Sing to Me (Rock Me Book 3) Page 2

  Since I doubt he could handle the truth, I don’t reply. Most of the singers I’ve met haven’t taken my special brand of honesty well. It’s not like I go out of my way to destroy brittle egos or anything. It just somehow seems to… happen.

  So ducking my head, I focus on work, hoping to God he didn’t realize I couldn’t read the freaking instructions. Maybe if I shut up long enough, he’ll grow bored and leave?

  After pacing three feet from the foldback speaker, I put the mic stand down. Removing one of the leads draped over my shoulder, I unravel it before returning to the foldback and plugging it into the audio input.

  Unperturbed by my silence, Drake saunters toward the rubbish quad box that I almost ruptured my spleen getting into place. He leans against it, crosses his arms, and rests one foot on top of the other. “You poke your tongue out the corner of your mouth when you’re concentrating. Might wanna get that checked out. First sign of insanity.”

  “What?”

  He points to the mic stand. “And that’s not three feet.”

  I pause, rub my forehead, and exhale a deep breath. “Why are you here again?”

  “Overseeing the setup. Reid’s parking the bus, and Wil’s probably casting a spell on someone.”

  “Why would Reid be driving? And why the hell would that chick be casting a—” I hold up one hand. “You know what? Doesn’t matter.” Turning my back, I focus on the foldback.

  “It’s a good thing I’m here. Would’ve missed your crazy pug impersonation.”

  “Are you high?” Spinning around to face him, I glare. “Insane pugs aren’t a thing.”

  “Sure they are. Have you seen them?” He shudders. “Beady eyes. Fuckers are as mad as drunk bats in a sack.”

  “I don’t even know how to respond to that.” I shake my head, trying to make sense of this beautiful yet unhinged man. Clearly, he’s out of his mind. There’s no other explanation. “Pretty sure you’re the one who’s mad.”

  “Uh-uh.” Blue eyes pin me in place. “You’re a classic case of stage one mental deterioration. I’m telling you, you’ve got the whole lolling tongue thing going on. It’s cute as fuck, don’t get me wrong, but you should really check it out.” Drake indicates the mic stand. “Need to check your measurements too. That’s not three feet from the foldback.”

  I grit my teeth.

  “Just sayin’.”

  Striding—three feet—to the mic stand with the other end of the cable lead, I wrap it around the smooth metal, wishing like hell it was the irritatingly attractive singer’s neck. “My measurements are fine. I’ve done this hundreds of times before.”

  “Then you’ve fucked up hundreds of times before.”

  Oh hell no.

  Now, I’ve worked for some of the biggest bands in the business. I’ve toured the country more times than I can count. I can identify every internal component of a speaker blindfolded. I can set up a six-piece band in two and a half hours and with only one extra pair of hands. I’ve never had a complaint before. Never. I’m a professional, a perfectionist; I’m freaking awesome at my job. Which is why I won’t let him, or anyone, say otherwise.

  Turning slowly on my heel, I level Drake with a direct stare. “Excuse me?”

  He shrugs. “I’m simply offering constructive feedback. I’ve done this gig plenty of times before. Even won Rising Star.”

  I want to punch him in his stupidly gorgeous face. Sadly, disfiguring Drake Stone won’t go down well with the tour manager, the fans, or basically anyone with two eyes and a conscience. So I decide on a different tack.

  Shoulders back, I stride toward Drake. He watches, his gaze tracking my purposeful movements. I don’t stop until our toes touch. His nostrils flare, and I can discern dark blue rings bordering crystal irises.

  “Listen to me carefully.” My tone is soft, deceptive. The calm before the storm. “I’m only going to say this once.”

  He’s silent.

  “I don’t care if you won Rising Star. I don’t care if you’re the most talented singer on the face of the planet.”

  Drake’s gaze roves my face. Interest and detachment war in his expression.

  I refuse to be drawn to the interplay. “I don’t care if you pack out venues and make women orgasm all from a synchronized hip thrust.”

  Tipping his head forward, he leans back slightly, heated stare raking my body. His eyes rest a minute too long on the curve of my hips.

