Page 14 of Echoes of a Muted Song

I fired off that same text to Rebel and Dash, with plans to have the same conversation with Johnny once he was awake and had gotten something in his stomach. The last thing I expected was rapid fire return messages, all of the affirmative.

Consider them hired. That was from Rebel, while the usually verbose Ozius simply replied withFuck yeah.

Dash’s answer was the longest, but then he’d always been the spokesperson for the band and the main one I’d been speaking to regarding their need for management and the possibility of having me manage them.

After what I just saw, I wish we’d hired them yesterday. The band and I have been talking for the last few hours. We’d like to bring you on as our manager and let you do whatever it takes to make sure shit like that never happens again. We’re hoping it’s not too late to have you work out that tour you were talking to us about. We’re good with alternating headlines and playing different venues on the same night, whatever you think would be best to keep us out on the road and the momentum going. Just keep our boy safe until you can get him back here to us.

That’s just what I’d needed to hear and exactly the outcome I’d hoped for. I’d already done the legwork for the tour, and in the morning, I’d send out the packets I’d prepared to set the wheels in motion.

You got it,I texted back.We’ll see you guys tomorrow and iron out the rest of the details then. Damage Control already has guys on the way out here to escort me and Johnny to Portland to meet up with you guys. You don’t have to worry about Johnny, I’ve got him and I’m not gonna let shit happen to MY boy.

The dots danced at the bottom of the screen as I waited for the reply text, which was abig, grinning emoji and the wordsheard and understood.

Good, I needed them to know I’d fully staked my claim before we hooked back up with them. They all tended to feed off one another the same way the Saints and I always had. Bands were a family and like most families, there was a leader and followers who often egged them on to bigger and more outlandish misadventures. I needed them to keep Johnny out of the bullshit long-term, the same way they’d been doing ever since he’d picked up his charge. I knew I’d been a hell of a lot more careful about the shit I did since moving from talent to management, because in the end, the only legacy I wanted to leave behind was one pertaining to the music, not the antics I got up to when I wasn’t on the stage. With a career cut short the way mine was, I didn’t want to be remembered for what had happened to me and why the event had taken place. I wanted to be known for what I’d contributed, the words I’d written, the hearts I’d touched, and maybe, if I was lucky and worked my fingers to the bone, the bands I’d managed to heights I’d never been able to attain before my singing career came to an end.

Chapter 9

(Johnny)

It was a sixteen-hour ride from Palm Springs to Portland, meaning we had to break it into two days for safety’s sake. Having Damage Control with us was a game changer, though. Despite the way I’d bristled when Draven first suggested that Blissfully Immune hire them the way Damaged Saints had just done, the incident in Palm Springs and the videos that popped up on the internet soon afterwards convinced me that he was right. Rocktoberfest had been an unexpected game changer for us in the best possible way, but I was still struggling to wrap my head around the crowd’s reaction.

I knew we were good. We wouldn’t have been issued an invitation to play if we weren’t. But back home I’d become a pariah, and even the people who used to kick it with me when I was still playin’ bars turned their backs when I walked down the street. I’d feared the samereaction from the crowd at Rocktoberfest so much that I’d dragged Jagger away from his band and gone down on my knees in the dust at my best friend’s feet, begging him to play my set for me.

My best friend could have easily said yes.

Hell, a lesser friend, especially one in his position, an unknown making his big debut on the grand stage, would have jumped at the opportunity to leap up there and show off. Playing with two bands in one night, especially with his talent and versatility, would have sent his market value skyrocketing. He’d have had bands trying to lure him from Damaged Saints, maybe even big bands that would have succeeded in dangling enough in front of him to get him to bite. Instead, my best friend, the man I knew with all my soul loved me the same as he had the brother he’d lost, went down on his knees in the dirt with me, hugged me and told me to get my ass up on that stage and fuckin’ sing.

His face and Draven’s were the ones I’d focused on when I’d launched into that first song. Front and center in the VIP section with the rest of their bandmates, they’d been the support I’d needed to do one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do.

Face the world after the crime I’d been accused of.

I was no angel. There were plenty of thingsI’d done that I wasn’t proud of. Excess had been a thing I’d reveled in, especially once I’d gotten my first taste of fame. But there were lines I’d never crossed, even if that meant staggering home down streets where I knew I risked getting mugged. I’d never driven impaired. Not drunk, not stoned, not even exhausted from an orgy after playing two sets. I walked when I couldn’t afford a cab after the buses had stopped running and when ride shares came along I utilized them, too, even if it went against all the preaching the old folks always did about not getting into cars with strangers. There were plenty of areas in my life that I was reckless about, but I’d never done anything, ever, to put anyone’s life in jeopardy but my own. I hadn’t caused that accident, not even close. I’d been as much a victim as the people in the other vehicle. Yeah, there was paint transfer from Rebel’s car to theirs, but I’d only hit it after we’d both finished spinning.

