I realize he’s serious and this isn’t part of their set list when Grim and Jamie shoot each other a baffled look. Tro starts strumming out something with their signature hard downbeat. Jamie picks up the rhythm on the drum and Grim slides in with a simple bass line.
Tro shoots me a shit-eating grin and starts singing, but it’s rappier than anything else I’ve heard of theirs.
“Wouldn’t care if I could. I’m up to no good.
Taking what I want instead of what I should.
I’m made of pure greed. There’s shit that I need.
The mask is off and the demon’s freed.”
He stalks toward me slowly as he sings, and I listen to him tell the audience about all the depraved things he wants to do to me. When he reaches the edge of the stage, I expect him to stop, but he doesn’t. He keeps coming, playing and singing, but eating me alive with his eyes. I stumble backward when it becomes clear he’s not stopping until he’s on me, but only end up trapped in the crates. He moves slowly forward until he’s only inches from me and locks me in his gaze.
“I’m gonna get drunk.
I’m gonna get played.
I’m gonna get rich.
I’m gonna get laid.
And I’m gonna get Lucky.”
“Pull it together,” I hiss, shoving him away and glaring death at him.
He slowly backs toward the stage as he starts in on the second verse, but he hasn’t stopped fucking me with his eyes.
I shift deeper into the shadows, but I don’t leave, partly because I want to know what he wrote about me and partly because watching Tro out there is sort of like watching a slow motion train wreck. I can’t believe he’s doing this but I can’t look away. Finally, when he finishes, I cut him a glare and spin for the backstage exit. Just before I explode out the door, I hear him bellow, “Let’s tear this place down, New York!”
The walls shake as they hit the first note to their next song, and Tro’s voice follows me as I weave my way through the maze of hallways.
God, I hate him.
He could have plugged my music, or said something good about my performance, but instead, he basically just told the whole world how all I am to him is a tight piece of ass.
I’m not some stupid groupie he can fuck and throw away.
After a moment of panic that, in my blind rage, I’ve gotten myself totally lost, I finally stumble on the door I came in. In the lot out back, near the roadies’ buses, I find the driver who brought me here waiting at his big black car.
He opens the door and I’m just about to fling myself into the back when I look down the row of buses and remember I told Max I’d stop in.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell the driver, then work my way from bus to bus, trying to figure out which one belongs to my band mates. Our roadies are busy loading equipment into the bays of three of the seven buses, but inside most of them are quiet. Near the end, I hear muted music, and as I get closer, I see the lights are on and the whole bus is sort of rocking. The door is open, so I climb the stairs and find at least a dozen people, mostly girls, crammed into a lounge area and kitchen just behind the driver’s seat.
It’s a little awkward because I don’t really know any of these guys. Recording studio tracks isn’t how most people think. We never really played together as a band. The studio had us all lay down our tracks separately, so we only came together a few times near the end to tweak anything that wasn’t exactly right. The longest I’ve actually spent with the band was a few days last week at the rehearsal studio while the sound guys sorted out everything for the shows.
The first familiar face I see is a round, freckled one with a glowing carrot top. My drummer, Chipper.
“Hey! You made it.” Chipper flips open the cupboard above the kitchen sink. “What’s your beverage?”
There are rows of bottles, everything from Absolut to Jim Beam. I nod to the beer in his hand. “You got any more of those?”
“On it,” he says with a grin, turning for the fridge.
I don’t really know how old any of the guys are—somewhere in their twenties, if I had to guess—but I’m pretty sure Chipper is the oldest. He seems to know the ropes, like he’s done this before. He grabs a beer off the top shelf and hands it to me.
“Bottoms up!” he says, cracking his bottle against mine and drinking.
I crack open the bottle and take a long drink while I try to think of something to say.
“Thought everything went pretty well tonight,” he says, clearly feeling as awkward as me.
I nod. “You guys were awesome. Thanks.”