Chapter 4

Roxy

The set went great, except for when those idiots from Wired decided to sabotage our last song. To make matters worse, our asshole manager is on his way here. He’s never here. The guy is like the dude from Charlie’s Angels. He has only ever shown up to one show, and that was because one of the chicks he has a hard-on for was opening for us. It’s amazing how quickly a dude will show up when he has even a minute chance of getting tail. I’m not in the mood to deal with his attitude, but Ron says that he’s on his way, so I best paste on my happy face and keep my tongue in my mouth, so I don’t spit on him.

We’re in the office when he makes his appearance. He smells like a cheap taxi driver with his cologne that probably costs less than a dollar. You would think that with the money he makes, that he could cough up some dough, so he at least smells decent. His haircut matches his cologne. Looks like one of his whores chopped it with dog clippers. “Hey, Chas.” I say, rising, giving him the half second of manners that he deserves.

“Roxy.” He says perfunctorily, giving me a nod. The guys shake his hand, looking like chastised schoolboys.

Ron shakes his hand, too, and invites him to take a seat at the desk. We’re all sitting in the cheap metal chairs scattered around the room. Cruz sits back-to-front in one, the way that he always sits. He leans his chin on the back of the chair. “So, what’s shaking, Chas? What brings you here?”

Chas declines the seat being offered, preferring to stand, which makes me nervous. It’s like he’s about to drop a bomb and run. He draws in a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest. Then he says something that makes me want to puke. “The boys over at Crass want to drop your deal.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

He lifts a hand. “Yeah, I know, it’s a shock.”

Cruz rises. “But our contract isn’t even up yet.”

“I know. Look, this was just as much of a shock to me.” Chas says.

“Can they even do that?” Stix asks.

“Break the contract?” Chas nods. “Yeah. They can do anything they want. You can sue them, if you like, but with the revenue that you guys are earning, good luck with that. You can’t compete with a huge record company when you’re only earning what you are.”

I sigh, feeling tears prick the backs of my eyes, but I swallow them. “Why…why do they want to dump us? We’re out here, our records are selling…what’s the problem?”

Another deep breath. “Your sales have dwindled more and more with each release, Roxy. You all know that.” He reasons. “I’m surprised that they haven’t said anything until now to be perfectly honest.”

“But chick rock stars are hot, man. That’s our edge.” Stix says, and Cruz nods his agreement.

“Not a chick with a huge booze and coke habit.” Chas says honestly. “It doesn’t look good. With artists like Cyndi Lauper, Madonna, hell, even Alannah Myles is clean. You don’t fit the bill anymore, and it shows.”

“What the fuck…Joan Jett’s not clean.” I argue.

“One artist. And she’s got it under control, and it works for her for some reason. It doesn’t work for you and your sales prove it. Joan Jett is racking in shitloads more than you, Roxy.”

“Fine.” I spit. “So, we’re out.” I scoff.

“Not…necessarily…yet.” Chas stammers.

We all look at him.

“Spit it out, Chas. What sort of dance have we got to do for these assholes over at Crass.” Stix demands.

Chas looks at me. “You got to get cleaned up.” He licks his lips, pacing his words. “And you’ve got to produce a hit record. If neither of those two things happens, you’re out. I had to all but give these guys my first born and get on my hands and knees and fucking beg, so that’s it.” He cuts the air with his hand. “You got to go to rehab. Like…now. And you guys need to grind out a hit album, better than the first one…or you’re done.”

I laugh without a trace of mirth. “How the fuck am I supposed to make a hit record if I’m drying out, man? And we haven’t had a hit record since our first album.”

Chas looks at me pointedly. “You think I don’t know that.” His tone is direct. “Look, you’re in rehab for thirty days, Roxy. Then you have a month to work on your album. And you haven’t had a release in a year, so by their calculations, you should be ready to go.”

My palm hits my forehead. “A month! Shit, we worked on that first album for three months!”

“Yeah, but we had a lot of those songs already written, Rox.” Stix says. The boys exchange a look, like they’re all in agreement of something. Sure, we’ve been dicking around for a while, not jamming or practicing much. And fine, we’ve been partying a little too much, but we were never given a fucking deadline, so how were we supposed to know?”

“Go ahead. Point the fingers at me.” I say, nodding, goading them. “I’m the problem.” I can see Cruz’s jaw muscles working. He’s dying to say something, so I spur him on. “What?” I bark at him.

“Roxy, Crass is right. We can do a lot better. Take it or leave it but the problem is you and your fucking lack of focus. You don’t like that, you don’t accept that, I’ll walk.”

“You’ll walk?” I ask snidely. “I fucking made you, you asshole.”

Stix lifts a hand. “Rox, look, we’re all shocked over this. Let’s not make it worse.”

“Since when do you have an opinion on this?” I sneer. “You’re the one in there bumping up the fucking lines for me, you asshole!”

“So you’re saying that this is my fault.” He asks, nodding, jaws working like Cruz’s. “I’m not telling you to snort it, telling you to down the booze, am I?”

