Read ARROGANT BRIT (A BRITISH BAD BOY ROMANCE) Online
Authors: Nikki Wild
Angel
The driver, a friendly
backup tech for the bad, pulled behind the private area behind the main venue.
We came to a stop beside a group of other private vehicles. On the other side
of a tall wall, I could barely make out the roofs of what were likely the band
buses.
“By the way, you’re gonna
need this to hang around backstage,” the tech told me.
He tossed me a special,
tagged lanyard, which I quickly studied before promptly sliding it into place
around my neck.
VIP – Platinum
Trent
Masters and the Whiplash, Guest
A tall, beefy stagehand
peered through the door after we knocked. Checking my tag, he nodded promptly
and let us through. With him in the lead, we navigated a few unorganized
corridors and turns, eventually winding up close to the stage itself.
“This is the VIP area,” he
pointed out. “Here’s where the after-party usually goes down. Band buses are
over that way, just outside.”
It was a reasonably sized
dark room, with several other areas behind curtains or separated out from the
main floor. Some couches, chairs, and assorted seating were placed seemingly
without rhyme or reason. A large bar stood proud along the main wall, with a
few servers scurrying around and checking on the details.
“This is where Trent and
company decompress after a show,” the tech told me. “Along with the other
bands, of course.”
“Other bands?”
I’d actually forgotten all
about that.
The tech looked at me
funnily. “Yeah, the other performers.
Whiplash
is one of seven bands playing this venue. There’re one or two smaller
outfits, but most of them are household names. Couple of veterans from the
Eighties…”
While he droned on, I
glanced around. It was easy to imagine several dozen rockers, splitting into
their own little cliques, and surrounded by VIPs and groupies.
I wondered where Trent sat.
“…And if you’ll follow me,”
the stagehand continued impatiently, “I’d like to take you to where you’ll be
situated for the concert.”
“When are the guys playing?”
I asked.
“
Trent Masters and the Whiplash
are the final performers tonight.
You’ll be present for the entire concert, front to back.”
“Oh yeah?”
I hadn’t really signed up
for all of that, but I guess it made sense to watch the other rockers too…even
if I was really only there for his band.
“Right.
So, if you’ll follow me…”
The tech waved goodbye and
ducked out of sight, and I followed the stagehand down to the backstage area.
Well, more accurately, the
side
stage area.
He left me with a small
group of other fans, each featuring the same sort of lanyard – but with
different colors. Each one seemed to correspond to other bands – four for a
group called
Thunderspear
, another
called
The Scoundrels
, and so on.
I’d heard a few of these.
The Scoundrels
, in particular. They were
these rock legends from the late Sixties, which only made it more impressive
that Trent and his band were going to be on this stage.
As luck would have it, my
arrival was timed to coincide with the opening band.
Not five minutes after I
joined the group, the performers came out from the other side of the stage:
four guys in their upper twenties, dressed less like powerful rockers and more
like surf bums with surprisingly decent fashion sense.
The crowd went wild, and so
did most of the people with me.
The lanky singer approached
the mike, flashing a quick grin of acknowledgement and a thumbs-up our way
before addressing the huge venue.
“
Good evening, Alabama! We are The DeVitos! How are y’all doing
tonight?”
The crowd surged with
pleasure.
“Fan-fucking-tastic!
The boys and I were thinking about maybe playing a few ditties for you now, is
that alright?”
Cue the same reaction.
“Awesome!
Jack, hit it!”
“ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!”
Guitars began riffing
rapidly, each one waiting a few bars to add upon the building melody, while the
drums chaotically blasted in the back. The singer was already head banging and
hopping around stage, finally jumping back to the mike and bellowing out indecipherable
punk lyrics.
I couldn’t remember the last
time I’d heard music like this.
It sounded insane.
It sounded wild.
It sounded fucking amazing.
And it was all thanks to
Trent.
Trent
I’d spent the entire
afternoon resting my voice, occasionally poking my head out to watch the
musicians before us play. We were usually too busy to enjoy the other
performers, but since this was a repeat concert, I could spare some time for
each set.
To my pleasure, Angel was
standing over with the other backstage guests, higher up in the food chain than
even the VIPs in the front.
