Naughty Songbird

Rock stars were my least favorite type of musician to work with. It hadn’t always been that way.

A forceful gust of wind lifted violet strands of my hair, whipping them against my face. An intense chill accompanied the breeze, causing a shiver to course through each of my limbs. Not even the heavy black coat slung over my shoulders could keep it at bay.

Gritting my teeth against the bitter cold, I shoved my shoulder against the heavy door of the grimy downtown venue. Red paint chipped from the edges, revealing hints of the dented black metal underneath.

I rolled my eyes to the midnight sky and glittering stars, wishing I was anywhere else.

“I can’t believe we’re meeting here during a live show,” I hissed over my shoulder at my manager. The blaring music from within almost drowned me out. The air reeked of stale garbage and too many sweaty bodies.

If this deal hadn’t already been agreed upon, I would have turned back around at the first sight of the crowd on the streets.

Damien rolled his round head, accompanied by a nonchalant shrug. Light reflected off the perfectly smooth, brown skin of his bald scalp.

He reached over me to push the door open. “Look, Diana, you know better than anyone how these guys are. They get swept up in the excitement of whatever it is they’re doing.”

Heavy metal instrumentals blasted my eardrums, along with the sounds of rage-fueled scream-singing. Across the writhing throng of a couple hundred people, the energy onstage lured my eyes.

A singular mountainous frame moving with impossible agility stole my attention. Finger-length raven-black hair shone wickedly under the red stage lights. Black-and-white skeletal face paint gave him the appearance of some deadly otherworldly creature.

The rock star’s rich voice promised devilish delights under the moonlight. Chills flared over my limbs, and my skin tightened.

“And it looks like he’s currently swept up in something,” I breathed.

The weighty door slammed shut behind us, snatching me from my reverie. Warmth returned to my bones as the wind disappeared.

Then the heat of too many bodies cramped into one space swarmed me, and the stench of cigarettes wafted into my nose.

The percussive bass dropping in the intense music perfectly timed with a man in the front row throwing himself against another guest in the flock of fans. Savage and excited, the crowd thrilled in the energy of the fight.

My jaw dropped as I beheld the world-renowned Levi Stark drop from the stage and grab the fight instigator by the collar. He swiftly smashed his fist into the man’s face.

I jolted back as if I’d heard the crunching of bone under knuckles despite the music.

“You’ve got to be joking with me.”

Two men immediately jumped onto the rock star’s back to defend their friend. There was something to be said for Levi’s impressive height and wide shoulders.

He didn’t sway under their weight when those beefy men grabbed him. Instead, his fist uncurled from the shirt of the man he was pummeling.

Baritone laughter boomed over the screaming metal music blaring through the speakers. His band didn’t miss a beat as their front man plunged into aggressive action.

My vision tunneled on the rock star thriving in the chaos of the concert fight. Red lights from above and the heavy, fast-paced beat of the current song made him appear absolutely deranged.

“I have to work with him?” I threw my arm in Levi’s direction before glaring at Damien. “This deal isn’t worth it. He’s obviously a lunatic.”

“No, look, here comes his manager now,” Damien said, ignoring my complaints. It was unlikely he heard me clearly over the music.

He threw a casual arm over my shoulder, then waved down the short man in an ill-fitting suit skirting the crowd to reach us.

“That’s the manager for fucking Levi Stark?” I crossed my arms over my chest and rolled my eyes. I already didn’t want to be here in the first place, and the musician wasn’t making a great first impression.

“No, no, I’m telling you, kid, this guy is great with these rock star types,” Damien shouted over the music. “He might look like a mouse in a man’s suit, but I promise he knows how to corral the rowdiest fuckers this side of Los Angeles.”

The little man slouched with relief when he spotted us. He picked up the pace, squirming and scurrying as if he’d been desperately waiting for our arrival.

“Damien Palmer, you old son of a gun. I haven’t seen you in ages,” Raymond exclaimed. He shot his hand out for my manager, who grasped it with a firm grip and gave one rough shake.

