Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3 Read online

  I frown at him, “No.” I say it more defensively than I want to. There’s no way I’m gaining weight. I count calories like I count time in my head. It’s so automatic, I don’t even think about it anymore. Image is as much a part of making it in music as the music is, but it’s a necessary evil. I moved to Hollywood to make it big, not get a big ass.

  Changing subjects, I say, “We should head to the stage.” I step toward the door. “We’re on in five minutes.” I glance at Rex and Bobby, “Come on, guys.”

  They stroll toward the green room door.

  “I’ll catch up with you guys,” Scott says, “I need five minutes alone.”

  Bobby chuckles, “Like the Pantera song? You gonna kick someone’s ass?”

  “Naw,” Scott says, “just need to get my head together.”

  With Rex and Bobby standing behind me in the door frame, I shoot Scott a glare they don’t catch. I know what ‘getting his head together’ usually means. I told him to quit snorting blow months ago. He promised me a hundred times he’d quit. He’s probably nervous about tonight’s show. I get it. But cocaine is never your friend in the long run. It’s wrecked more of my friends than I care to count. Scott thinks he’s different from everyone else. He thinks he’s special. In some ways, he is. Too bad the blow doesn’t see it that way. But I’m not going to call Scott out in front of the band and give him a “Say No To Drugs” lecture five minutes before stage time at the biggest show of our careers.

  “You sure?” I ask Scott, tilting my head and widening my eyes accusingly at him. It’s my last ditch plea for him to stay straight for the night.

  Scott lowers his mirrored shades so I can see his ice blue eyes. They’re as mirrored as his sunglasses. Inscrutable. “Promise,” he says softly. “Just need to focus for a few minutes.”

  I can’t tell if he’s lying. Then again, I never could.

  The stage manager pops his head through the open doorway. “Four minutes and counting, people. Get to the stage.”

  “After you,” Rex says to me.

  “Ladies first,” Bobby grins at me.

  “Don’t sweat it, Vic,” Scott says, “I’ll see you on stage.”

  Rex and Bobby herd me out of the room.

  “Don’t be late,” I warn Scott as I walk out the door.

  “This is rock and roll,” Scott chuckles. “Shit never goes as planned.”

  Chapter 2

  KELLAN

  I goose the throttle of my black on black Honda CBR1000RR. I wait at yet another traffic clogged stoplight on Sunset Boulevard in the heart of the Hollywood Hills.

  The weather is pleasantly warm.

  It’s after ten o’clock, but you’d think it was rush hour with all the energized club goers in their cars cruising the Sunset Strip on a Friday night.

  My bike looks like a stealth fighter that can hit Mach 2 easily, which it pretty much can. But all I’ve been doing the last half hour is crawling on it from red to red.

  The sidewalks are as packed as the street and littered with faces I recognize from the covers of Us Magazine, People, The National Enquirer, TMZ, Gawker, and every other gossip mag and website you can think of.

  All of the people flash tanned skin, showing off their new clothes from the trendy shops on Melrose, revealing tight muscled bodies and flawless skin. It’s a big fucking high school “look at me” spectacle that makes me want to laugh. I ignore the dudes with their personal trainer cross-fit bodies, but not the long legged half-naked babes.

  They’re always a bonus.

  The restaurants and bars on both sides of the winding street glow bright with neon and a million different colored lights. The colors ricochet off the polished chrome, glass, and steel of the cars, and dozens of office buildings squeezed between some of the hottest nightclubs in the world: The Whiskey a Go-Go, The Roxy, The Viper Room. Business and entertainment go hand in hand in Hollywood. This town is like Adult Disneyland.

  I still can’t decide if I love it or hate it.

  Like I said, the babes help.

  Speaking of which, there’s a custom silver Porsche 911 Carrera convertible next to me with its top down. The two knockout blondes inside wearing painted on dresses are eyeing me like I’m candy, which I am.

  I lean back in the saddle of my CBR with my gloved hands on my hips. My ink covered arms popping out of my black t-shirt flex impressively. My helmet visor is already up because I haven’t gone faster than twenty since I got onto Sunset. So I flash my baby browns at the blonde hotties so they can see my trademark smolder.