She looked happy.
No, more than that.
She looked completely
fucking thrilled.
I found myself wanting to
walk over to her, to spend some time chatting with her. Maybe I could get her
attention or send someone to pull her back here.
Maybe I could seduce her out
of those pretty little clothes before the show even started. She sure looked
pumped up.
I briefly imagined slamming
her up against a wall in the bus, behind a locked door, and taking what was
mine. Her nice, round lips would polish off my cock while she perched on her
knees in front, worshipping me. At the moment of sweet release, I’d drain my
heavy balls down the back of her throat.
Maybe instead, my fingers
would clench into the sweet flesh of her ass-cheeks, slamming her down
hard
on my thick, steely erection. I’d
make her yelp with pain but moan with satisfaction, craving every last inch of
my rigid cock.
I shook my head.
Not
yet.
I didn’t need the distraction.
Nor did I need the other
fans swarming me.
I was supposed to be
relaxing, chilling out with the band before our set while they idly strummed
and drummed on their practice instruments, not stalking my own guest and
undressing her with my eyes from over here.
But goddamn, did she look
hot.
The clothes she picked were
amusing punk threads – a tight band shirt, a ratty jumper over it, a miniskirt
frayed along the edges, long striped socks, and a that pair of Converse again.
It was an interesting ensemble – probably improvised at the last second – but
it demonstrated that she cared enough to try and look the part.
The only way she could look
any more punk to me was if she’d dyed her hair green and added a spiked choker.
But this?
I liked this.
I liked it a
lot
.
My twitching cock agreed.
Enough
distractions,
I thought to myself as I pulled my eyes away
from her. Within the moment, I’d slipped back out of sight. Retreating towards
the group, I walked in on Waylon and Terence, ribbing each other over their
playing.
They loved taking the piss
at each other.
Dylan, on the other hand,
was practicing a few rolls and clashes against a drum kit. He ended each one
with a symbol crash, quickly grabbing the edge to silence the ringing sound.
“Hey, how’s your little pet
doin’?” Waylon sneered, a sly grin on his face. “She alright in the sidelines,
yeah?”
“Told you to not call her
that,” I retorted.
Waylon and Dylan shared a
look.
Terence simply shrugged.
“Yeah, well, it’s not often
that the big guy hands out a free pass to a nice piece of ass,” Waylon smiled,
his eyes curious. “It’s just nice to see you with your head back in the game.”
“How do you figure?”
“
Maaan,
you have been
moping
hardcore
these last few weeks. Turnin’ down ‘tang in a dozen cities. Good
to have the
fearless leader
back is
all I’m sayin’.”
I grunted, taking a step
towards him. I wanted to smack that shit-eating grin straight off of his
face…but I stopped myself.
Last thing I needed to do?
Smack around my guitarist
before a show.
And I owed the fans, anyway.
RipFest
had been sold out for three
months. Sure, the other bands were a major draw too, but I wasn’t about to
cripple the end-game of the venue lineup because my asshole guitarist was
talking shit about my girl.
My
girl?
I stepped back outside to
clear my head.
Where the fuck did THAT
come from?
Because that wasn’t a possessive thought – it was a surprisingly
tender
one.
For a brief moment, I
considered the idea of waking up beside her, reaching over and kissing her
shoulder, and listening for her slight, sleepy murmurs. The picture was so
vivid in my head that it made my chest slightly swell.
I bit down angrily, punching
one hand into the other palm. I took a couple of deep breaths, and let the
tension slip away.
No.
I don’t need this right now.
She’s
just a nice piece of ass that got yanked out from my grasp at the last second.
That’s all she is – a gorgeous little scrap to pull into my bed.
My shoulders relaxed.
That’s
right.
A small smile crossed my
lips again. The last thing I needed to do was fall for some chick in the middle
of fucking nowhere, even if she
was
really
cute…
Had to admit, thought.
That shotgun thing had been
pretty awesome.
I turned my attention towards
more important things. Specifically, I noticed that the night was winding down.
Those old windbags from the olden days were rocking out – and goddamn if I
didn’t respect them – but that just meant that we were following up veritable
rock legends.
By the time I walked back
into our private practice room, my convictions were clear. We were going to
rock our goddamn hearts out tonight.
