Page 1 of Naughty Songbird
One
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 hair to whip my face. An intense chill accompanied the breeze, causing a shiver through each of my limbs. Not even the heavy black coat slung over my shoulders kept it at bay.
Gritting my teeth against the bitter cold, I shoved my shoulder against the heavy door of the filthy 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 stunk 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. Reaching over me to push the door open, he said, “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 the center of 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 rockstar’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 base 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 rockstar’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 rockstar 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 ignored my complaints. It’s 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?” Crossing my arms over my chest, I 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 rockstar types. 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,” Damien shouted over the music.
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.” He shot his hand out for my manager, who grasped him 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 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.
“Look, pal,” Damien moved in closer, his classic grin gracing his lighthearted expression, “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.