  “What’s your name,” the passenger side blonde says.

  “God,” I chuckle.

  The two blondes giggle like schoolgirls.

  Yeah, it’s always been this easy for me. Girls started throwing themselves at me when I was eleven. I’m not making this shit up.

  “You sure are cocky,” the blonde driver says.

  “The cockiest,” I say smugly, “in every way you can imagine.” It’s like a game to me. I try to come up with the cheesiest lines I can possibly think up and see if the girls still fall for my shit.

  They always do.

  The passenger blonde shifts in her leather bucket seat to give me a show. Her knees part slowly. Her skirt creeps up her toned tan thighs inch by inch. I can almost see home plate.

  With a sultry smile, she says, “How do we know you’re not exaggerating?”

  My dick stirs in my pants. Business as usual. “I don’t have to exaggerate,” I say. “I just state the facts.”

  The stoplight turns green, but the dumbfucks turning onto Sunset have gridlocked the road. There’s nothing for me to do but wait and play more games with the foxes in the convertible.

  Passenger Blonde turns to her girlfriend, who is smiling from ear to ear, and says, “Should we take him home?”

  Driver Blonde is blushing, but she tries to play it down. She acts all confident when she says, “Why not?” Her lips are trembling with anticipation.

  Passenger Blonde giggles again. She turns back to me with sudden arrogance and says, “He’s probably a troll beneath his helmet.”

  It’s a challenge I’m happy to meet.

  I glance at the gridlock still blocking the road. Traffic isn’t going to move for another two minutes at least. I indulge the girls and take my helmet off. I unveil my cocky grin.

  Both their eyes widen as their mouths drop open.

  I almost blurt laughter in their faces as I think of several jokes about blow jobs. But, even I have limits.

  “Oh my god,” Driver Blonde gasps.

  “That’s me,” I interject cockily.

  “You’re gorgeous,” Passenger Blonde says. “Are you a model?”

  “Sure,” I say. It’s not true, but they’ll never know. I may as well be. I’ve been scouted enough times. But I turned all of them down. The last thing I want is some lame fuck modeling career derailing my music.

  I chuckle at how ridiculous this situation is with the blondes. It’s real, but it’s unreal. I know plenty of dudes who don’t live a life anywhere close to mine. Whenever I tell my buddies stories, they never believe me. Oh well. I know it’s true.

  “Okay,” Passenger Blonde says, “We’re totally taking you home.”

  Driver Blonde leans across her friend, flashing me her cleavage, which I can tell is fake, but expensive. I’d like to get my hands on them later, but I’ve got shit to do. Driver Blonde’s eyes are sultry with desire when she says, “Follow us, okay?”

  I strap my helmet back on. The gridlock in front of us has cleared and the light turns green again.

  “Sorry, ladies,” I say. “I’m late to see a band play at The Cobra Lounge.”

  I rev my Honda and my bike bolts across the intersection. I bullet between rows of cars that are going two miles an hour. I’m tired of waiting for traffic.

  I smile to myself as I glance in my side mirror at the blondes stuck in their Porsche a block behind me. There’s a thousand more like them on the streets of
Hollywood tonight. I’ll find some other ones later.

  It’s good to be me.

  Chapter 3

  VICTORY

  The eyes of everyone in the backstage hallways are all over me and my skin tight rock & roll assassin outfit. The stage hands, the opening band members leaving the stage, random hangers-on, and the backstage groupies.

  All of them act mesmerized.

  I want to scream at them, “It’s just a stupid costume!” But I tune them out instead. My mind is on a more pressing issue. Because me, Rex, and Bobby are making our way to the stage without Scott.

  When we get to the stairs leading up to the stage, I say to Rex and Bobby, “I’ve gotta hit the ladies room.”

  “You’re not nervous, are you?” Rex asks.

  “Hell no! I gotta pee,” I lie.

  Rex grins at Bobby, “She’s nervous.”

  “Want me to hold your guitar?” Bobby asks.

  “Oh, uh, sure.” I lift it over my head and hand it to him. “Back in a sec,” I singsong.

  My smile goes grim the second I strut around the corner of the narrow hallway in my hooker heels. I ignore the guys gawking at my cleavage as I shoulder past them.

  I need to check on Scott.

  I hope I’m not too late.

  The green room door is closed and locked when I reach it. I wiggle the knob. Damn, he’s probably two or three lines in by now.

  “Scott?” I rattle the door knob. “You in there? Scott?”

  The door whips open and a guy in a gray suit walks out holding a slim leather briefcase.

  Surprised, I snap at him, “Who the hell are you?”

  Suit Guy doesn’t even blink as he walks past me and down the hallway.

  Scott stands in the green room, his arms folded across his “FUCK.” t-shirt. His mirrored shades rest on top of his head. He glares at me with his equally mirrored eyes.

  Hands on hips, I glance over my shoulder in the direction suit guy went then say to Scott, “Is that your new dealer?”

  Scott chuckles. “You could say that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I growl.

  “Where’s your guitar, Vic? We have a show to play.”

  “Quit calling me Vic, and quit changing the subject, Scott. Was that guy selling you dope?”

  “Why, you want your own eight ball?”

  “You know I don’t do coke. Who was that, Scott?”

  “There you are!” the breathless stage manager says from the green room doorway. “You guys are on in one minute! Let’s go!” He spins his hand in a circle, motioning for us to get moving.

  Scott struts past me, “Come on, Vic. We have a show to play.”

  What could Scott possibly be up to? I can only guess. But knowing Scott, I know I’ll guess wrong.

  Chapter 4

  KELLAN

  The line outside The Cobra Lounge coils around the building. The people waiting are animated and excited to get inside. The bouncers are checking everyone for contraband: drugs, alcohol, weapons, the usual shit.

  I walk straight to the front of the line. I know the head bouncer. “What up, Tony!” I clap him on the shoulder while he shines his flashlight in some babe’s handbag.

  Tony is a brawny retired Marine who loves to smash heads when people get out of line and flirt with the female “talent” who come through the doors every night. His body builder arms and broad shoulders stretch his black t-shirt with its blood red Cobra Lounge logo across his barrel chest. When Tony’s not working here, he’s at the beach working on his tan and staring at bikinis. He looks up at me and smiles, “Kellan! What up, dog!”

  We fist bump, pop fingers like our fists just exploded, then grip hands and do a man hug.

  “Good to see you, bro,” I smile. I come to The Cobra all the time, and have helped Tony sling sloppy drunk customers out the front door out of boredom when the bands suck. I’m always joking he needs to put me on the payroll.

  “You here for Skin Trade like everybody else?” he asks.

  “Yup,” I say as I whip my ticket out.

  “Paying customer and everything,” Tony chuckles. He would probably comp me if I didn’t have a ticket, but I wasn’t going to risk missing the show. The buzz about Skin Trade has been off the hook.

  I say, “People keep telling me I need to check out their axeman.”

  Tony nods. He doesn’t follow the bands. He just knows the names on the big marquee over his head on any given night.

  I glance down the line of people and notice a bunch of girls wearing Skin Trade t-shirts. From what I’ve heard, the lead singer is some kind of heartthrob, maybe even the next Jim Morrison. A real rockstar poet. There’s plenty of dudes wearing Skin Trade shirts in line too. That means the music doesn’t suck. The guys also come to scam on the chicks, but you never see this many dudes for a band that sucks, no matter how many hotties turn out.

  I lift my arms out for Tony’s benefit and say, “You need to pat me down?”

  “You carrying?”

  I grab my crotch with one hand, “Just my gun.”

  Tony smirks at me, “Toy guns don’t count.”

  “What can I say? All the ladies like to play with it,” I grin.

  Tony shakes his head, “Get inside before I make you wait in line with everyone else.”

  “Thanks, man,” I slap him on the shoulder.

  “Hey!” some hothead rocker chic in line yells from behind me. “No cutting! Wait like the rest of us!”

  I turn around and turn on the heat. “What’s your name?” I ask, gazing into her eyes.

  She melts when she looks up at me. “Ariel,” she mutters softly, suddenly bashful, like she just met her favorite rockstar.

  She’s cute in her scoop neck Mötley Crüe t-shirt and tight black jeans. I graze my thumb softly across her cheek. She nuzzles into it unconsciously.

  “See you inside, Ariel,” I say warmly, letting my fingers linger on her cheek.

  Tony shakes his head at me. “You should be a controlled substance, kid.”

  I hike my eyebrows at him, grinning like a teenager.

  “Move it, pretty boy,” he smiles, “I’ve got work to do.”

  I swagger into the crowded Cobra Lounge like I own the place.

  One of these days, I’m going to be the big band on stage everyone’s lining up to see.

  Until then, I’m going to enjoy myself any way I know how.

  Chapter 5

  VICTORY

  I make my way through darkness, unafraid because my Fender Strat hangs from my shoulder like a weapon. Glow-in-the-dark tape on the black stage floor guides me to my position, stage right.

  The audience shouts a chanting war cry.

  “SKIN TRADE!!”

  “SKIN TRADE!!”

  “SKIN TRADE!!”

  Frenzied female voices desperately scream, “SCOTT!!!!” like a bunch of dying cats. The shrill sound stabs my ears like icepicks.

  I’m used to it.

  My earplugs blot up the high end, otherwise I think those screams would drive me insane.

  A dim red light over the drum kit illuminates Bobby as he climbs in.

  Rex waits expectantly in near darkness stage left.

  Bobby shouts out at the top of his lungs, “One! Two! Three!—”

  I spin the volume knob on my Fender to ten with the edge of my hand. My guitar instantly feeds back with a ringing squeal.

  “—Four!”

  A split second later I bang out power chords in time with Rex and Bobby.

  We play our most popular fast tempo tune, Slave To You. It’s aggressive and gets the crowd moving. I can feel the pounding bottom end of my Marshall 4x12 speaker cabinet hammering into the backs of my legs. The sound is so loud, it creates a breeze of air across the bare skin of my ankles.

  The perfect volume.

  I’m smiling like crazy when the stage lights come up to full and I can see the audience moshing and banging heads in time to the daggered Slave To You riff. Half t
he guys at the foot of the stage in front of me are pumping devil horn fists in the air.

  I make eye contact with one of them and flash him a smile.

  He shouts at the top of his lungs, “Victory!!! Fucking play it!!!”

  This isn’t the first time someone has shouted my name at a show. I swear, it gets better every time it happens. The adrenalin rush is incredible. There’s literally nothing on the planet like people screaming for your music. It’s overwhelming. Shivers run up and down my arms and legs and my chest tightens with the thrill.

  Fuuuuck meeee.

  It’s better than sex.

  It sounds impossible, but it’s true. In the infamous words of the one and only Joan Jett, I love rock n roll.

  Scott runs on stage in his silver pants, black “FUCK.” t-shirt, and mirrored sunglasses. He holds his mic stand in front of his hips two-handed like a spear. His legs are spread wide and his body whips and spins in sync with the band.

  The screeching girls go nuts when they see Scott, their high octave wails cutting above the blaring music of the band by another ten decibels.

  Scott nods and smirks at them with pursed lips like he expects no less. He leans down at the front of the stage to briefly caress several of their reaching fingers with his. The women he touches clutch their hands to their breasts like they’re holding onto a piece of Scott. Many of them wear t-shirts that say “I Am A Skin Slave.”

  We started seeing these shirts on more and more girls at our gigs over the past year. It turned out that Scott’s groupies were making the shirts themselves.

  Scott loved it.

  Me, not nearly as much.

  I still feel a pinch of jealousy when I think about the hordes of women who lust after Scott. But I’ve trained myself to mostly ignore it for two years straight. What used to be a stabbing assault of jealousy is now merely a prickly pinch. It’s not like I had a choice. What was I going to do? Tell our female fans to stop liking our singer so much? Not a chance.