Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1) (5 page)

“Oh, son. You ain’t good, are you?” Those gentle words had pulled a sob out of Ben. With fumbling fingers, he'd reached for the door handle and flung it open. He'd jumped out, feeling cold gravel bite the bottom of his feet and then stood there a moment, looking in at an old man who had offered him nothing but kindness. An old man who'd made him feel like he belonged where he’d been today more than anyone in his life ever had, outside of Andy. “You need a place to rest your mind like you did today, you know where we are.”

That last bit of gentle was more than Benny could take so he'd slammed the door as tears spilled over his lids. Harddrive turned to face front, and the truck’s engine had roared before it pulled away from the curb, made a U-turn, and drove away, leaving Ben sobbing.

Benny gritted his teeth as he tried and failed to stop the flashbacks rolling through his head.
Parties with Benita, her handing him a brimming glass of amber liquid, telling him to, “Drink up, Benny.” Upping the game when he'd found out he’d never play college ball, letting her show him how to roll a joint. Holding his hand out for more and stronger ways to forget. Unable to control his shaking hands, he could still maintain an erection for as long as she demanded. Fucking no longer enjoyable; with how Benita wanted it, sex had become his job in her bed. Waking in her bed, in her car, in the beds of her friends, some of the memories impossible to wipe away, while whole days were irrevocably missing in his mind. Coming to in strange hotel rooms, detritus of debauchery all around—hating himself more every time he allowed it to happen. Not knowing how to end things because she’d been guiding him for years. Benny without Benita? Impossible.

Music had saved him. Music and Harddrive had kept him from the edge of the precipice with their easy acceptance of who he was. Music didn’t care as long as he did what it demanded, playing or writing. Letting the beast inside him loose for a few minutes at a time, giving it room to breathe and grow. Harddrive checked in with him nearly as often as Andy did, listening for the things Benny didn’t say.

Frustrated, Benny gave up on the run, turning his feet back to the motel. Sweating heavily and panting for air, he swiped the keycard and leaned into the door, shoving the handle down to open it. Harddrive was a long time ago.
Lotta miles under those wheels
, he thought, and then his forward momentum halted in place as the light from the door illuminated Benita’s naked form. Straddling Danny, she looked over at Benny and smiled, never missing a bounce.
Fuck
.

Stuck in place for a moment, he was torn between turning on his heel to get the hell out of there and sinking to his ass in tears. Neither were real options. He didn’t have anywhere to go for the first, no escape for him. Ever. No schooling, no money, no job—all he had was the music, and to make the music, he needed Danny. Tears wouldn’t solve anything, wouldn’t change what he saw, what he heard, what he knew.

Without another glance at them, he stalked past and into the suspect safety of the bathroom. Through the closed door, he heard Benita’s invitation, taking only a split-second of “Hell no,” to turn her down. Shower on, he stepped under the spray, closing his mind to the questions and thoughts flooding through. He slid down the tiled wall, resting forehead to knees, finally taking option number two, but only because no one could hear him.

23 years old

“Hey, man, can you wiggle another two feet outta that cable?” Danny called across the stage to the venue’s riggers. A writhing side-to-side whip of the cable in question followed a grunt in response and he called back, “Thanks,” as he bent over to plug it into the console. “Ben,” Danny glanced up, “get the secondary load stick, this one’s tits up.”

Bending over to dig through the open flight case in front of him, Ben found the backup memory drive holding the program for their show. Tossing it cross-stage to Danny, he twisted on one knee to evaluate the set-up so far. They had another ten minutes for load-in, and then they’d have fifteen for a quick sound check.
Easy breezy
, he thought, bringing out a microphone and unclamping the cable so he could wind it around the stand. Draping the plug next to the other two he had already placed, he gathered them all up and walked to the console, passing them wordlessly to Danny.

There was a thumping and then a crash of cymbals, and he whipped around to see one of the house riggers had staggered sideways into the already set-up drum kit, setting a snare to a wonky angle. He winced, and didn’t even have to wait a breath before Blake was screaming.
Shit
.