Raymond pulled back his hand, attempting to hide it as he shook out his fingers. “Hey, nice to see you again,” Damien hollered over the crowd raging behind us. “This is D. Johnson.”

Raymond’s black eyes widened behind thick-rimmed glasses that made him look more like an overgrown fly than a mouse. I didn’t think his eyes could bulge out of his head any more than they already were until he focused on me.

I almost told him to pick his jaw up off the floor. Instead, I put my hand forward, greeting him with a thin smile on my lips. “Nice to meet you, Raymond.”

When his hand curled around mine, I instantly wanted to snatch it back. Years in L.A. had an adverse effect on me because I internally cringed at his flimsy grip.

Damien moved in closer, his classic grin gracing his lighthearted expression. “Look, pal, is there somewhere quieter we can go to talk?”

“Oh, yes, of course. We can go to the dressing room backstage.” As soon as Raymond looked over the roiling crowd, a sonorous war cry cleaved through the music.

I pivoted in time to see a man in a cut-off leather jacket raising a bar stool and rushing at the rock star. Time moved in a blur as I froze, watching with rapt attention.

The man smashed Levi Stark across the face with a barstool, sending him spiraling into the crowd. Shards of wood fractured into the air. Women screamed and men roared.

Security emerged from the throng to break up the fighting. Yet the music didn’t stop, and the lights continued to flare and spin. An unbidden smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

Levi burst up from the churning fight with a wide grin slashed across his lips and feral delight glinting in his eyes. I paled at the crimson rivulets staining the white paint on his face.

“Jesus Christ on a cracker!” I yelped.

My manager didn’t stop pulling until my feet obeyed my commands to move. “Come on. Things will calm down soon.”

Raymond flew around the crowd, darting like a fly in a hurricane. Damien placed his hand on my shoulder and urged me to follow Raymond toward a door hidden off to the side of the stage. Two massive barrel-chested security guards allowed us through.

The compact dingy dressing room seemed like a closet compared to ones I’d visited before. The black walls were too close together, and the dim lights over the vanity mirror weren’t bright enough to grapple the shadows. At least the painted brick muffled the unruly music and blocked the stench of cigarettes.

“I’ll go wait for the show to end to drag Levi back here. He might do one more song after this—er—interruption.”

Raymond lifted his shoulders, bracing himself before and bolstering his resolve to step back into the madness.

Damien and I took opposite ends of the worn sable couch on the back wall. As soon as my bottom hit the leather cushion, I dropped my head into my hands. An irritated groan breached my lips.

“This was a mistake. I don’t want to work with that crazy man.”

It wasn’t too late to leave. All we had to do was slip out the door before Raymond and Levi returned. With the riled-up crowd outside, Damien and I would vanish without a trace, and they’d be none the wiser.

“Diana, you haven’t written anything in six months. We need a new deal, and you know it,” Raymond said.

Damien shifted his bulky frame to look at me. “Is this a great first impression, eh? No,” he admitted flatly.

“You can say that again,” I scoffed into my hands.

“I’m really not sure about this. Did you see him out there? Skull face paint and jumping into a crowd fight. That edgy maniac is going to drive me insane. I already know it.”

How did they expect my style of lyrics to work with Levi’s heavy rock image?

“His manager already agreed to the price. We just need to sign the documents,” Damien said.

My manager gently patted me on the shoulder, as if consoling a kid who dropped their candy.

“Couldn’t we have done this in a studio or an office?” I grumbled.

Sitting up, I met Damien’s worn-out expression. My shoulders sagged in defeat. No matter how much I complained, it wouldn’t change anything.

“The big stars get their way,” Damien stated. The tense lines around his eyes revealed his three decades of experience in the music industry.

“If he thinks his show is going to impress me, he’s sorely mistaken,” I huffed.

I lifted my chin defiantly. I’d been in the industry too long to let a performance sway me.

The doorknob turned, and I sprang off the couch. Cheers and fading applause filled the previously quiet room.

An unwanted heat coiled, tight and quick, in my lower stomach. A charged energy rushed in, radiating from the towering rock star dressed head to toe in ripped, gothic attire.