“Like you’re so fucking innocent.” I hiss.

“Guys.” Ron lifts a hand. “We’re just making it worse. Roxy, we’ll get you into rehab, and these guys will start pounding out tunes. I’m sure you have some already worked on, don’t you?”

Blaze nods. “Yeah, we have a few, but nothing solid yet. We haven’t really jammed them out entirely. Just some licks from Cruz and I, and a little bit of lyrics peppered here and there. It’ll take some doing, but we can put something together.”

Chas nods, jaws still working. “Make sure it’s not just something…make sure it’s something else.”

 

***

 

I’m sitting in the dressing room, given the warning from my bandmates to keep my nose out of the snow before the show, and I look at Stix. “Are you going to bail on me…bump out a line or two?”

He frowns, shaking his head. “I don’t need to. I’ll miss doing it with you, but it’s cool. It was always one of our things.” He smirks. “Feel like doing another one of our things before the show?”

I scoff, knowing that he’s teasing, trying to lighten things. “Yeah, sure. Fuck me up against the wall.”

He tousles my hair. “I’ll be out at soundcheck.” He lifts a finger. “Behave.”

“I have to. You have my stash.”

He smiles and kisses my forehead. “You good to warm up in here?”

“Yeah.” I nod. It feels weird. I’m ready to break something I’m so hopped up on…what, I don’t know. I haven’t had a hit today and the adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I want a beer to loosen up, but I’ve been warned about that, too. They emptied the fridge, refilling it with non-alcoholic home brew shit, and just the smell of it makes me want to heave. The guys like it, so I’ll live with it, as much as I feel like taking a bottle of it and throwing it against the wall.

“Hey,” I hear from the hallway. It’s Jett, the guitarist from Wired. They’re on after us this time, and they just finished their soundcheck. “Aren’t you supposed to be in soundcheck? We just wrapped up, so you’re good to go.”

“Yeah.” I answer, wanting to punch him. Why, I don’t know. He’s too fucking nice, and I feel like he’s one of those guys who is nice until he gets you in the sack.

“You cool?” he asks, leaning on the doorjamb. His faggot roadie is behind him, and he gestures that he’ll be on stage.

“Yes, I’m fucking cool.” I sneer.

“Man, do you have a temper.” He sighs, exasperated.

“Yeah, well, so do a lot of people.”

“Hey, what did your manager want? Ron…your road manager seemed pretty unsettled that he showed up.”

“If I told you I’d have to kill you, loser.”

“Anything serious?”

“You just don’t give up, do you?”

“No, not really.” He plays along. “But that’s why I’m in a successful band.”

The way he says it, it sounds like he’s poking fun at me, and I lose it. I get up off the table that I’m sitting on, and I lunge at him. But I don’t get far. Jett is a full head taller than me, and he’s got about a hundred pounds on me. All he does is grab me by my middle and pull me close to him. “There.” He says. “That’s more what you need.”

“Fuck you.” I sneer, pushing him away. “You and your little performance at the end of our show was a dick move.” I say, punching him in the gut. But he expects it, so he flexes his muscles and grabs my hand.

“Oh, are you still angry about that?” he chuckles, releasing the hand that I pull away. “I figured you’d be a little upset, but the audience loved it when Cruz bombed through our performance, so I thought maybe we’d return the favor.”

My eyes are slit. My voice is a hiss. “You’re such an asshole.”

“I bet you think everyone’s an asshole.”

“Yeah.” I scoff. “Pretty much.”

“All this anger…you know where it comes from?” he asks, going to the fridge, grabbing one of those disgusting non-alcoholic beers that some idiot made with a cheap kit in his basement.

“What are you, a therapist?”

“No.” he tilts his head, almost playfully, making me want to hit him. Everything is a goddamn joke to this asshole. “How about a friend?”

“You’re no friend of mine.” I scoff.

“Who is? Who is Roxy’s friend?” he asks, almost jokingly.

“Nobody.”

“Is that what you think? Really? How about the coke and the booze? Are they your friends?”

“Fuck you.”

I notice that he hasn’t opened the beer. He’s holding it in his hands. He takes a step towards me and hands it to me. “I don’t want that.” I scoff. “It’s that fucking non-alcoholic shit.”

“What’s that doing in there?” he chuckles.

“None of your fucking business.” I say, anger dripping from my voice. He picks up on how much that bothers me. He divides his glance between both my eyes. I look away.

“You’re off the sauce.” He says. “So that’s what your irises look like.”

“Fuck you.”

“God, you’re angry with or without it, man.” He observes, handing me the beer. “Here. Throw this shit against the wall. You’ll feel better.”

My chest heaves as I stare at the bottle. He’s right. I’m so fucking angry I could skin the sonofabitch alive. I take one more breath and chuck the bottle against the wall, listening to it smash, watching the brownish shards of glass land on the floor, as the yellowish/brownish froth and liquid oozes down the wall. It’s satisfying. Very satisfying. As I stand there, watching the mess, he’s getting me more bottles from the fridge. “Here. Have another go.” He says, offering me another bottle.

