The Devil's Metal (8 page)

He smiled. I was turning into a puddle of
swoon.

“Dawn,” I corrected him and immediately felt
silly for doing so. Robbie Oliver could call me Pooey-Poo-Poo
Smelly Face if he wanted to.

“Rusty it is,” he said, still smiling, still
working out those dimples. He scooched over and patted the faded
seat next to him. “Come, sit, regale us with your tales of Creem
Magazine.”

I made some sort of noise. Chip pushed me
lightly into the seat and tossed everyone a Carlsberg, making sure
Mickey got his first.

After I had gotten over the fact that Sage
had just snubbed me, I was overcome by the girly, juvenile,
dimwitted sensation of “Oh my god, I’m squished up next to Robbie
Oliver. Oh my god, Mickey Brown and Noelle Clark are sitting across
from me, drinking beer. Oh my god, Noelle won’t stop glaring at me.
Oh my god, how did this become my life?”

Thankfully I wasn’t able to dwell on it for
very long. Chip was shoving a beer in my hand while Robbie started
rattling off the questions: How long had I worked for Creem
Magazine, where was I from, what was my favorite band, what was my
favorite Hybrid album, what was my favorite Hybrid song, and who
was the best singer in the world?

Naturally I answered “you” to that last
one.

He grinned and patted my hand. “That a girl!
Great answers.” He looked at Noelle, who continued to look
unimpressed. “See, she’s not a groupie.”

Then he leaned into my hair and whispered
into my ear, “Not that I’d mind either way.”

I let out an awkward laugh. Was Robbie
hitting on me?

“She’s a groupie with a badge,” Noelle shot
in.

I responded with a look that could kill.

“Can I quote you on that?” I asked sweetly,
finding my nerve. “Would look real good in the article.”

She narrowed her eyes back at me and I heard
Robbie suck in his breath.

Chip laughed. “Wowee, boys, I think we’re
going to have an interesting few weeks.”

“I wanted the guy from Rolling Stone,”
Graham muttered.

“No one cares what you want,” Robbie yelled
at him over my head. He then looked at Mickey. “Boyo, make your
girlfriend behave.”

Mickey shrugged and took a sip of his beer.
“Whatever, man, Noe can do what she pleases.”

“And what I please isn’t here yet,” she said.
She leaned down and plucked one of the stolen mini liquor bottles
out of her boot.

“Patience,” Mickey told her and proceeded to
roll a joint.

I didn’t know what they were talking about,
but I had a feeling it had to do with drugs. Before I could ponder
that more, Robbie bumped me with his hip playfully.

“So what do you think, miss rusty
journalist?”

I couldn’t help but smile. He had a nice way
of making me forget the people on the other side of the table.
“About what?”

“Well, let’s start with the bus.”

“I told her we love the piece of shit,” