drop. “But we always do
the Stones, man. I’m just saying Skynard would be something
new…”
Skree’s face darkened and he let up with the
drumsticks long enough to give Mark a hard shove. “We’re doing the
same one we always do.”
Somewhere behind him came a raucous laugh.
“Too bad it sucks.”
Benjamin looked up at the voice of Nick
Staver, Hazard’s drummer. The animosity between him and Skree was
legendary in Richmond’s local rock scene—both bands had been
disqualified from numerous competitions before due to the drummers’
fights. As he closed the distance between them, Nick jeered, “When
are you losers gonna learn the words to that fucking song? You
always sing it wrong. It’s painted black, you idiots.”
Skree whirled around, a drumstick held tight
in either fist like a kitana sword, ready to fight. He glared down
Nick and the two guitarists behind him, guys whose names Benjamin
never bothered to remember. From where he stood by the stage
curtain, Ty glanced their way. Stay there , Benjamin prayed.
As long as Ty kept out of it, he wouldn’t have to get involved.
Skree stepped up to Nick and challenged, “What are you guys doing
here? This ain’t karaoke night.”
“We’re gonna wipe the stage with you,
dickwad,” Nick countered. He leaned forward and his band mates made
a show of keeping him back. “No way you can hold your own
against me and you know it.”
“A three year old banging on pots and pans
sounds better than you,” Skree insulted. It always started this
way, name-calling and insults, until someone threw a punch. “Call
your daughter’s daycare—maybe they’ll give you lessons.”
Nick lunged and, this time, the guitarists
didn’t have to fake holding him—the muscles in their thin arms
stood out like cords as they struggled to keep him from pouncing on
Skree. “Don’t you dare talk about my daughter!” the drummer
warned. “Where the hell do you get off—”
Suddenly Ty was there between them. “Nick,”
he cautioned. His gaze flicked past Skree to Benjamin like a
challenge. Over his shoulder, he told his band, “Cut it out.”
So much for staying out of the fight ,
Benjamin thought with a weary sigh . He unfolded himself and
stepped in front of Skree. “Can’t you keep that drummer of yours
under control?” Hazard’s singer asked him.
For a moment their eyes met. Benjamin felt
that same energy spin out between them, a pulsing fire that burned
from his throat to his groin, twisting everything inside him on the
way down. Flicking his hair out of his face, he replied, “The way
you do with yours.” He started to move away, thought better of it,
and leaned closer to Ty. The familiar whiff of clean, sharp soap
and spicy deodorant made his balls clench. To Nick, just behind the
lead singer, Benjamin said softly, “It’s paint it black.”
One corner of Ty’s mouth pulled up in a half smile, which
encouraged Benjamin. “Next time you’re going to insult us, get it
right.”
Before he could lose himself in the scent of
soap and Old Spice, Benjamin turned on his heel and walked off,
heading for the stage. Skree and Mark followed after him, probably
casting suspicious glances back at Hazard, but Benjamin didn’t turn
around to check. He didn’t want them to see the grin that
threatened to split his face.
* * * *
Onstage, Benjamin leaned into the mike with
the stand tilted down over the edge of the stage—a dangerous move
that drove the girls in the front row wild. His lyrics were lost in
the music—Skree’s drums throbbed out a primal beat, and Mark revved
his bass like a racecar squealing around the track. The bass rose
in pitch, drawing the song up after it, ripping the words from
Benjamin’s throat in a scream of rage and lust. Sweat blinded him,
slicked his hair to the back of his neck, his forehead, his cheeks.
He wiped it out of his eyes and leaned towards the crowd, away from
the music that pounded through him.
Chin tucked in, head
the Stones, man. I’m just saying Skynard would be something
new…”
Skree’s face darkened and he let up with the
drumsticks long enough to give Mark a hard shove. “We’re doing the
same one we always do.”
Somewhere behind him came a raucous laugh.
“Too bad it sucks.”
Benjamin looked up at the voice of Nick
Staver, Hazard’s drummer. The animosity between him and Skree was
legendary in Richmond’s local rock scene—both bands had been
disqualified from numerous competitions before due to the drummers’
fights. As he closed the distance between them, Nick jeered, “When
are you losers gonna learn the words to that fucking song? You
always sing it wrong. It’s painted black, you idiots.”
Skree whirled around, a drumstick held tight
in either fist like a kitana sword, ready to fight. He glared down
Nick and the two guitarists behind him, guys whose names Benjamin
never bothered to remember. From where he stood by the stage
curtain, Ty glanced their way. Stay there , Benjamin prayed.
As long as Ty kept out of it, he wouldn’t have to get involved.
Skree stepped up to Nick and challenged, “What are you guys doing
here? This ain’t karaoke night.”
“We’re gonna wipe the stage with you,
dickwad,” Nick countered. He leaned forward and his band mates made
a show of keeping him back. “No way you can hold your own
against me and you know it.”
“A three year old banging on pots and pans
sounds better than you,” Skree insulted. It always started this
way, name-calling and insults, until someone threw a punch. “Call
your daughter’s daycare—maybe they’ll give you lessons.”
Nick lunged and, this time, the guitarists
didn’t have to fake holding him—the muscles in their thin arms
stood out like cords as they struggled to keep him from pouncing on
Skree. “Don’t you dare talk about my daughter!” the drummer
warned. “Where the hell do you get off—”
Suddenly Ty was there between them. “Nick,”
he cautioned. His gaze flicked past Skree to Benjamin like a
challenge. Over his shoulder, he told his band, “Cut it out.”
So much for staying out of the fight ,
Benjamin thought with a weary sigh . He unfolded himself and
stepped in front of Skree. “Can’t you keep that drummer of yours
under control?” Hazard’s singer asked him.
For a moment their eyes met. Benjamin felt
that same energy spin out between them, a pulsing fire that burned
from his throat to his groin, twisting everything inside him on the
way down. Flicking his hair out of his face, he replied, “The way
you do with yours.” He started to move away, thought better of it,
and leaned closer to Ty. The familiar whiff of clean, sharp soap
and spicy deodorant made his balls clench. To Nick, just behind the
lead singer, Benjamin said softly, “It’s paint it black.”
One corner of Ty’s mouth pulled up in a half smile, which
encouraged Benjamin. “Next time you’re going to insult us, get it
right.”
Before he could lose himself in the scent of
soap and Old Spice, Benjamin turned on his heel and walked off,
heading for the stage. Skree and Mark followed after him, probably
casting suspicious glances back at Hazard, but Benjamin didn’t turn
around to check. He didn’t want them to see the grin that
threatened to split his face.
* * * *
Onstage, Benjamin leaned into the mike with
the stand tilted down over the edge of the stage—a dangerous move
that drove the girls in the front row wild. His lyrics were lost in
the music—Skree’s drums throbbed out a primal beat, and Mark revved
his bass like a racecar squealing around the track. The bass rose
in pitch, drawing the song up after it, ripping the words from
Benjamin’s throat in a scream of rage and lust. Sweat blinded him,
slicked his hair to the back of his neck, his forehead, his cheeks.
He wiped it out of his eyes and leaned towards the crowd, away from
the music that pounded through him.
Chin tucked in, head
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