“Alright, fuckers…we’re on in an hour and
a half. Let’s make some fucking music happen.”
Angel
Just like with every other
set change, the stage dimmed, technicians for the band quietly dismantled and
retrieved instruments, and the next band’s crew came out to mirror the process
in reverse.
With the entire stage
cloaked in darkness, an impressive drum kit was assembled rapidly in the back
while techs brought out amps, connected wires, and tuned guitars.
The crew adjusted the
instruments, strummed basic chords, and paused to play with the amp settings.
Meanwhile, the drum guy repeatedly ran drumrolls, clashing the symbols and
tweaking everything to perfection.
They were silent, focused
professionals.
As usual, it took about
thirty minutes for the entire process to unfold. These guys worked
fast
, both the ones for the previous
band doing the breakdown, and the ones for the next one doing the reassembly.
But I knew who was last.
Trent
Masters and the Whiplash.
The entire crowd awaited
with hushed breath as the crew worked in silence, barely acknowledging one
another. They simply did their jobs and retreated when the time was right.
Finally, the stage was empty
for a few minutes…
And then out they came.
I could barely make out
Trent in the semi-darkness, sauntering towards the microphone as the rest of
his band assumed their positions. When everyone was in place, the lights
flickered back on, and the crowd went wild.
“Well, would you look at
that?” Trent called out, addressing his band. “Looks like a hell of a crowd.
Think we can bless them with some serious rock?”
The mob roared with excitement.
“I dunno, bruh,” the dreadlocked
guitarist chuckled into his own microphone stand. “They don’t look all that
pleased to see us…”
“Maybe we should just pack
back up, eh?” The drummer laughed.
“You hear that, folks?”
Trent told the audience smugly. “What a bunch of dicks, right? I believe in
you, though…but I need some hands. Help me show these assholes that you give a
shit!”
The crowd exploded with
cheering.
“Fuck yeah! Now
that’s
what drags our tired asses out on
stage!” Trent laughed. “Alright boys, looks like these fuckers aren’t exhausted
yet. Ready to give ‘em a show?”
The band immediately
launched into song.
The guitarist and bassist
began rapidly strumming out a furious tune as the drummer beat his kit with a
rhythmic fury. Trent, meanwhile, stood tall at the microphone, throwing his
hand out towards the band.
“
Helloooo, Alabama! I am Trent Masters, and THIS is the Whiplash!
”
Even this late, well past
midnight, the crowd remained as energetic as ever. I could see them seriously getting
into the music as the melody kicked into gear and the band performed their
hearts out.
As Trent began singing his
lyrics, he dominated the stage with presence that none of the previous singers
had.
While some of them stood at
the mike and let their belting vocals do the work, and others bounced around or
paraded across the stage, Trent
owned
that
space. His sheer charisma and personality overwhelmed the crowd, and every
movement – every little swagger of his step or twirl of the microphone – came from
a place of improvised purpose.
It was clear how he was so
popular.
He was handsome.
His voice was incredible.
And with every cocky ounce
that he had in him, he was
perfectly
in his element in front of a
major crowd.
When he sang for me the previous
night, he sang tenderly but purposefully. Those same traits were here now,
although he was more forceful, belting out the rich baritones and swapping
octaves at the right times to take a scowling line of fury to a quiet, sincere
one.
And the choruses of his
songs were powerful. The other musicians worked well together, complementing
each other against the soundscape of his lyrics.
“You
try to run or try to hide / From all this emptiness inside / It’s all so clear
when out of sight / But your darkness defines your light…”
The rest of my little group
of side-stage spectators were clearly getting into the music. Every once in a
while, Trent would turn to flash a quick, powerful smile our way…
But I knew it was always for
me.
And I could feel my cold
exterior melting away under the heat of that grin.
His cockiness translated
well onstage. His effortless strutting and natural arrogance only fueled his
performance, even when he opened up briefly to belt out a strikingly powerful
lyric.
The entire set was over far
too quickly. They had performed the same length of time as the others –
somewhere around the forty-five minute to hour mark – but they blazed through
the songs with a tenacity that wrapped up out of nowhere.
Oddly, they didn’t perform
their main single.