  Heat sparks under my skin, but I ignore it. “Nothing gives you the right to shame my work.”

  Blue eyes collide with mine.

  There’s so much going on in their depths, but the emotions pass quickly and I can’t keep up with them, let alone determine their meaning. “Understand me?”

  Being this close to Drake is dangerous—for him, for me, for anyone stupid enough to interrupt us.

  The spice of his cologne teases my equilibrium, so I clench my hands into fists. “I might be a roadie, and you might fire me for saying it to you straight, but I won’t have you talk shit about my work. When I know a band’s instructions, I follow them to the letter. I’m one of the best damn workers on this tour.”

  Drake straightens, leaving nothing but a sliver of space between us. The air changes. It crackles and sparks. His chest is a hairsbreadth from my breasts, and I hate that if I’m not careful, my body will respond.

  Ducking his head until our noses touch, his voice is a low rumble. “You’re beautiful. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  I tense.

  “If you were mine….” His eyes drop to my lips. “Fuck, the things I’d do to you.”

  It’s difficult to swallow.

  With a shake of his head, Drake exhales before taking a step back. His eyes dart away before flicking back to me again.

  Frozen, I remain still.

  Jaw tight, he runs long fingers through his hair. I haven’t moved, haven’t breathed, haven’t done a freaking thing since he opened his mouth.

  He mutters a curse. Whether it’s because of my silence or his insanity, I can’t be sure.

  However, his expletive snaps me back to the present.

  What. The. Fuck.

  I don’t want his intense stares. I don’t want my pulse to kick into overdrive. I don’t want his molten body heat to melt mine. I want no part in this. “You need to leave.” There’s a slight tremor to my voice, so I clear my throat. “You need to get the hell away from me so I can do my job. If you’re bored, find someone else to mess with. I’ve got a stage to set up.”

  “Bored? I wasn’t—”

  “I said, leave.”

  Drake growls, his hand gripping the back of his neck. I don’t take the time to admire the way his bicep hardens or how it shifts as he tugs on dark hair. No one plays me. Ever. Doesn’t matter if they’re young, old, good-looking, or butt ugly. No one pulls my strings demanding that I dance.

  Turning my back, I pour all of my attention into the equipment. In fact, I’m so wrapped up in the task, I barely hear Drake’s footsteps as he storms from the theater. My thundering heartbeat, however, is harder to ignore.

  Chapter Two

  “Can you hear that?” I yell over the music.

  “Hear what?” Benji asks, leaning in close. His wiry mustache brushes against my cheek, so I pull back, grimacing. Like the rest of the two-hundred-strong crowd, Benji’s nodding in time with Reid’s bass drum. Or at least, he’s trying to. For a guy who’s worked behind a sound desk for well over three decades, he’s got no sense of rhythm.

  “Something’s not right. The sound is off.”

  Benji rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with the mix. I made sure of it during sound check.”

  “But it’s not clear. One of the speakers is murky; it’s messing with the clarity of the bass notes.”

  Benji straightens and narrows his gaze. “The mix is fine. Go back to the wings. Roadies don’t belong front of stage.”

  Jerk. I throw my arms out wide in a universal gesture for the fuck, man? Onl
y, it’s lost on the old fool. One, because he’s not looking at me. And two, because he’s too set in his ways to care.

  Working with guys like him is a pain in the ass. “I’m trying to help,” I yell into his ear. Then I turn away, muttering, “You don’t have to be a prick about it.”

  “Leave it, Harper. Why don’t you get ready for a guitar change or something?”

  “They’re not doing an acoustic song anymore.” He’s right, though. I should be waiting in the wings in case something goes wrong. Not that it would, I’ve made sure of that. I worked like a machine earlier, and despite not being able to decipher the damn instructions, still managed to get the band set up in time for soundcheck. There’s something to be said for hard work, common sense, and experience—qualities Benji’s too blind to see.