Danny jerked his head towards the commotion, mouthing, “HBR.” Ben shook his head in response, standing so he could move in and defuse the situation.
Better me than Danny
, he thought, remembering the last time Danny and Blake had an argument about attitudes. Fifteen stitches and two broken fingers worth of disagreement had meant four weeks of canceled gigs.

They still had to finish their load and sound, and then sano the space so the opening act could do their load-in. This carefully orchestrated dance would be entirely fucked if Blake had a meltdown. Fucking it up meant the venue guys would be pissed, the other bands would be pissed, and he would be beyond pissed. This meant he had to manage the ‘hassle-to-benefit ratio’ to keep things moving along.

He wanted to be able to come back here again. There were fifteen or so venues in the Denver area they’d been playing regularly, and this was a favorite one for all of them. Occupy Yourself had a lot of fans in the area, so as long as they carefully spaced out the gigs, there was a wealth of draw for the shows. “What a fustercluck,” he muttered, then forced a smile. “Blake, buddy,” he started, and Danny turned back to his work.

***

Seven hours later and covered in sweat, Ben slung his guitar head-down on his back, the strap tight across his chest as he held the microphone overhead, bringing his other hand up, urging the crowd to a rhythmic clapping, maintaining the pose for a planned sixty seconds. Then, one foot lifted to the ego box, he leaned down. Microphone cradled in both hands, Ben stretched out his back leg, carefully accentuating the line created by his body in the super tight, stretchy jeans Benita insisted he wear, like she insisted the muscular and tattooed Blake tear one shirt per show, tossing the ripped fabric into the crowd.

The last notes of that song had faded away but he waited, letting the applause peak before, microphone held to his lips, he flung back his head and screamed, “Fuck yeah! Are you with me, Aurora?” Chin down, mouth open in pretend pleased surprise at the roaring response, he paused a moment and then again asked, “I said, are you fucking
with me
, Aurora, Colorado?”

Grinning wide, he straightened and stood, arms out to the sides in response, embracing the jostling and screaming mob up by the rail, held back three feet from the edge of the stage. Heat hit him from the lights, and he knew the next segment of their program had cued up on time. “Did you enjoy Klatmatch Ends?” Their show openers were a good group of guys who had a killer effect on a crowd. Getting the predrunk attendees riled up and ready took skill, and they’d shown they had it. A lot of that skill was tied up in KE's drummer, Victor Montrose.

Benny had spent time over the past year talking to the guy every show they booked together, finding he had a wealth of knowledge at his fingertips. Born into the industry, Vic’s old man had dragged him to gigs and recording studios since he could toddle. Benny couldn’t count the number of times he’d stood at the back of a venue, watching KE’s opening section because the way Vic played the crowd was amazing. Outrageously talented on the skins, he would build off the crowd’s responses until he held them in the palm of his hand.
Kill to have him on board
, Benny thought, his mind going back to the scene during load-in.
Too much time and energy spent on bullshit these days
.

The roar died down, and Ben brought the microphone back up for his next promo scream. “Are you ready for Penapolly?” This response was louder because Penapolly was the main act for a reason. Their fan base here near the military base was unbelievable, and Ben wanted to leverage it every way he could. “I said, are you ready for
Penapolly?
” He knew from where the band sat in the green room, they could hear both his shout and the resulting screams from the crowd, and hoped they’d appreciate it in the form of more bookings.

He glanced down at the setlist taped to the stage, reminding himself needlessly where they were in the lineup. “Those guys are fuckin’ awesome, yeah?” Another roar and he nodded, feeding approval back to the crowd, then turned and caught Danny and Blake’s attention. Time to roll down the list for another fifteen minutes. This planned four-minute break in the action was a chance for Blake to make any needed adjustments after the first half of their set, and a brief respite for Ben and Danny’s hands.

