Meet Me Backstage

10. See You At the Show

JACKS

As Roman wraps up the last bit of his soundcheck, he pulls off his headset and heads to the side of the stage toward us. He stops for a moment, rubbing his chin before continuing, then gives a slight nod to Sticks as he approaches.

"Who's the new girl?" Roman asks. "With the camera?"

"That's Skye," Sticks says. "Jacks hired her. Hot, right?"

Roman shrugs and looks back at her.

"She's your photographer, huh? She any good?"

"She's talented," I say. "Wouldn't have hired her if she wasn't."

He scoffs and chuckles slightly.

"You would hire any sad case that gave you puppy eyes, Jackson."

For many reasons, I don't bother responding to that.

"At least we don't have to look at his grumpy ass in the audience every show," Sticks says, pointing to Roman's photographer. He's a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, a matching mustache, and a seemingly permanent scowl.

Roman answers with just a grunt before walking off to the dressing rooms.

"Is he that much fun all the time?" Sticks rolls his eyes.

"Pretty much," I say. "He sees himself as an artist, too good for my bullshit music apparently. He's royally pissed that I'm closing out the show."

"Le artiste is le píssed," he says in a truly terrible French accent.

"Apparently he wanted to be the headliner, but the label wanted me. So he's even more irritated with me than usual."

Roman and I used to butt heads a lot, mostly creative differences. By that, I mean he saw me as a talentless buffoon who kept getting the solos he wanted. The other guys in the group were all very non-threatening to him. But he and I ended up competing for the spotlight a lot, and he often resented me for it.

Sticks is standing beside me watching the roadies set up our gear. We can just see Skye leaning against the stage and snapping shots of the setup process.

"So what is the deal with Skye?" he asks.

Oh great. Everyone's asking about Skye today.

"She's engaged," I say, crossing my arms.

"I heard that, actually. You wanna elaborate on that?"

"What do you mean?" I raise an eyebrow and look toward him.

"You gonna play coy or you gonna tell me why you're all goo-goo eyed over this girl when she's got a fiancé back home?"

If there's one thing I know unequivocally, it's that I do not want Sticks to know anything about my feelings for Skye. He's not a bad guy, but he can't keep his damn mouth shut when he's high—which is almost all of the time—and he loves to mess with me. Exactly who I don't want to share my inappropriate crush with.

"No goo-goo eyes here, man. She's cute, okay? That's it. Nothing is going on."

He gives me a half scowl that tells me he doesn't believe a word I've just said.

"Is that the story you're going with?"

"No story."

"You sure about that, Playboy?"

"Positive."

He smirks and walks out on stage where his drum kit has been set up. That look in his eyes can't possibly be good.