  With a sigh, I trudge through the crowd, pushing my way past drunken revelers as they scream lyrics out of time. Stage lights intermittently blind me as they flicker and dance in time with the music. Rubbing my eyes, I clear my vision, only to notice that my combat boots are covered in fuck knows what. Someone’s drink, probably. The floor is sticky underfoot as I push my way forward. Why people can’t down their drinks first and then mosh, I’ll never know. The air is thick and warm, evidence of the exertion from the crowd as they laugh, scream, and chant their way through the set alongside the band.

  Willow begins her guitar solo. The people around me cheer as complex riffs layer on top of each other in an epic crescendo. However, with every chord there’s an annoying reverberation through the speaker closest to me.

  It’s doing my head in. “Fuck it.” I scramble back to where Benji is making minor adjustments to the mix. I point to the speaker left of stage. “See?”

  He glares, the tic in his jaw evident.

  “Can’t you hear it? It’s right there.”

  Benji gets all up in my business. “Look around you.” He jerks his head in the direction of the stage. “Does the band notice?”

  My gaze shifts to the three-piece tearing it up. Willow is bent over her guitar, shredding like a rock god. Auburn hair flies about her as her lithe body rocks forward and back in time with the song. There’s a small smile on her face as her fingers dart up and down the fretboard. She glances over at Reid, who’s cutting loose on drums. His powerful, ink-covered arms are a blur as he once again builds rhythm after the solo ends. They share a look and grin. It’s as though their entire life has been leading up to this moment. Like they’re always meant to be on stage while sharing their love of music with the world.

  Something inside me twists. It’s that familiar twinge of envy. Though I’m happy for this band’s success, and there’s no way in hell I’d ever want to be a musician, there’s something about watching them do what they love that kills me a little.

  As though a glutton for punishment, I settle my gaze on Drake. He’s cradling the mic between large palms, his blue eyes scanning the crowd. Probably to delude as many women as possible into thinking he’s singing about them. Worn jeans hang off narrow hips, hugging his lower half in a way that many in the audience probably want to. His white tank is soaked with sweat. However, rather than looking like he’s in desperate need of a shower, the dude could feature in the Wet Wednesday edition of an online porn site. His dark hair is a glorious mess, and the light hits the sharp angles of his face just right. Of course, it does. Wouldn’t want him to look human or anything.

  When he opens his mouth, I brace myself.

  When he sings, a part of me cries.

  My reaction isn’t from the raw beauty of his voice. Thanks to a forty-minute set, I’m almost immune to his hypnotic cadence by now. And it’s not because I’m overthinking what happened this afternoon—as far as I’m concerned, the conversation never happened. I’m crying because this band is amazing and their sound is being tampered with by ineptitude.

  Benji points to the audience. “What about the crowd? Do they notice the murkiness you won’t shut up about?”

  A lanky fan dressed entirely in black climbs on stage. He gives the sign of devil horns, then throws his head back and screams before diving off again. Everyone around him roars and hollers as hands reach out to catch him.

  Guess not.

  “I’m telling you, Harper. The mix is fine. Now piss off.”

  I give it one last shot. “Benji, come on. Music should be felt in the bones, in the space between them. It has the power to change our DNA.” I poke him in the chest. He glowers. “How can you be satisfied with second-class sound quality when you’re capable of making something extraordinary? Dude, you’ve been in this industry forever. Surely you appreciate decent sound?”

  His eyes shoot fire. “Piss. Off.”

  “Goddammit.” I kick the leg of his mixing table, uncaring when the whole thing shudders from the impact. Knowing he’s never going to see reason, I storm away, grumbling, “If Uncle Ray was here, he’d hear it.”

  And he would too. It sucks that he’s too busy drowning in his own sorrow to realize how much the crew needs him. How much I need him.

  He still hasn’t returned my calls. Clearly, he doesn’t care that I’ve worked my ass off for hours. Alone. Bet the fact that my joints are screaming and my back and I are no longer on speaking terms hasn’t crossed his mind once. Maybe I should leave him in whatever shithole he’s buried himself in? Let him find his own way back. Get his own damn Advil and water.

  Gritting my teeth, I shove through the crowd, nod to security, and slip backstage. Once there, I walk to the wings and wait. It’s dark here. The stage lights don’t reach where I’m standing, which means I can watch the band as they finish their encore without being noticed.

  It’s my favorite place to be.

  I sigh, the tension from before evaporating like the sweat on Drake’s skin. Shaking my head at the band before me, I murmur, “So damn talented.”

  The final bars ring out through the theater. The crowd is set for a collective coronary as they scream their accolades. The noise is so intense it pounds in my chest. Sadly, the damn residual sound does too. “Fucking Benji.”

  Reid throws his sticks to the audience, Willow blows a kiss, and Drake grins. Then, to the chorus of hundreds of people chanting their name, the three-piece step off stage.

  “Sweet Aphrodite, that was awesome!” Willow shrieks, running past me. She spins around to face her bandmates, her hands clutched tight to her chest.

  Reid saunters past. “Fuck yeah.” He wraps a strong arm around the guitarist, squeezing her tiny frame against his chest before planting a kiss on the top of her head.

  She scrunches her face, pushing him away. “Gross. You’re all sweaty. Save that disgustingness for your girlfriend, I want nothing to do with it.”

  The drummer tips his head back, laughing.

  Like the other two, Drake ignores me as he strides past. However, my body recognizes his close proximity. Goose bumps break out on my skin, and I find it harder and harder to breathe. Needing to get the hell away from him and the mayhem he causes my insides, I make my way on stage. It’s going to take ages to pack away the equipment. Even though I’m tired from having to set up by myself, I want to make sure I finish the job. Besides, if everything is organized and put in its rightful spot, it’ll make setting up for the next show a heck of a lot easier.

  Moving from the darkness of the wings into the brightness of the stage makes me pause. I blink away spots of light dancing before my eyes and wait for my vision to adjust. Once it does, I realize the house lights are on and patrons are either in groups gushing over the set or at the bar squeezing in another round of drinks before it closes.

  People are all the same.

  It’s true. No matter where we tour, patrons’ behavioral patterns are alike—drink, mosh, scream, gush, drink. Wash, rinse, repeat.

  It’s not bad, just predictable.

  Deciding it’s best to leave my musing until after I’ve found Uncle Ray, I set to work. Starting with the instruments, I switch off the PA, then turn my
attention to the speaker closest to me. After disconnecting the lead cable, I do the same with the output jack from Willow’s guitar. Placing the lead by my feet, I retrieve her guitar case and rest the Fender carefully inside. I’ve been doing this for so long the movements have become second nature. So, as I duck down to loop the cable lead over my arm, being vigilant not to twist the internal wires, I can’t help but overhear the band’s conversation.

  “What’s wrong?” It’s Willow, her concern obvious.

  The nosy side of me wants to know who she’s talking to. My bet is on Drake. He hasn’t said anything yet. Since no one responds and I refuse to look up, I imagine he’s shrugging his broad shoulders, the material of his sweat-soaked tank clinging to corded muscles.

  I shake my head. Focus.

  “The mix sucked balls. Who’s sound tech again?”

  I knew it! I knew I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

  “Forget it. Doesn’t matter what the guy’s name is,” Drake continues. “The bass notes coming from the speaker near me were way off. They were muddy as fuck and there was this really weird….” He’s quiet for a moment. I’m guessing he’s collecting his thoughts. “I dunno. Like, a buzzing noise or something. Was distracting as hell.”

  “Yeah? Mine was solid; I didn’t notice anything.” I picture Willow’s sympathetic expression. She’s most likely rubbing his arm. The girl seems the empathetic type. “That must have been beyond frustrating. Sorry, Drake.” However, when she next speaks, her voice holds obvious excitement. “On a positive note, the crowd had a kickass time.”

  A grunt. I think it’s Drake. “We got lucky. We’re meant to be professionals, Wil. No music-loving fan is gonna keep coming back if a harpooned whale fucking a banshee has better sound levels.”

  Pause. I’m pretty sure Willow’s trying to bleach her mind.

  I picture Drake raking long fingers through dark hair. “We’ve come too far to throw it all away for a good time. The mix needs to be on point.”