First Chance

Steele

We finish our set, thanking everyone for entering the contest—a contest neither the band nor I approved of or was even aware our tour manager Mel had allowed us to be entered into.

I storm off backstage, the guys following.

Shocked. That’s the only way I can describe what I’m feeling. I reenter our dressing room. Before I can even speak, Jason does.

“The princess you had on stage was something else, Ryan. She has some fight in her. It’s not a surprise she stuck out to you in that mob of fans.”

“What do you mean it’s not a surprise that she caught my attention?” I question, wondering what he could be implying.

“Cool it, man. All I’m saying is that the chick was easily the most unapproachable in that entire horde. Also, she was easily the sexiest,” he says, almost laughing.

“Yeah, well, it didn’t go exactly how I had planned. She ran, dude—fucking ran.”

At that precise moment, a female walks in, interrupting our conversation. She introduces herself to Jason first, then Gage, Zepp, and Liam, then me.

“I’m Layla,” she says, in a smooth, seductive tone.

“Uh, hi, Layla, and what may I do for you?” I say with a suggestive wink. This girl is fucking hot. Thing is, she knows it. I’m unsure if this is a good thing or a bad thing with her.

“Oh, no, baby, it’s not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you. You see that hot little thing you were just singing with on stage? Well, I know her name.

“Am I wrong in assuming you might want to know it too?” she says, sure of herself.

I look around at the guys, curiosity laid out over their faces.

They want to know as badly as I do who this girl is. The one—the only person we’ve come across who’s remained unflustered, almost offended by our music.

I mask my features, needing to remain calm, cool, and collected. I don’t want any of them to really see how interested I am. I want to teach this little girl a lesson or two.

No one runs from me.

“Sure. So, what’s her name, and who is she to you? I mean, she has to be somebody if you would risk sneaking past security to get in here. Am I right?” I say back, sounding uninterested.

“One, she’s my best friend. Two, if you hurt with her, I will come after you,” she says threateningly. “And three, her name is Natalie. Natalie Wright.”

It’s clear this girl means something to her, but I will heed to her warning.

“You have nothing to worry about. I don’t plan on seeking her out. She’s a college kid, for Christ’s sake. Nothing special.”

She flinches as if I cut her.

“Security!” I yell.

“Will you help this kind young woman find her way out?”

Dee offers her hand, and she reluctantly takes it. Glancing back, she says, “Remember what I said? Don’t hurt her.” And with that, she disappears from my view.

“Drinks. Now. This is our last few days off consecutively, so let’s enjoy it. Also, is that bet still on?” Gage walks over, five bottles of whiskey in hand, no need for those girly shot glasses.

When we drink, it’s to get fucked up.

Zepp starts laughing. “Hell yeah, that bet’s still on. Let the battle begin.”

And with that, we all smack our bottles together and drink until we can’t handle the burn anymore.

I wake up to the light streaming in through the windows. When I open my eyes, pain shoots straight to my head. Fucking alcohol. I always seem to forget why I choose to stop drinking.

Alas, the morning after never fails to remind me exactly how shitty it really is.

At that moment, I realize I have to piss in a bad way, but I cannot get up. I am pinned by arms and legs—at least two sets of each. This is going to take some time.

Slowly, one by one, I remove said limbs, careful not to wake the owners. Creeping across the bed, I glance at the naked beauties, smiling because at least while drunk I still had high standards.

I shimmy my ass down the bed, not wanting to wake these girls. Wanting to escape cleanly and free, no begging for commitment or a phone number or even my address.

It gets old, and frankly, it’s quite pathetic.

A woman is worth one night only to me. After that, I’m good. Why ruin a sexually adventurous experience?

I creep to the bathroom, take a piss, then go on searching for my clothes. My shirt’s covering a lampshade.

My jeans are on the headboard of the bed, my socks and shoes in front of the door. I throw them on and run out the door.

As I shut the door, I realize by looking down the hallway I must have taken the girls back to the same hotel we’re staying in. Well, that makes it a hell of a lot easier.

At this moment, all I want is a cigarette, hot shower, and a cup of coffee and a side of aspirin. Maybe then, the hangover will subside enough to get through these damn interviews today.

That reminds me, I have yet to get Mel’s input on exactly what I should be looking for.

Putting the keycard in my hotel room door, I overhear a girl.

