Read Online Born to Rock by Gordon Korman - Free Book Online Page B

members of Citizen Rot, while a stylist dabbed at his Mohawk with blue dye.
    A roadie was stringing an electric bass with barbed wire, next to a woman who had passed out in the middle of the floor. People stepped over and around her. Others used her as a bulletin board. Her bare back and leather mini were covered in multicolored Post-it notes.
    I stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, when a roadie appeared, bellowed, “Fan mail!” and upended a large canvas sack. An assortment of letters fluttered down, followed by a dead octopus that hit the floor with a splat. A note attached to one of the tentacles bore greetings from the staff at Lockjaw Records. Apparently, this was the punk equivalent of a bouquet of flowers and a good-luck card.
    After ten minutes of being ignored, I approached a publicist. “I’m looking for Nigel Ratcliff.”
    â€œAnybody seen Nigel?” she barked.
    â€œHe left,” supplied a middle-aged man standing in the hall.
    I was devastated. “But I’m supposed to meet him here. At two o’clock.”
    â€œSorry, kid.” The publicist hurried away, but the man’s wary eyes were still on me.
    â€œMr. Ratcliff wanted to talk about my letter,” I forged on. “You know, the letter —” I wasn’t sure how much I should say out loud.
    He pushed his way over. “So you’re that kid.” He put an arm around my shoulders and led me into the suite. “I didn’t recognize you without a half-ton of gristle clamped on.”
    â€œYou were at the press conference?” I asked, a little sheepishly.
    He nodded. “I’m Purge’s manager. Bernie McMurphy.”
    I snapped to attention. “McMurphy—”
    â€œKing and I are cousins,” he supplied, ushering me from the main parlor into a narrow hallway with rooms on either side. “So my interest is personal and professional.”
    I regarded him. There was no resemblance to King that I could see. Then again, King was clinging to his ’80s punk look, and Bernie could have been the one-hour-photo guy at a small-town Wal-Mart. Except for the eyes. You don’t know bloodshot until you’ve seen those eyes. Like he was in the middle of a lost weekend that had been going on for several months.
    He nodded me into the next doorway. Inside, two people occupied a large leather couch. One was a young reporter, jotting shorthand notes on a ring-bound pad. The other was King Maggot.
    Feeling like an intruder, I took a step backward, and inadvertently crunched Bernie’s toe.
    Spying me, King stood up. “Got enough?” he asked the reporter. It was a statement of fact rather than a question.
    The young man took the hint and followed Bernie out. That left me alone with the biological father who was a complete mystery to me. Talk about confronting your demons. I was face-to-face with McMurphy.
    He examined me so intently that it raised the hair on the back of my neck. This wasn’t the usual homicidal stare of his stage persona. This was scrutiny. I was being scanned.
    I have no idea where I got the nerve—probably from him—but I stared right back. If somebody didn’t say something very soon, I was either going to laugh or cry. I wasn’t sure which.
    At last, he broke the silence. “Tell me about your mother.”
    Not “Hello”; “Good to meet you”; “So you’re Leo.” I mean, I wasn’t expecting him to rhapsodize over what a fine young man someone had raised to be his son, but I’d hoped for a few syllables of pleasantry before we got straight to business. His speaking voice was low and surprisingly mellow.
    â€œHer name is Donna—Donna Davis, back then. It was at a show in New Haven where you guys—met.”
    From my pocket I pulled a laminated photo of Mom bringing me home from the hospital and held it out to him. He studied it, but made no move to take it.
    At long last,