“You good, Ryder?” Mitch asks, using my stage name.
I’m rarely called Wesley anymore. And no one ever calls me Wes.
“Nah. Need some privacy,” I tell him, trying to put distance between us.
That doesn’t deter him. In fact, Kas, the bassist of the group, joins in, throwing his arms around our shoulders. “The fuckin’ crowd tonight! I’m flying high, boys. Let’s get a drink before our next set.”
“Let’s not,” I say, my voice sounding thin and reedy to my own ears. My skin crawls from his touch, and I shrug him off, barely suppressing a shudder.
Where Mitch is light, Kas is dark. Black hair, dark brown eyes, a dark aura, they’re as different as night and day. From a glance, you wouldn’t peg him as a member of a rock band. He could be a broody model with his symmetrical face and classic good looks.
His arm around me keys me up more, and my heart pounds. I need a line to take the edge off.
“Leave him alone,” Tech, the rhythm guitar and backing vocalist, says, his voice holding a sharp edge. I turn a narrowed gaze on him, and his glare burns into me. “Look at him. You’re getting in the way of his high.”
Tech is the outcast of the group. The one who looks like he rolled out of bed and smacked his face into the ugly tree. He’s grungy but not in a good way. I’m sure if heweren’t in a world-famous band, he would have to pay for pussy.
I bristle, hating being called out like that. They all know I use, but no one ever says anything about it. No one but this motherfucker.
“Mind your fucking business, Tech. Or you’ll find another band to play for.” I growl the threat.
“What? You think Lana’s Mischief is my only option? Please,” he says, waving me off. “If I wanted?—”
I turn around, making him bump into me, until we’re chest to chest. The touch sears into me, but I’m already on edge. I need to get my point across to this fucking asshole. “Then fucking do it, Tech. Go to another band. And I bet your bitch ass will be crawling back to me.”
Tech’s eyes grow wide, knowing I’m not bluffing.
I don’t want to be standing here when I could be getting high, but Tech pushes my fucking buttons. He wasn’t my first choice to be my rhythm guitar player after the original guy, Vic, died of an overdose. I wanted to drop the number to three and change our style, but our manager, Zed, said we needed a well-rounded sound, and Tech fit that bill. But his fucking attitude has grated on my nerves for the past ten years, and it’s all Zed can do to keep me from firing his ass.
As if materializing from thin air, Zed steps between us, pushing against Tech’s chest. “It’s cool. Tech, walk it off.” Zed looks at me, sees my clenched fists and my obviously sweaty brow, and shakes his head. “Go get right, Ryder. We still have another half of the show.”
I glare at Tech before turning away and heading down the hall. Mitch and Kas follow behind me, whispering about how out of line Tech was. But I don’t care what’s going on, I need to get to my stash.
Mitch catches my arm before I step into the room, aconcerned look on his face. “Ryder, listen man. If you need help…just?—”
I snatch away from him. I don’t like people touching me without my permission. It’s why I no longer have shows where people can crowd the stage. “I don’t need help with anything. I’m good.”
We stare at each other until Mitch sighs and nods, stepping back and heading to the dressing room across the hall that he and Kas share.
I slam the door and hurry over to my guitar bag. Stuffing my hand inside, I pull out my baggie with pills, a few joints, and a vial of coke. I remove the vial and quickly take a bump in each nostril.
Almost immediately, euphoria spreads through my limbs. The shaking stops, and my heart rate eases before it picks up from the drugs. “Fuck,” I groan, rubbing my chubbed cock through my leather pants.
This high will hold me over until the show is over and I can get what I really need. Maybe a bitch to hop on my dick and ride me until I pass out.
I light a joint and take a few tokes, calming my racing heart. The back of my head hits the leather couch I’m sitting on as I relax against the material. My eyes drift closed, the high making my brain shut off, no thoughts or lyrics or melodies floating around.
We have four more shows on this tour, then we can take a break for at least three months. I’m fucking tired. I want to rest for a bit and not worry about sound checks, recording albums, and fucking tour stops. It’s all so fucking exhausting.
Banging on my door has me nearly jumping out of my skin, the cacophony of noises assailing me. “Ryder,” Zedsays, opening the door and peeking inside. “We’re back on in three.”
I drop the joint on the ground and stomp it out, then straighten my leather vest. It’s too hot to have a shirt on under it, so my tattoos are on display. I’m not covered like Mitch, but a good portion of my torso sports vibrant colors from the needle.
“Let’s go,” I say, brushing past him. Energy thrums through me, and I feel like I can conquer the world.
I shake my arms out as one of the backstage hands passes me my brand-new Fender. After I loop it around my neck, I play a few chords to make sure it’s in tune, nodding to myself.
“Don’t fucking flame out up there,” Tech growls. “Fucking junkie.”