My vehicle hadn’t been the one to kickoff that chain of events. If it hadn’t been for the split-second decision I’d made when I spotted the green van whose driver I wished would come forward, they’d have been involved in the wreck, too. I’d grown up driving that stretch of road between New Bedford and Taunton. Route 140. I knew it like the back of my hand. On that stretch, there was no guardrail to keep you from running into the median grass, and that sloping ditch dividing the two-lane highway had a steepenough rise on the other side that out-of-control cars wouldn’t spin into oncoming traffic. Only that van had been there, rendering my plan of jerking the wheel in the safe direction an unthinkable option.

There had been nothing in the other direction but the patch of black ice that had sent me into that spin.

Investigators had found it, confirming that part of the story, but without the driver of that green van, they couldn’t corroborate the rest of the events, or the presence of the speeding, weaving vehicle who’d been treating that stretch of road like their personal racetrack.

The events of that night ran like a loop through my mind as we took our Portland exit in the diamond pattern Sully had set up. The guy had even thanked me for being a rider because it had given him the opportunity to zip up his leathers and get the hell from behind his laptop. He’d come armed with a route already planned out, suggestions for meal stops that were off the beaten path and holy shit, not a single place had been a dive, either. Homey food, cozy environment, dark corners with warm lights the same as my favorite haunts back home. My appreciation for Sully’s diligence and foresight had only increased with every mile that rolled past. They knew their shit, not that there ever should have been any doubt. That night on the street, when Draven had taken charge and gottenus safely back to our hotel room, I’d seen a side of him that I’d never known existed.

Fierce, protective and downright dangerous in his defense of me as he’d hauled me through that crowd, mowing at least two people down with his size and determination. Hell, he dwarfed me on my own bike and I knew we probably looked silly to some who passed and probably a few of the men who rode with us, but he’d never driven a Harley and no one drove my baby but me. If people wanted to think it strange that the big guy was clinging to the little one, then they’d better open their eyes and really check out who was tearing down the road on two wheels, ‘cause not every rider was male and not everyone clinging to the driver was a woman. Those old stereotypes needed to die. It was good seeing that Sully didn’t follow them, two of our guards were female former Marines and one was a former Air Force helicopter pilot who’d gone on to serve as a San Diago Police Officer and a member of the Border Patrol. She’d seen things, man, and after serving through Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, she’d come out and transitioned. That’s right, our guard was a six-foot-three badass Viking transwoman who I was grateful to have watching my back on this trip. Christine had taken one look at my Heritage Special and told me I needed to get a taller sissy bar before my backpack fell off. It had taken me a moment to get what she meant, ‘cause I wasn’t wearing abackpack. Then it dawned on me that she meant Draven, and I damn near bashed my head off the speedometer laughing so hard.

Portland was beautiful, holy shit, I couldn’t wait to explore. But first, we needed to hook up with the rest of our bandmates and get settled in at our hotel. Sightseeing would definitely have to wait for tomorrow, after we had the chance to work out some kind of itinerary. The age of spontaneity was dead, but I was ready to embrace that. If we’d had bodyguards of any kind the night of the accident, I’d have had eyewitnesses to back me up, instead of one drunken Rebel, who’d been the reason I’d been behind the wheel of his Firebird in the first place.

Talk about the definition of irony. The one night I’d shown some restraint and hadn’t let a drop of anything pass my lips, due to the memory of the massive hangover I’d woken up with that morning, I’d landed myself in a world of shit. Not a good selling point for sobriety, let me tell ya.

My body rumbled even after I’d killed the engine, the tingling running up my thighs, over my hips, my body always pulsed with the energy of the bike even after I swung my body off. Draven’s nails scraping up the back of my neck helped ground me, trailing with it wicked promises of things to come later. Our vacation might be over but we had an amazing dream ahead of us, one of touring the country and evenheading overseas, provided I wasn’t stuck in a jail cell.

As we headed to our suite, that was the one thing that cast a pall over the moment. That lingering knowledge that everything I’d worked toward, everything my bandmates and I had sacrificed, everything Draven and I had promised one another back in that hotel room, could get taken away in an instant if twelve people refused to see that I hadn’t done what I was being accused of.

“Johnny!”

Oh shit, I forgot to brace for impact. Jagger smacked into me with the force of a demented jackrabbit, our momentum carrying me backwards into Draven, the three of us hitting the floor in a heap. Of course Jagger ended up on top and I ended up squashed between him and Draven, while motorcycle boots stepped around us as people struggled to make enough space to close the suite door.

“Dude,” Draven wheezed from beneath me, voice even more strained than normal from the combined weight of Jagger and I sprawled across him. “You just saw him on video chat this morning.”

“Piff,” Jagger hissed, sticking his tongue out at Draven before licking my cheek. “Ain’t the same.”

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