“Thank you so much for last night, baby. I left my number on your nightstand. Call me.”

I turn around and witness probably one of the best walks of shame I have ever seen.

This woman’s hair is as stiff as a board, pointing in every direction, mascara running around her eyes as if she is a raccoon, and her lipstick smeared all the way to her ear.

I do everything I can do not to laugh aloud. What a surprise that must have been, opening your eyes to that sight.

As soon as she is out of earshot, I burst out laughing, barely catching my breath.

“Oh, shut the hell up already, would you? My count: one,” Gage states.

When I manage to catch my breath, I stand up straight, look him in the eye mischievously, and say, “My count: two,” and with that, I turn my heel and walk into my room.

I let my door shut itself and strip my clothes from yesterday off.

Placing an order with room service, I order an entire breakfast tray of fruit and pastries, knowing the guys will be knocking at my door by the time I am out of the shower and dressed.

It’s tradition the night after a show. We regroup in the morning.

Communication is one of the reasons we have made it to the top. When you are in a five-person rock group, you always have to maintain that open line.

Hanging up with the hotel’s kitchen, I walk into the bathroom and start a steaming-hot shower.

I don’t even bother placing my hand under the shower of water to check the temperature. I just jump under the stream, back facing the showerhead.

I run my hands through my hair, exhaling everything I have been holding in the past two days. Pissed off at Mel. Pissed off at that strange female.

Grabbing the hotel branded shampoo, I squirt a dollop into my hand and sniff. Flowers. How fitting, to smell like a girl. Fuck it. I start scrubbing it into my scalp.

Once my head is covered in a soapy lather, I rinse. I take the paper-covered bar of soap the size of a matchbox the hotel provided so freely.

I rip the paper wrapper off and cup it in my hand, running it all over my body, turning around so I face the shower head. I close my eyes and allow myself to go back to last night.

She looked so haunted. Disturbed, even. There was a torrent of emotions in her murky brown eyes throughout our entire interaction. Part of me almost felt bad for what I was going to do to her.

What I attempted to do anyway. I almost backed out as she made her way, but her eyes lied about her strength. She fought back, which of course makes me all the more curious.

I should just let it go and move on. We’re only here for a few more days. What could I possibly learn about her? If I leave this hotel, I will be lucky not to have a horde of people following me.

One of the downfalls? No privacy. Ever. So, without privacy, I’m not able to go around asking questions about her.

If one sneaky press affiliate or groupie hears I’m asking around about a random female, news headlines will make the front page claiming I knocked someone up or some other imaginative tale.

Deciding my skin is as clean as it’s going to get, I turn the shower off, step out, take the towel off the fancy towel rack, and dry my body off.

I strut out of the bathroom and grab my luggage out of the closet. I never unpack. I yank out a pair of blue Calvin Klein boxer briefs, my favorite Diesel jeans, and a T-shirt.

Smoke time.

Stopping in front of the mirror on my way out, I throw my hands through my hair, messing it up just a little bit. Perfect.

Grabbing my cigarettes and lighter, I leave my room and make my way down to the concierge desk, asking the woman behind it if there is a discreet smoking spot.

She points me in the right direction, and I head outside.

I don’t smoke a lot. With a career as lead singer, I have to be careful not to ruin my vocal cords. Nicotine I can’t forget about.

I’ve tried kicking the habit. It isn’t going to happen, so I just cut down. A few a day to get me through.

Stepping through the door, it’s hot as a bitch out even with the wind blowing in from the harbor. It doesn’t make the heat any more bearable. Thank God for air-conditioning.

Originally born down south, you’d think I was accustomed to handling it. Nope.

Exhaling my cloud of smoke, I take a look around. She sent me to the roof.

It’s abandoned, all but a couple of beat-up plastic chairs—the ones you buy at Walmart for ten bucks. You sit in them, and if you make one wrong move, the leg snaps off.

I choose to stay standing, not taking a chance of falling on my ass.

Thinking I should call Mel before breakfast with the guys, I take my cell out and speed-dial his number, putting the speaker to my ear.

“You still pissed off?” he says wearily.

“Not as pissed as I was two days ago. I wasn’t calling to chew you out again, even though I really fucking want to. Just don’t throw shit on me like that again.

“You know our tour starts in a few days. The guys were saying goodbye to their families, and you took that away. You’re lucky they agreed to come along.

