Page 94 of Fame And Secrets
Instead, his hands went for the strings again, the intro to Seventh Sin exploding against his instrument.
Goddamn him.
I smirked. My cue to come in with the first verse passed without me singing a word. I rocked back on my heels and let Zane play a second intro. Under the hot stage lights, Zane’s pissed off face took on an ominous glow. He looked up from his guitar, his hand still poised over the strings. I returned his stare, locked in some stupid male ego challenge.
Sighing, he raised the guitar pick to his head and scratched his temple with the edge of it. His rings clanged against the mic as he covered it with his hand and leaned toward me. “Do you plan on singing, or is this gonna be an instrumental version?”
Without care for the five thousand people screaming my name, I lifted a middle finger in Zane’s direction and held it high. The crowd went wild as if we’d scripted it. Fans were weird like that. But I refused to back down. I’d started this pissing contest with Zane, and I sure as hell would win it. He’d gone back on his word. To me, that justified my retaliation.
After a few seconds of weird melodies that didn’t mesh coming from our guitars, I knew I’d won. I glanced back at Ty, his large shoulders hunched over his drums in disappointment.
Damn.
That dude had a knack for making us all feel like prepubescent teenagers getting caught with our dicks in our hands. He was our walking conscience. I both hated and loved him for it. Ryker stood beside him, shaking his head and walking to the other end of the stage.
If this kept up, I’d just witnessed the beginning to our end.
***
“What the hell was that?” Kristina demanded, following us backstage. “You have some childhood fear of teddy bears?” She waved the bear in front of me and smirked.
“Back off,” I warned, throwing my guitar on the couch.
Everyone followed behind her, and she continued as if I hadn’t even spoken. “You knock shit around, practically ripping your strings in two, and the whole time, you and him,” she pointed at Zane, “are giving each other looks like you just hid a body.”
Zane cut his eyes toward me, his mouth turned downward in an insolent sneer.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind, Kristina,” I said, eyeing the bear clutched in her hand. “It’s none of your business.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Rocking back on the heels of his scuffed boots, Ty turned his head sharply toward me. “She’s our manager. It’s her job to be in our business.”
“Are you on her payroll now?” I smirked.
He looked uncomfortable for a moment, then the emotion was gone. “What do you always tell me?” He stroked his beard in thought. “Something like, ‘Stop letting shit turn you into a pussy on stage, Ty. Whatever it is, leave it in the dressing room until the final encore.’”
I turned my head away. “I’m not in the mood for this shit, Lachner.”
Ty refused to back down. He was just as much of an unwavering ass as Zane. “That’s too bad, Jag, because I’m not in the mood to play dick games with you anymore. You’re going to apologize to Kristina for being an asshole and then you’re going to tell us why that bear freaked you out on stage.” He motioned to everyone in the room. “None of us have ever seen you act like that.”
I turned to Kristina. Everything around me muted as they waited for something I rarely did—apologize. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. But I’m not sorry for overreacting. No one could blame me if you knew why.”
“That’s just it, Jag. We don’t know why. Or at least they don’t.” Zane wrapped his fingers around a bottle of Jack Daniels. “I have a good idea what that bear meant, but you owe them the same. Bro, we’re family. Have you forgotten that since pussy took over your life?”
“I don’t think rehearsal is necessary tomorrow. Let’s just do it raw.” As I said the words, I knew they were a cheap shot, although my reasoning was solid. Kristina allowed VIPs into sound checks. I couldn’t run the risk of Dalton getting that close. Not for myself, but for the family Zane swore I didn’t care about anymore. I had to protect them from the danger they didn’t know existed.
But Zane was a perfectionist when it came to rehearsals. As the musical director of the tour, he meticulously micromanaged every song, every arrangement, and every rehearsal. By refusing to sound check, I waved a red flag in front of an already irate bull. Grabbing his guitar case with both hands, Zane squeezed his fingers together, the fire in his eyes almost generating a heat of their own.
“Tell them, Jag.”
“No.”
“Look, I’m tired, and I’m about three seconds away from putting my foot up your ass until you sing soprano. Either you tell them, or I will.”
“I’m sorry,” I smirked, “for a minute it seemed you forgot whose name got the contract that signs your paychecks.”
Zane ripped his guitar strap off his body. Pulling his booted foot back, he kicked a chair and sent it sprawling across the room. “Nice serve, now here’s mine. You want to play the brooding rock star? Fine. Isolate yourself. But don’t expect me to sit by and watch you self-destruct for the second time. I did it once. I won’t do it again.” He paused as he grabbed a change of clothes for the meet and greet. “And have a damn blast playing tomorrow without me.” He threw his guitar on the side chair and stalked toward the door.
Cursing, I pulled at my hair and stomped toward the back door.