polo shirts directed us to the artist parking lot, and we were officially home. Tonight we’ll be headlining our biggest show to date. We’re on tour without my brother, and still more than half of the shows are sold out, including tonight’s. River quit the band—touring just wasn’t for him—but even so, the album is on its way up the charts. Who knows—it may even hit gold status. The songs on the album were written and sung by River, but are performed in concert by Zane. Having him as my brother’s replacement has been the key to our successful transition in a world where replacing leads is normally unsuccessful—simply put, we’re lucky as hell to have him. However, River did promise to make a surprise appearance at our next stop. It’s going to be epic.
But tonight is all about the arena—Mountain View and the Shoreline. “That’s enough,” I yell to the band and call rehearsal. This place is the biggest outdoor venue we’ve played, and I couldn’t be more stoked—or more nervous. A sold-out show and a rocking opening band—what a combination. But a lead singer with another cold and a weakened voice that can’t be heard throughout an amphitheater scares the shit out of me.
I head straight for the bus and spend the next few hours hashing out a song with Nix that he calls a jumbled mess of muscular sense and big-riff sunshine—whatever the hell that means. All I know is that it needs help and that’s why he’s turning to me. I hadn’t played guitar since I was eighteen, but for some reason, I’ve picked it back up over the course of this tour. At first I played on whichever guitar was lying around, but last month I had my mother mail my old one to me, and it feels like home. It’s a light blue and brown Gibson—it’s the same guitar that Slash uses. Playing again seems to help pass the time and brings a sense of calm to me that I haven’t felt in a while.
Hours pass, and before I know it, it’s almost showtime. We make our way over to the amphitheater, do the typical festival schmooze fest, and then settle back until it’s our turn. Waiting for the band to take the stage is always the most nerve-racking time. I’m sitting in the practically vacant makeshift meet-and-greet area backstage and sipping a beer in a worthless effort to calm my nerves when a voice travels through the sound system. It’s a powerful and emotive mezzo-soprano range that is nothing short of explosive. She sounds unlike any singer I’ve ever heard before—with only one exception: Ivy Taylor. I push back the memories and emotions that her name evokes; they are just too painful. I can’t see her onstage, but I know that the voice belongs to Jane Mommsen. Her band, Breathless, is playing right before the Wilde Ones.
A hand on my shoulder startles me. I twist and glance up as Amy sits down beside me, crossing her legs. “Hi, Xander. I thought I saw you earlier at the hotel.”
She’s a beautiful woman—long, wavy dark hair, petite figure, very natural-looking. She’s wearing jeans, a blue shirt with some kind of foil design, and silver sandals. Grinning at her, I say, “Finally we catch up. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’d love that. How’s life on the road been?”
“You know, it has its ups and downs, but actually not bad. You?”
“Jane’s been going full force for a while now. But the tour ends with the summer and I’ll be glad to be back in LA.”
Standing up, I laugh. “I know the feeling. Let me get us that drink—I’ll be right back.” Tossing my empty bottle, I make my way to the coolers lined up under the tent and grab two beers. I know she’d rather have a glass of Chardonnay, but beer it is. Amy is Jane’s assistant, and I’ve taken her out more than a few times. We went to high school together, and we know most of the same people, so whenever I need a date, I ask her. Last time I saw her was almost nine months ago when I took her to River and Dahlia’s wedding.
Heading back to the table, I hear Jane yell out to the crowd, “Are you ready for three of the hottest guys in music?” The audience starts screaming and the overhead lights dim, cuing the guys that it’s the fifteen-minute countdown until they take the stage. I can see the band members huddle together in their typical preperformance stance. I’ll have a quick drink with Amy and then join them. As I hand her the bottle, my fingers touch hers and we both grin, knowing that we’ll end up alone by the end of the night.
“You sticking around for the whole show?”
“I think I might.” She smiles.
“How about we ride back to the hotel together and have a real drink at the bar?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Great. Time for me to get back to work.”
She rises from the table, and I do the same. She stands up on her toes and kisses me quickly on the lips. “See you tonight,” she whispers.
I give her an expectant look and cross the room to join the band.
“You’re late,” Nix says with a snicker. “What’s with you two anyway?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing. We see each other casually once in a while.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “Chicks are never cool with casual.”
Shaking my head at him, I don’t bother to disagree. Amy and I have been doing this for years. It works for her and for me. We like each other’s company but see each other only sporadically. I’ll call her every now and then and we’ll go out, but we are in no way exclusive. I don’t ask her about other men and she doesn’t ask me about other women.
I grab the bottle and pour the amber liquid into the shot glasses stacked beside it. It’s our preshow routine. A shot and a prayer, so to say. It’s Garrett’s turn tonight to “pray,”—this should be good.
He raises his glass. “Here’s hoping Xander gets laid so he’ll get off our backs.”
Tipping my glass back, I quickly down the liquid. It burns as it makes its way down my throat. Once we’ve all drunk our two-shot maximum before a show, Garrett follows his toast up with, “Seriously, man, you need to get laid.”
The guys laugh and I actually join in. Jerking off in the small bathroom on the bus is definitely one of the downsides of touring. I’ve slept with a few girls at some of our stops, but screwing groupies isn’t really my thing. I’m not one to have time for a girlfriend, but I’m also not about to pull my dick out backstage. So it’s been a long six months.
Zane coughs after he slings back the shot and I look at him with concern. “You’re going to a doctor tomorrow.”
He shakes his head. “Yes, Mom, if you say so.”
“I’m not kidding. Your voice sounds like shit.”
“It’s a fucking cold. I took some medicine. I’ll be fine.”
“Doctor. Tomorrow. I mean it. I’ll have Ena set it up.”
“I can always sing,” Garrett chimes in, and I smack the back of his head.
“Hey. I can,” he responds, offended.