I chuck it against the wall, listening to the smash, and I feel a smile come across my face. Jett hands me a third bottle, and I heave it against the wall, as my chest heaves up and down. As I stand there, feeling a weird sense of relief, I look over at Jett, and he gives me a warm smile. “Feel better?”

I shake my head in disbelief. I answer breathlessly. “A hundred times fucking better.”

We’re silent for a beat. Then he says fairly. “You want to tell me what happened with your manager? He tell you to cut the sauce or else?”

I nod. Not sure why, but I do. “Yeah.” I lick my lips, catching my breath. “If I don’t, we walk.”

“Jesus.” He says, with as much shock as me and the rest of my band felt. “Can they even do that? When is your contract up?”

I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. They’re a huge record company.”

“Bull fucking shit, Roxy.” He argues. “You have rights, goddammit.”

“Not enough. Not when we’re not selling enough records.” I explain. “And if I don’t come out on the other side and give them a hit record, we walk, too.”

“Classic Crass.” Jett says. “That’s why we didn’t want to sign with them.”

My eyes dart to his. “You’re with Crass, too?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “That’s one of the reasons why we didn’t want to sign with them, but they offered us the best deal. We had an offer from Blue Records, too, but Terry and Roy, our producer and engineer, they’re with Crass, and we just…didn’t want to risk going with someone else.”

“You had two recording companies give you an offer?”

“It’s a long story.” He says humbly.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I scoff.

He changes the subject after a beat. “So, what are you going to do?”

“What else can I do?” I pause. “Go to fucking rehab, dry up, and then make the most kickass album I can, so I don’t let anyone down.”

“And I think with your voice and drive, you can totally do it, Roxy.” He says honestly.

I stare at the floor.

“You know Storm? From the band Daniel’s List?”

I look up at him. “Never met the guy, but yeah, I know who you’re talking about.”

“He was real fucked up with the drugs…like…bad.”

“Really? I never knew that.”

“How the hell he managed to keep it quiet, I don’t know.” He explains. “But he and I are really good friends. He made it. Got through the rehab.” He pauses for emphasis. “He’s one of the reasons why I stay away from that shit. I saw what he went through. I went to see him almost every day while he was in treatment.”

“How do you two know each other?”

“He was best friends with my older brother in high school. I knew him from going to see him when he used to do local gigs and stuff. He used to sneak me in when I was underage. Used to put me on the V.I.P. list under an alias.” He smiles. “Good guy.”

“How come you said ‘was’? Is your brother not best friends with him anymore?”

Jett looks at me. “No. No, my brother stopped talking to him when he started hitting the drugs hard.” He licks his lips. “It’s right around the time when he stopped talking to me, too.”

“Your brother?”

“Yeah.”

“How come he stopped talking to you?”

“Because he didn’t want to associate with anyone who associated with drugs like that. And I figured he was being an asshole. It’s a flaw. Everyone has at least one flaw.”

“So you don’t talk to your brother still?”

“It’s more like he doesn’t talk to me. I’d never turn my back on him. If he called me tomorrow and wanted to come see me or come see a show, I’d get him in.”

“How come?”

He looks at me. “Because I don’t believe in throwing people away like that. You know. Humans aren’t built to be perfect, and if you keep treating people like they’re disposable, you’re going to end up alone. That’s a huge fear of mine. That’s one of the reasons why I love being in a band, and one of the reasons why I love traveling and doing shows, and meeting people and fans and cats in the industry. I don’t ever want to be alone.”

I’m silent, digesting what he’s just said. “Most of the time I just want to be alone. Most of the time I want to tell people just to fuck the hell off and leave me alone.”

“Between you and me I think that’s just because you’re going through some shit right now. I don’t think anyone ever truly wants to be alone. We all need support for different things. We all need to have people around us, especially in this industry, where you have to basically have a team to crank out hit tunes professionally.”

“No, I just want to be alone. Like a-fucking-lone, all the time.” I say, feeling irritated again. “Especially people like you.”

“How come?”

“You come off all friendly and helpful and shit, but at the end of the day, people like that always want something from you. They want to fuck you literally or in some other way.”

“Well, I don’t want to fuck you.” He says matter-of-factly. “And I don’t think any of my band members or yours want to fuck you, either.”

“Stix does. He always wants to fuck me.”

“And do you let him?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

I look at him and smile mirthlessly. “See? Now you’re being an asshole again.”

“I’m not being an asshole, I just read you right, and that pisses you off.”

“You don’t know me. You don’t know a fucking thing about me, you asshole.”

“I know that your lead guitarist is ready to walk.”

“Fuck you.”

“See? You knew that, too, didn’t you.”

“No, I didn’t, asshole.”

“But you do, now, and I suggest that you stop being so fucking stubborn and start realizing that your bandmates fucking love you, and they’re your friends. And the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you.”

He lifts his hands, walking away, but he doesn’t leave before adding. “And whether you like it or not, me and my bandmates are your friends, too, so take that.”

“Fuck you.”

“Have fun in rehab, Roxy.”