Danny 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 stopping them. Benita named herself manager as soon as they’d gotten paid for their first birthday party back in Enoch, which was okay with Ben, it kept her close, and he liked that. Since her dad had tried to have him arrested, they’d been a real couple.
As long as I overlook her ‘mistakes,’
he thought and sighed.

Another case slid into view, and he looked up to see Danny eyeing him warily. “What’d Nigel want?”

“Nigel’s his name? Fuck, no wonder I couldn’t remember it.” Ben bent over to lift one end of the case.

Danny laughed. “Fuck no. I can’t ever remember his name, either. I just call him Nigel in my head.”

Rolling his eyes, Ben began pushing the cart while Danny steered. They’d executed this routine so often over the past three years that talking wasn’t necessary. At the van, Danny fumbled with the keys in the back door for a moment, and Ben wrapped his arms around himself, chilled and shivering. “Jesus, Danny.” He muttered this under his breath because the last thing he wanted to do tonight was set his partner off. Danny’d complain to Benita and then she’d be crawling up his ass.
Do without any more of that tonight
.

With a creak, the first door finally opened, and Danny unknowingly echoed him, with a slight variation. “Jesus, Blake.”

The other door swung wide, and Ben heard a complaining female voice. Peering through the opening, he saw why Blake wasn’t inside helping with teardown. Neck twisted to look over his shoulder at them, his ass never stopped pumping between the spread thighs of the woman laid out on the van’s floor. He hadn’t even aired up one of the pool floats they used as a mattress when they had to sleep in the van. “A minute, guys.” Breathless with exertion, his head snapped back to the woman, and he grunted, “A minute.”

Ben caught Danny’s eyes and they simultaneously shook their heads. A moment later, there was a loud groan, and he glanced back to see Blake’s skinny cheeks clenching, his back bowing as he came. Bending to offload the cart, Ben told Danny, “Get him to help you load the cases in the van when he pulls his pants up. I’ll get the rest of the gear out here. We still need to work merch.”
Same shit, different day
.

Three hours later, they were sitting in the van behind a twenty-four-hour diner, watching as Benita counted their take. “Four-thirty,” she said with a grimace.

Benny shook his head. “Shit. That’s two hundred less than last time here. It was a good crowd, what gives?”

Mouth drawn to one side, she twisted to glance in Blake’s direction. “We had to pay three hundred in union fees.”

Danny broke in. “You mean in shut-up fees.” Benita shrugged, folding the money and putting it into her wallet. She’d hold it until they needed gas or food, then she’d dole it out, bill-by-bill, making them all work for it a second time. “Jesus, Blake. When will you learn to keep your fucking mouth shut?”

“Fuck you.” Blake’s talents didn’t lie in his oratory skills. “Those guys are assholes.”

“Assholes or not,” Ben shifted uncomfortably on the floor, back to the pile of gear cases, “the manager said he won’t book us again if you keep this shit up. As it is, he doesn’t want you in the building during load-in or teardown. Which means we’ll carry your ass a-fucking-gain.” He reached beside him, picking up a plastic jar with a hand-printed sign taped to it. “I saw a good tip hit the gas money jar.” Ben unscrewed the lid, reached inside and pulled out a small handful of money mixed with scraps of paper. Dumping the mess in his lap, he quickly picked through to separate out the bills, finding what he was looking for.

While he was counting the money in his hand, Blake reached over and sifted through the remaining contents, picking out the pieces with writing on them. Some people used the jar as a trashcan, but a lot of girls dropped their numbers in, hoping for a call the next time OY hit the venue.

Ben muttered as he counted, “She was a fan, had a shirt on and everything.” The first time they ordered cheap CDs from an online store, paying almost as much for the packaging as the CD itself, they’d also printed celebratory shirts which cost more to make than they could sell them for. It had turned into a victory every time someone bought one. “She told me if we’d post our schedule on the website,”—he stared pointedly at Benita as updating the website was part of her job—“it’d make it easier for our fans to find us.” Stacking the bills neatly, he ordered them by denomination, then quickly counted again, verifying the pleasant surprise.