Read Online Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1) by MariaLisa deMora - Free Book Online
Authors: MariaLisa deMora
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hit his riff once, and Ben watched as the girls nearest the barricade bounded in place, turning to clutch the hands of their also-jumping friends. “Gonna slow it down, Aurora.” The riff sounded again, and the crowd surged forward, their fans knowing what was coming next.
“We call this one 'Is It The Blood.' We are Occupy Yourself, and we appreciate every one of you comin’ out tonight. Thank you. Matters more than you know to all of us to see all of you. I want to thank Penapolly for having us along on this show. We love playin’ the Fillet. Thanks for having us back.”
Venue name worked into the patter, he settled the microphone back on the stand and brought his guitar around, his hand going to ensure the plug was firmly seated before he started strumming, automatically looking upwards to verify the flyspace for his speaker leap near the end of the song. Worst thing was being in a place with low hanging pipes or rafters and forgetting. Mouth pressed to the foam windscreen of the microphone, he waited for his place in the song. “You know me best, and that’s the worst. Come through the walls, in whispered sighs.” Benny launched into the first verse, eyes closed, losing himself in the only safe place he’d ever really known.
***
“Good show.” The bar manager’s voice came from behind a pissed-off Ben, who was singlehandedly hauling two loaded flight cases down the narrow staircase, annoyed as hell Blake wasn’t there to take one of them since they were part of the drum kit. With an internal sigh, Ben turned his head, lifting his chin in response, giving the man his plastic grin while shaking sweat from his hair. It had been a good set, the crowd receptive and responsive, singing and dancing for the full forty-five minutes of OY’s stage time. The way the floor cleared after they finished spoke to how mesmerized the crowd had been, saying bladders needed to be drained and drinks refilled before Penapolly took the stage. “Let me help you with that.”
This was a startling offer; bar managers didn’t help with gear, but Ben shifted to one side, letting the man take one case, leaving him with one. Jesus, what the fuck’s his name? “Thanks, dude.” At the bottom of the metal stairs, these boxes would stack on top of the ones already on the cart, and he’d be ready to wheel everything out to the van. Then he’d finish loading up, lock it up, and come back in and man the merchandise table after Penapolly finished. The manager straightened, and Ben caught a glimpse of the look on the man’s face. Fuck . Just from one glance, Ben knew something shitty was about to go down.
“Ben,” the man said, and Ben was startled at the use of his name. That was odd, too. Usually, the house knew Benita’s name, but not the band members. “Blake’s,” he paused, then continued, his tone showing he knew he was understating things, “a problem.” Yeah, here it is. Shitty . “We love having you guys here. You have a great fan base. They don’t tear shit up, and you boys normally don’t rile security. You and Danny, professional to the bone. When I book Occupy Yourself, I know what I’m getting.” All kinds of smooth up front to ease the load of shit coming next. “A word of advice, and you probably already know, but Blake is a liability. I had two complaints from the union guys tonight. I’m sorry to say he can’t be here during setup or teardown anymore.” Okay, it’s not a threat to not book, so maybe not as bad as it could be. “I want to keep booking you. Think about it.” Fuck . Veiled threat made, the manager, whose name Ben still couldn’t remember, turned to walk away.
“Yeah,” he called belatedly, sighing heavily. “I got it.” Shit . When he and Danny had formed the band, they had no idea the political bullshit they’d have to put up with to perform. Danny had played guitar all his life, excelled on the bass, and when he found out Ben taught himself to play, there’d been no
“We call this one 'Is It The Blood.' We are Occupy Yourself, and we appreciate every one of you comin’ out tonight. Thank you. Matters more than you know to all of us to see all of you. I want to thank Penapolly for having us along on this show. We love playin’ the Fillet. Thanks for having us back.”
Venue name worked into the patter, he settled the microphone back on the stand and brought his guitar around, his hand going to ensure the plug was firmly seated before he started strumming, automatically looking upwards to verify the flyspace for his speaker leap near the end of the song. Worst thing was being in a place with low hanging pipes or rafters and forgetting. Mouth pressed to the foam windscreen of the microphone, he waited for his place in the song. “You know me best, and that’s the worst. Come through the walls, in whispered sighs.” Benny launched into the first verse, eyes closed, losing himself in the only safe place he’d ever really known.
***
“Good show.” The bar manager’s voice came from behind a pissed-off Ben, who was singlehandedly hauling two loaded flight cases down the narrow staircase, annoyed as hell Blake wasn’t there to take one of them since they were part of the drum kit. With an internal sigh, Ben turned his head, lifting his chin in response, giving the man his plastic grin while shaking sweat from his hair. It had been a good set, the crowd receptive and responsive, singing and dancing for the full forty-five minutes of OY’s stage time. The way the floor cleared after they finished spoke to how mesmerized the crowd had been, saying bladders needed to be drained and drinks refilled before Penapolly took the stage. “Let me help you with that.”
This was a startling offer; bar managers didn’t help with gear, but Ben shifted to one side, letting the man take one case, leaving him with one. Jesus, what the fuck’s his name? “Thanks, dude.” At the bottom of the metal stairs, these boxes would stack on top of the ones already on the cart, and he’d be ready to wheel everything out to the van. Then he’d finish loading up, lock it up, and come back in and man the merchandise table after Penapolly finished. The manager straightened, and Ben caught a glimpse of the look on the man’s face. Fuck . Just from one glance, Ben knew something shitty was about to go down.
“Ben,” the man said, and Ben was startled at the use of his name. That was odd, too. Usually, the house knew Benita’s name, but not the band members. “Blake’s,” he paused, then continued, his tone showing he knew he was understating things, “a problem.” Yeah, here it is. Shitty . “We love having you guys here. You have a great fan base. They don’t tear shit up, and you boys normally don’t rile security. You and Danny, professional to the bone. When I book Occupy Yourself, I know what I’m getting.” All kinds of smooth up front to ease the load of shit coming next. “A word of advice, and you probably already know, but Blake is a liability. I had two complaints from the union guys tonight. I’m sorry to say he can’t be here during setup or teardown anymore.” Okay, it’s not a threat to not book, so maybe not as bad as it could be. “I want to keep booking you. Think about it.” Fuck . Veiled threat made, the manager, whose name Ben still couldn’t remember, turned to walk away.
“Yeah,” he called belatedly, sighing heavily. “I got it.” Shit . When he and Danny had formed the band, they had no idea the political bullshit they’d have to put up with to perform. Danny had played guitar all his life, excelled on the bass, and when he found out Ben taught himself to play, there’d been no
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