With a swift bow, the band
descended backstage amid the constant screams of
Encore! Encore! Encore!
The lights dimmed, and
nobody returned.
Undaunted,
the mob continued to chant…
Until they all returned,
picking up their instruments. This close, I could see that they were going
through the motions – there was no improvisation here.
But they also looked a
little tired.
They really
did
want to stop for the night.
“Wow, these Alabama fuckers
are plenty greedy, aren’t they?” Trent joked over the mike to his band. “What
do you guys think? Think we should cut ‘em off here, or give ‘em what they
want?”
What
they want!
The crowd bellowed.
What they want! What they want!
“You don’t get a fucking
vote!” Trent shouted out over the sound system to them. “But props to that
organization, that shit happened fast! What, did you guys form a
union
while we were hydrating back
there?”
The crowd continued to
chant, and the band pretended to deliberate together over the microphones.
“
I dunno, dude, I just put a pizza on…”
“They
seem like a good bunch of folks…”
“I’m
gonna miss my Jeopardy! re-runs, man…”
Trent finally turned back to
the crowd.
“Alright!
ONE
more song!
IF
you’re good! That means,
you
take the goddamn song and you like it!
Is that clear? We good?”
The crowd was ecstatic.
“Fantastic. Alright, you
might have heard this one a couple of times. Maybe not out here, I hear you
fuckers have shit radio reception. Anyway, it’s a little piece we like to call
Wicked Wilds…
”
Predictably, the entire mob
went ballistic, and the entire band shared a satisfied grin amongst themselves
as they began to perform.
Their sheer stage
performance – particularly that of their arrogant, mighty front-man – took a
fantastic song and only made it better.
“
My lonely walk along the highway / A silent king with feet a-peelin’ /
Empire of dust that shattered my way / My soul regret, I’ve lost the feelin’…
”
Trent continued along the
refrain, choosing to skip the chorus the first time to let the guitarists show
off. Meanwhile, he head-banged in place along to the tune of their riffs.
Eventually, he jumped over to
dreadlock
guy
to mimic his furious strumming for several moments, clearly enjoying
himself.
I couldn’t believe that
someone this commanding, this indisputably famous, had even given me the time
of day – let alone fought four bikers to a standstill to protect me.
It filled my head with
strange feelings.
Feelings I couldn’t ignore,
let alone control.
After a major guitar solo,
he finally took his place back in front of the microphone – and belted out the
chorus that everyone had been waiting for.
“
Reeee-yee-yee-ead my bones… broken, laid, and / Heeee-yee-yee-eed my
moans… whispered, taken / Seee-yee-yee-eee my frown… buried, bathed in /
Feee-yee-yee-eel my crown… dust and vapor…”
After another refrain, one
clearly just for live shows, and another powerful iteration of the chorus,
Trent stepped down and let his band have their moment to close out the set.
The electric guitar wailed.
The backup guitar sang.
The deep bass guitar droned.
The drums exploded.
And all the while, Trent
simply stood there, hands on the microphone and head bowed, listening to the
unrestrained power of his musicians.
That’s when it struck me.
I realized, in that blinding
moment, that Trent Masters was more than just some arrogant, cocky asshole.
Underneath all his pride and self-importance, under his swagger and his
gesturing, there was a depth to him – a deep, dark depth visible even now.
He was a proper leader to
his people.
He let them all have their
turn in the light.
After the improvised
detonation of instrumentation descended into a wicked, thirty-second drumroll
against the ending drones of the guitars, everyone clashed together into one
final, definite note. Right afterwards, Trent ascended to the microphone one
last time.
“
WE ARE TRENT MASTERS AND THE WHIPLASH! GET DRUNK, BREAK SHIT, AND HAVE
A GOOD FUCKING NIGHT! UNTIL NEXT TIME, YOU BEAUTIFUL SONS OF BITCHES!”
The lights drowned the stage
in darkness, and everyone slipped from their spots. This time, there would be
no fake-out return to the stage, no matter how much the crowd screamed.
But instead of heading back
with the band, Trent strolled straight towards us. Our little group was stunned
as he latched onto my arm with a powerful, sweaty hand and half-dragged me
backstage.