Anyway, who am I interviewing, and what is going to be their job?” I ask, chewing on my lip as a reminder to just shut my mouth and not jump down his throat.

“They are interns. Literally all we have to pay for is accommodation and meals. They work for free, learning whatever they can on the way. It’s not up to me what you’re looking for.

“It’s ultimately the band’s choice. Berklee is a huge school; everyone is getting a degree in music. You have the pick of the litter here. Take advantage of it.

“I have a professor who will help accommodate you and set you up with interviews. He will give you and the guys transcripts you might have an interest in taking a look over,” he explains.

“That’s all?” I ask with an annoyed laugh, not even slightly amused.

“Don’t sound so interested. Remember when I found you guys all playing in that hole-in-the-wall bar? You did all you could not to beg me to take you on. I took a chance. Pay it forward, Ryan.

“This school has the cream of the crop. These kids have to work their asses off. If they don’t, they don’t stay past the next semester,” he says, defending students he has never met.

“All right, just give me this teacher’s name and where I can locate him. I’ll let the guys know our plan for the day when we meet up for grub.”

He then proceeds to tell me what building I will find Professor Roberts in.

I hang up, put my smoke out, and throw it in the ashtray, then I make my way back to my room where I am sure the guys have already made their way to and are stuffing their faces.

They’d better have saved me a fucking cup of coffee.

As I near my door, I can overhear them. Yup, as I figured. It really is a bad idea handing each other’s room keys out. It has its upsides, but also its downfalls.

I enter, and in unison, all I hear is, “TWO? Really? Two fucking girls?” I laugh. Must be I am already in the lead.

Serves them right for bringing this wager on. I’m going to have to come up with a much more creatively humiliating thing for these losers to do this time when I beat them.

A way to start off tour with a fucking bang.

“Come on, guys, you’ve all had two or more at once. Don’t act so innocent. In fact, I’m pretty sure Gage here has had four women at once. I walked in on it, in MY hotel room at that,” I remind them.

“Don’t forget, you told me that night you wouldn’t be back, and I didn’t want them to know which room I was in.

“Plus, one of the girls did offer to suck your dick to make up for your sour-ass mood,” he says defensively.

“If you remember right, I was only in a sour mood because I had just outrun a crazy obsessed fangirl who didn’t know the meaning of ‘no.’” At that, we all start laughing.

I remember that morning clearly. I’d decided to join this after-party—big fucking mistake there. I wanted a night of normalcy. Never again. Lesson definitely learned.

This hot piece of ass walked right up to me, yanked me into a bedroom, got on her knees, and started unbuckling my jeans. Who in the fuck was I to say no?

A blow job, I would take any day. I wasn’t going to stop her. I returned the favor with a rough fucking.

I thought she had passed out. I went to sneak out, and she jumped out of bed talking about fucking marriage. This girl was definitely not a virgin, and I’m not marrying anyone.

When I made that clear, she went psycho-crazy, throwing shit at me and crying. I’ve never gotten dressed so fast, and then I booked it out of there.

She took off behind me, naked. Truth be known, that’s the last time I partied in Houston.

A man’s one-night stand nightmare. This bitch was fucking crazy. The entire time I was running from this nutjob, I kept thinking, Where the fuck are the police?

This one should be locked up. I pity the next person she involves in her life sexually.

It was certainly the last thing I had expected to happen, and then, that last statement becomes false as I enter MY hotel room.

There’s Gage, completely fucking naked, his penis at full staff, two women sharing it with their mouths while another two are on the side pleasing each other. On my bed.

“What in the fuck is this, Gage?” I practically scream, reaching my boiling point because of the crazy I was just running from.

“Want to join? There is more than enough pussy to go around.”

I raise my eyebrow, seriously considering it, but in the end deciding I’ll sit this one out, just wanting to find a bed to crawl into and sleep for the next twelve hours.

As I’m exiting the room, one of the girls who was just laying her saliva on Gage’s cock offered to take care of mine. I declined and left.

“So, down to business,” I say, snapping out of the past—not that they noticed because they were eating every bit of food I had ordered.

“We have to make a visit to campus. We’ll probably be there for most of the day interviewing for interns. Mel says it’s a must.

