Page 9 of Revel
“I can shove a fucking drumstick down your goddamn throat. Then what?”
“How ’bout I shove one up your ass?”
Liz separates the two of them from killing one another. “Knock it off.”
It’s me who groans and rolls my eyes, voicing my discontent for the situation again. “Why do we have to do this shit?”
“Because after all the trouble you four pulled in Vegas, you need another tour to pay back the lawsuit the promoter handed you.”
It’s a good thing I have a damn good lawyer because I have more lawsuits than I can keep track of, and most of them have to do with two things. Drinking and my temper. And when they’re combined, it’s a side you don’t ever want to see. It’s like gravity. All it takes is a little push and me versus me is my greatest enemy.
Aside from my issues, here’s an industry truth for you that might explain why we’re set to go on tour again. Bands, artists… if you’re in the business of performing, touring is where you make your money. You usually bank more off that tour than you do off album sales. It’s around 70 to 80 percent.
And when you’re a bunch of crazy sadistic fuckers like us, you struggle to make money touring because of the life you live on the road. I don’t recall what happened in Vegas. It’s a blank spot in my memory so don’t ask what happened. For the most part, touring is lawless. I was seventeen on our first tour. Cruz and I started the band, and then came Deacon and Hardin soon after. By the time we had our first record out and a number one single, we were on tour. I can’t even accurately tell you the crazy shit we did, but I can tell you it landed all four of us in jail a time or two, and a long-lasting alcohol and cocaine addiction we all battle with. Our lives are lived out of a suitcase and most days, we’re too wasted to open it. Every night you’re at a different show, different city; all we know is we rock the shit out of it without order.
Whether it’s a tour bus, private plane, the gig, or the after-party, when you’re at our level, it’s like you’re an animal at the zoo and you’re trapped in a cage. You can see out, but nobody can touch you, and you don’t want them to anyway because you’re so paranoid that you don’t know who you can trust and who you can’t. Worship at that level, it changes you. I don’t care who you are, itfuckingchanges you, and not always for the better. For us, it happened in a matter of months. We skyrocketed to the top of the charts. Revved had everything we could ever dream of and no supervision. Our lives went from zero to sixty, and none of us were even eighteen at the time. Drunk most of the time, we did cocaine and even at times, heroin backstage—short-lived addiction. We didn’t care if we died the next day; we were the greatest rock band in the world and honestly, the biggest fucking train wreck at the same time.
But this band, these guys around me now, we are in fact a bunch of anarchistic fucks. Revved is about pushing limits, redlining. Rebelling. No laws. A brotherhood. It’s us against the world, and though we don’t make the rules, we break them and love every fucking minute of it. We might fight, tear each other down, and threaten to quit daily, but we’re brothers. Four delinquents who find sanctuary in music.
“No crazy shit,” Liz reminds us before we leave. “Let’s just have a smooth tour, no jail time, just do what you do and keep clean.” She points to me, purposely, the raging alcoholic. Probably by design. What the fuck do I care though? “I hired Glen here. Here’s your tour manager accountant.”
Cruz grins, slinging his arm around Liz and licking her cheek. “Is he gonna pay for our hookers?”
“No fucking hookers, you maniacs!”
He sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Fuck, Lizzy. How are we supposed to get our dicks wet?”
“Use your hand.” Liz shoves Cruz away from her, using the sleeve of her shirt to wipe his spit from her cheek.
“No fuckin’ way, Lizzy. I didn’t get here to take care of my needs myself.”
“I’m serious, guys.” Pausing, she points at each one of us standing in line next to the black sedan waiting to take us to the tour bus. “No fucking around this time.”
I don’t usually have a lot of say in my schedule during the day. In fact, I think it’s safe to say I have no input whatsoever in this tour. Aside from maybe who occupies my bed on any given night.
Everyone wants a piece. Whether it’s record companies, producers, executives, PR staff, each and every one of those motherfuckers want something from you. I got here because of me. Revved, every member of it, we got here because of our hard work, our talent. We find our fair share of trouble, but no fucking way am I going to let some number-crunching motherfucker named Glen tell me how I’ll live my life and spend the money I earned.
Cruz sighs heavily beside me. “I can’t believe we’re the biggest band in the world and we’re standing in a Walmart parking lot waiting on the princess of pop.”
It’s Deacon who asks, “When’s this Ash chick getting here?”
We’re standing around our tour bus, one we’re sharing with Taylan Ash because her bus had a flat tire and, if we want to make it to Portland by tonight, there’s no time to wait around for it to be fixed. I don’t know what city we’re in, other than it looks something similar to the desert and we’re clearly at a Walmart. I only know this because of the sign next to us. I also can’t tell you why we’re sharing a bus with anyone because that just screams ridiculousness to me.
“Who?” I ask, staring at Deacon and trying to get a rise out of him. If I get along with anyone better than the other members of Revved, it’s Deacon. We’re both crazy.
“Taylan. She’s riding with us. Apparently, her bus got a flat.”
I light a cigarette and give a halfhearted shrug. What the fuck did I care when she arrived. It’s not a fucking care. I’m betting she’s gone after tonight. No way the princess of pop is surviving this tour.
To my right, I notice some random chicks standing near us. It’s not unusual for groupies to be on the bus, and no, I don’t know who they are or where they come from, but there’s always a few who make it on and have no business being there.
I don’t do love anymore. It’s a useless emotion. It was a hard lesson learned, but now my life consists of one-night stands and nameless faces. Quickies. And to be honest, in this moment, thinking of being on the road has me on edge, so I can either turn to drugs—which are easily accessible—or one of these girls who are more than willing. Probably the better option here.
Turning my head, I look over at one of them, snuff my cigarette with my boot and then nod to the bus. The blonde with her tits hanging out follows me, laughter breaking out around us for what reasons I don’t care.
I’m sure she’d be disappointed to know this isn’t lasting long and she’ll be back in the parking lot in five minutes, but I don’t tell her that.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m on Revved’s tour bus! You’re seriously so hot!” she squeals, giddy excitement barely controlled in her shaking. “This is so unbelievable.”
