month, and she wasn’t
taking it anymore.
When
she opened them again, there were a lot of stunned looks in the faces of the
crowd, but they weren’t heading toward the exits. And to her surprise Kat loved
the sound she and Cindy were laying down. She glanced at Cindy, who gave her a
weak smile. Kat gave Cindy a thumbs-up, and the smile got stronger. “Let’s do
some more of that shit,” said Kat into the microphone and went back to the
computer. She had everything planned out.
Cindy
surprised her by starting to play before she was finished reprogramming, even
though it only took a few seconds. But it was perfect. Kat waited until they
were in sync and hit the button.
“This
song is called ‘Two-Timing Mother Fucker,’” she said and looked right at Brett.
“Needless to say, it didn’t get any radio airplay.” Which was
fine because it got a hell of a lot of hits on YouTube. This time, she
sought out Brett in the crowd and stared straight at him. “And I’m dedicating
it to Jessica.”
He
had the nerve to look like he had no idea what she was talking about. She
remembered how he’d looked for a collar or a ring and had asked her if she was
attached to anyone. God, he had a lot of nerve. With an innocent face like
that, any woman would trust him, too. It made her pissed off. She could use
that. She always gave her best concerts when she was angry anyway.
* * * *
An
hour later she spotted a thin young man dressed in black jeans with chains and
a faded Kradle T-shirt kissing a girl with neon-blue
hair and a metallic fuchsia bra top. It was a moment that symbolized the
concert’s success. Somehow, she’d managed to keep both her audiences. The
ravers were willing to listen to a couple of straight-on punk rock songs, even.
When her voice started to give, she’d stood at the computer and turned the
bridge of “The Man Wants My Back” into a ten-minute dance-a-thon. There were
some advantages to longer songs; Kradle always sang
them fast and straight, and each one took about three minutes with the set list
carefully organized so the songs that sounded best with a scratchy voice were
at the end. Intermission only helped some. For a change, she was giving a
concert without her voice ending up hoarse and raw.
A
big man with long black hair walked in, and some of the crowd turned to watch
him. Angus. She should have known word would get to him. It had been
inevitable, eventually, but she’d thought that maybe with the concert announced
only three days before that she’d get one in before he started getting pissed
off. He didn’t have a right to get pissed off. He’d kicked her out of the band,
and what did he expect her to do—become a secretary? She certainly didn’t
expect him to show up in person.
The
punk rockers made room for him out of respect, and the ravers moved because he
looked as mean and vicious as he sometimes was. Kat heard someone near the
stage saying, “That guy has a bad vibe,” and she couldn’t agree more. She
wondered if he was going to try to climb onstage. She doubted he was there to
apologize. Cindy was great to work with, but she’d have felt safer if their
bassist had made it.
He
walked right up to the front and then yelled, “What the fuck are you doing with
my music?”
His music. She’d written it, music, lyrics, and
all. She’d given him co-writing credit on the album because that was what they
usually did. He claimed that their audience would give their music more
credibility if they thought a man was involved in writing the songs. The only
thing he’d contributed was mentioning that a song about a cop buggering someone
would be “cool” often enough that Kat wrote the damn thing to get him off her
case. The music was a lot better than the lyrics, in her opinion.
At
least he wasn’t climbing up on the stage. She wanted to argue with him about
whose music it was, but she didn’t. She didn’t want to make him angrier.
Angus
turned his back on her. “What the
taking it anymore.
When
she opened them again, there were a lot of stunned looks in the faces of the
crowd, but they weren’t heading toward the exits. And to her surprise Kat loved
the sound she and Cindy were laying down. She glanced at Cindy, who gave her a
weak smile. Kat gave Cindy a thumbs-up, and the smile got stronger. “Let’s do
some more of that shit,” said Kat into the microphone and went back to the
computer. She had everything planned out.
Cindy
surprised her by starting to play before she was finished reprogramming, even
though it only took a few seconds. But it was perfect. Kat waited until they
were in sync and hit the button.
“This
song is called ‘Two-Timing Mother Fucker,’” she said and looked right at Brett.
“Needless to say, it didn’t get any radio airplay.” Which was
fine because it got a hell of a lot of hits on YouTube. This time, she
sought out Brett in the crowd and stared straight at him. “And I’m dedicating
it to Jessica.”
He
had the nerve to look like he had no idea what she was talking about. She
remembered how he’d looked for a collar or a ring and had asked her if she was
attached to anyone. God, he had a lot of nerve. With an innocent face like
that, any woman would trust him, too. It made her pissed off. She could use
that. She always gave her best concerts when she was angry anyway.
* * * *
An
hour later she spotted a thin young man dressed in black jeans with chains and
a faded Kradle T-shirt kissing a girl with neon-blue
hair and a metallic fuchsia bra top. It was a moment that symbolized the
concert’s success. Somehow, she’d managed to keep both her audiences. The
ravers were willing to listen to a couple of straight-on punk rock songs, even.
When her voice started to give, she’d stood at the computer and turned the
bridge of “The Man Wants My Back” into a ten-minute dance-a-thon. There were
some advantages to longer songs; Kradle always sang
them fast and straight, and each one took about three minutes with the set list
carefully organized so the songs that sounded best with a scratchy voice were
at the end. Intermission only helped some. For a change, she was giving a
concert without her voice ending up hoarse and raw.
A
big man with long black hair walked in, and some of the crowd turned to watch
him. Angus. She should have known word would get to him. It had been
inevitable, eventually, but she’d thought that maybe with the concert announced
only three days before that she’d get one in before he started getting pissed
off. He didn’t have a right to get pissed off. He’d kicked her out of the band,
and what did he expect her to do—become a secretary? She certainly didn’t
expect him to show up in person.
The
punk rockers made room for him out of respect, and the ravers moved because he
looked as mean and vicious as he sometimes was. Kat heard someone near the
stage saying, “That guy has a bad vibe,” and she couldn’t agree more. She
wondered if he was going to try to climb onstage. She doubted he was there to
apologize. Cindy was great to work with, but she’d have felt safer if their
bassist had made it.
He
walked right up to the front and then yelled, “What the fuck are you doing with
my music?”
His music. She’d written it, music, lyrics, and
all. She’d given him co-writing credit on the album because that was what they
usually did. He claimed that their audience would give their music more
credibility if they thought a man was involved in writing the songs. The only
thing he’d contributed was mentioning that a song about a cop buggering someone
would be “cool” often enough that Kat wrote the damn thing to get him off her
case. The music was a lot better than the lyrics, in her opinion.
At
least he wasn’t climbing up on the stage. She wanted to argue with him about
whose music it was, but she didn’t. She didn’t want to make him angrier.
Angus
turned his back on her. “What the
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