Rockstar Rebel: A Hero Club Novel by Christine Besze & Hero Club

Author:Christine Besze & Hero Club [Besze, Christine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cocky Hero Club, Inc.
Published: 2021-04-24T16:00:00+00:00

And our bad luck continued throughout the night. Our show started late because nobody could find Joel’s guitars. Then there was an issue with the electrical system. Halfway through the show, our sound went completely out. We did what any professional would do and continued on as best we could. It wasn’t the show they paid for, but it was the best we could do under the circumstances. There may be some truth to Q’s superstition, but fuck if I’ll ever admit that to him.

It’s halfway through our second set when shit took a nosedive even further. Joel was so drunk he kept messing up the chords and the lights were flickering on and off all night. I was walking over to Joel’s side of the stage to set him straight when they came back on full force, blinding me. I missed my footing and tripped. I flew toward the stage face first. And had no choice but to use my left hand to break my fall. The pop I both felt and heard in my wrist almost knocked me on my ass.

“Fuck!”

Joel walked the rest of the way over to me as he continued to play. He leaned down to get in my face so I could hear him over the music. “You all right, man?”

“I’m good.” I jumped up to my feet and got in Joel’s face. “But get your fucking shit together. You’re all over the damn place and screwing up the songs.”

Joel flipped me off and stormed back over to his side of the stage.

Point made, I threw both my hands in the air, making devil horns, and started back in the chorus right where I left off. Pain exploded up my left arm, but I ignored it and continued on with the show.

“This is fucking rock and roll, motherfuckers!” I shouted into the mic. The audience screamed right back and I fed off of it, letting the adrenaline flood my system like a drug. It was enough to dull the pain in my wrist, for a few minutes at least.

After our last set, I headed backstage to see the medic. Turns out, I tore a ligament. He set me up with a wrist splint and told me not to do anything strenuous with it for the next six to ten weeks.

Now, I’m hiding out in the dressing room with a bottle of Jack nursing my wounds. I refuse to take pills, but alcohol is enough to take the edge off for me. The guys are long gone, buried in pussy and pills while I enjoy the quiet. Having to do the rest of the tour with this stupid thing on my arm is going to fucking kill me.

A soft knock on the door cuts into my thoughts. “Come in.”

The door creaks open and in pops a head full of dark hair. Her nose isn’t bleeding anymore, but the big ass bruise on her face as my throat going dry. “Hey. I didn’t want to disturb you, but it’s just that—” She stops and clears her throat.

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