“Our recording label signed a contract with the contest organization. Winning included a performance and an intern for the summer,” I tell them, wondering if they’re as pissed off as I am.

“Why not?” Zepp says.

“The way I see it, our team is going to help someone learn the trade. It only seems fitting they learn from the motherfucking best.

“We will have to filter out the applicants, see if they’re being true or want to just tour with us. Let’s go for it.”

Everyone else agrees. Seems I’m the only one feeling put out over this.

“Let’s go find this professor then.”

I make sure I grab another cup of coffee before we leave.

Exiting the hotel, our limousine is already there waiting on us, already aware of where we are headed. Pat opens our doors, and we climb in.

I demand to sit on the outside since I am the only one who smokes. I light up, rolling the window down as far as it will go.

Guess I’m going to be smoking a lot more than usual today. Only way to calm my nerves a bit.

My patience has been trying since Mel called me three days ago and told me about this shit. I am not a fan of surprises. I plan, and I control everything around me.

I also have the final say on anything concerning the band. This not solely my decision.

The guys know I have nothing but our best interests in mind, and that I am a man willing to make it happen. I do not compromise or bend to anyone’s will.

You want us, then you give in to our demands.

Pat opens my door first. I get out, and he informs me that the redbrick building about one hundred feet from us is where we will find the one and only Professor Roberts…

And also where every possible intern is waiting for an interview. Over eighty, he says.

I grimace. It’s going to be a long fucking day…

I turn to the guys and explain what Pat just said, exciting interest upon all their faces. Fucking joy.

Entering the building, there’s a desk located just before me with a pretty little thing sitting there in a rolling chair, feet up, legs crossed, and filing her nails.

“Professor Roberts?” I ask.

Without hesitation, nor looking up to welcome us, she says, “Down the hall about thirty feet, first door on your left, and have a nice day.”

With that, we walk right by. College kids, I think, shaking my head.

This school is for the privileged. Pat also informed me of that in great detail. Even more of a reason for me to despise my future intern.

Meeting the Professor’s door, I knock. After the first pound of my fist, the door opens. An eccentric old man answers the door, smiles, and clasps his hands together.

“How wonderful you are all here!” he exclaims.

Sensing the tension in the air, he ignores it and keeps going. “I have the file of every student who applied right here.” He points to his desk, at a mound of paperwork stacked upon it.

“They are all in order. You just pull the first file from the top and so on, and I made a list. You can leave comments if you’d like. These kids are so excited. Would you like to start now?”

“Sure,” we all agree.

He points to a table with five chairs on one side, and one singular chair on the other.

He tells us he will give us a few minutes with each file before sending the person in so we can go over their transcripts.

Closing the door, he says, “You will find we only educate the most ambitious students.”

I take a seat, Zepp, Liam, Gage, and Jason joining me.

“So, who wants to go over our first file? We can take turns being the speaker and asking questions. Sound good?”

They agree, and Jason agrees to be the first. “Rundown, our first applicant enrolled in a four-year degree, wants to be a sound engineer. Two years under his belt.”

With that, we’re ready for our first candidate.

In walks a kid who can’t be older than nineteen, buzz cut and in a suit. I can see the sweat running down his temple; he’s nervous as hell.

I hope he doesn’t vomit all over my hand while I offer him my hand in a shake, introducing myself.

“Ryan, how are ya feeling today?”

He swallows, and with a trembling voice, he replies. “Gg-rreatt. Namm-e’s Ssschh-uyler.” He looks embarrassed over his stutter. Quickly, we all act as if we didn’t notice.

“Well, Schuyler, we’re just going to ask you a couple of questions, and then we we’ll set ya free, all right? Tell me, what makes you so interested in spending your summer with us on tour?”

He wipes his head with his forearm.

“You guys are just my favorite band, and I have to get out there sometime, somehow, some way. I have two years left, and if I am able to do this, I will receive extra credit.

“Touring with a number-one band will only make my resume look better,” he says with unexpected confidence.

I accept his answer and allow the guys to ask the rest of their questions.

I run my fingers through my hair, leaving them to support my head. I zone out thinking about the night our lives changed forever. We had been playing together for about a year.

Liam had gotten us a gig in some washed-up bar in Manhattan. Really just trying to put a few dollars in our pockets for gas and food to hit the next stop.

