Page 15 of Revel
This is where she’s wrong. I met Hensley when I was eighteen and she was sixteen. We started fucking soon after, but we weren’t together exclusively until she was over eighteen and living with me. For the past two goddamn years, I only fucked her. Did you hear me?
Do you understand the significance of that?
She clearly didn’t because I had women throwing their cunts at me and for two motherfucking years I denied them because of this slut in front of me.
Clenching my jaw, the anger inside me builds. “Leave me alone.” I turn, attempting to get away, but she takes hold of my jacket.
I don’t budge. I never do.
“Are you talking to her to get back at me?” she asks, her voice wavering.
I don’t turn around because I know what she’s referring to, but then I think to myself, she needs to hear exactly what I’m thinking. Spinning to face her, I prop my shoulder against the doorframe, folding my arms over my chest. “So by me telling her she probably sucks cock better than she sings, which, if we’re honest here, I can and probably will find out whenever the fuck I want to.” I pause, each one of my words filling her heart with a lost love she had, but never will again. “But you think because of that, I’m doing it to hurtyoubecause after all, it’s her dad who went and ruined us, am I right?” She doesn’t nod, fuck, she doesn’t even breathe, but her eyes flood with tears. “Is that even an accurate thing to say though? Did he really have anything to do with it? You’re the one who spread your legs and fucked him, so really, it’s all on you, isn’t it?”
“I don’t understand why you’re being so mean to me all the time. I was honest with you when I said I was sorry. I meant it.” She swallows, her voice shaking. “Weusedto be friends.”
“Had you come to me and said ‘hey, I wanna see other people,’ I wouldn’t have cared. Yet you purposely went behind my back with the one person I can’t fucking stand.”
Hensley shakes her head, like she can’t believe what I’m saying. “You can’t stand anyone these days, Revel.”
“Yeah, and you’re pretty high on that list now.”
“But she’s not?”
I know exactly what she’s getting at. “Go away.”
“I’m serious. You used to fucking hate her. I don’t get it.”
“And Iusedto love you. Feelings change.”
I don’t wait for her response and instead slam the door in her face. Same thing I did to her when she told me she slept with Jory and managed to get pregnant with his kid when I was touring Europe. Fuck this bitch. If I want to get back at her, and him,I will, but it won’t be because of them, or in spite of them.
Here’s some truth for you though. If you ever want to start a war, kidnap the princess. The king will start one for you.
Let me tell you one other important piece of advice, or warning. I’m fucking manic and can flip that switch on fast.
Dressing rooms come in all different sizes and styles, depending on the venue. Rugs laid over concrete floors and walls draped with material. Tables laid out with drinks and food, and dozens of bodies occupying a space. They’re all the same in the matter of their purpose. A place where the band can relax before the show and prepare.
Though I’m always prepared, I don’t relax. I’m not sure I’m capable of it any longer. Even after the bottle of vodka in my hand is half empty, I’m not relaxed. I’m on edge and unsure.
As I sit on a couch surrounded by the other famous faces of Revved, in the distance, the drone of the opening bands performing can be heard.
Next to me, Deacon is on his phone, texting his baby-mama. On a stool, Cruz is repeatedly tapping and hitting things with his drumsticks, including Deacon’s head when he feels the need to rouse him.
In the corner, Hardin looks to a bottle of Jack Daniels with questions he’ll never get the answers to. I know because I try every day and fail just the same. While the audience listens to whoever went on before us, we remain out of the spotlight. The set list is final and kept confidential. Will we play our hits. . . something new? Only the four lost souls in this room know, and it’s up to me and how my voice is feeling for the night.
The call is given through a walkie-talkie, summoning us to the stage. It’s then the stage plunges the audience into complete darkness awaiting our arrival. Buzzing with energy, we exit the dressing room and make the walk to the stage. That adrenaline right before you get on stage, it’s untouchable. Nothing mimics that feeling. Not drugs. Not pussy. Nothing.
It takes me longer to get on stage, my pants were on backwards, but hey, they’re lucky I’m wearing any.
“What city are we in?” I ask our roadie, because I’ve already forgotten.
He gestures to my hand. “It’s written on your hand.”
I look down, zipping my jeans with the other hand. He’s right, but it’s smeared. “Next time use a Sharpie,” I tell him, pushing past the throngs of people in our way.
Rock and roll is a dynamic, complex monster. So much goes into a performance. The singer, the guitarist, those are who the people pay attention to. To be honest, the drums is where the show is at. I actually started with drums, then moved to the lead vocalist when we discovered what my voice brought to our music. The drums, the tribal, primal sound, that’s the rhythm that moves the crowd. It’s the first sound you hear when they cue the blackout, the indication the show’s starting. It’s the sound that sets the mood for you and those sixty thousand fans. It will begin and end with that sound.
Who takes the brunt of it if the show doesn’t go well? Me! When the audience doesn’t respond to a song, it isn’t the guitar player or the drummer. It’s the lead singer center stage who takes it. Nobody hears if Deacon or Hardin’s guitar is out of tune, but if I’m flat, the headlines are “Revel’s voice is slipping. It’s the drugs.”