We played music and did a show for shit pay because we loved it. Some days, I think if I could go back, I would, just to be able to revel in the experience, still unknown.

We were on our last song when I noticed a suit sitting in the back right corner. He was out of place, definitely not belonging in an establishment such as this.

Trusting my gut feeling, I pushed every fiber of myself into that damn song. A song we still perform at every one of our concerts.

After the show, he approached us. Mel was his name, and he had been looking for a rock band to sign. He wanted us to come into the office, talk some figures, and test us out in the studio.

He would then send our single to a few radio stations, see what the feedback was, and that would be the deciding factor in whether we were offered a contract or not.

I wasn’t a fucking fool. They supplied us with one of the shittiest songs, not letting us do our own shit. I demanded they sign us, or we walk. Before releasing that previously recorded single.

They refused, so we walked. The guys were hesitant. We shared a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, and our income was negative.

Asking for their trust, I knew what I was doing, and sure enough, Mel called less than three days later. “Call an entertainment lawyer,” he said.

On February 28, 2007, our lives were forever changed.

It was then I had an epiphany. A triumphant laugh escaped me, interrupting Gage finishing up with our candidate. Said intern excused himself and shut the door.

Then the guys faced me, all eyes full of questions.

“So, I have an amazing fucking idea that will help solve our interview dilemma. I don’t want to be here all day, nor do you guys.

“We could use the next couple days to chill. Then hit the road,” I tell them.

“We’re listening,” Zepp says.

“Here it is: that girl from last night.” The anguished and broken one, I finish to myself.

“And…?” Gage replies impatiently.

“She could be our intern. I could tell the professor we want her. We know her name after all. She is obviously majoring in music, or she wouldn’t be here.

“Everyone is required to do a summer internship to get their degree, or so Pat informed me.”

“Pretty sure the princess has no interest in our band or our music, let alone touring with us, Ryan. Entertain me—how would you coax her into this?” Gage points out.

Fuck. I only suggested this with malicious intent. I want to break her. I have to. Since last night, she has been popping into my head, and I don’t like it, not one bit. I want her out!

The way I see it, the sooner I break this privileged bitch, the sooner she disappears in my head.

The guys would be pissed though. If they knew I didn’t truly want to help her, only wanted her to be our intern to break her and nothing more.

But it’s not hurting someone physically. And this girl, this golden-haired beauty—I just want to hurt her emotionally. I want to slice deep into her soul with my words.

Make her see that every song has to be heard, every feeling felt. I just want her to fucking take it in. With that last thought, I plead my case to the guys.

“If she doesn’t want to, we could talk to the professor. Maybe bribe him with a donation. He’s the only one who could make this happen.”

The guys all nod their heads, going along with me. “Just hope you know what you’re doing, man. I know you want to break her.

“But just think, she’s going to be with us for the next two and a half months. How bad do you want to rock her fucking world?” Gage says, always insightful.

Of course, I deny what he is implying, assuring him I know what I’m getting myself into.

I step outside, waiting for the professor to come back with the next student. About three minutes later, he appears an obvious groupie on his side. No way is this girl an excelling talent.

I show her in and then shut the door, staying outside the office. I ask Professor Roberts if there is somewhere we can go to talk privately. He starts wringing his hands nervously.

He shows me to a much smaller office, then the one I was just in. I shut the door and proceed to start kissing this man’s ass.

“I see you guys have a really nice setup here, and the bands who opened for us last night—I heard some raw talent… Anyway, I had an idea. There is this student from last night.

“She is who we want as an intern. We would also make a twenty-five thousand donation to your department,” I say with a smile.

I’m careful not to say that he will only get the donation if I’m guaranteed Natalie will take on the internship. Manipulation. Anyone who works at a school thrives off donations for their department.

At first, he looks offended because I even attempted to bribe him. It was well-played because I can also see the resignation in his eyes. He will accept.

With a shaky voice, he asks, “What is her name?”

“Natalie Wright,” I state.

“She won’t go. She would never voluntarily intern for your band.”

Not acceptable.

I violate his area, step in close, stare him in the eyes, and in a whisper, I threaten, “Make it happen. Do whatever you have to. I don’t care. She is going, and you will make sure of it.”

With that, I turned around and leave the office, slamming the door behind me.

Fuck. I hope he doesn’t go around telling people. What I just did qualifies as a form of blackmail.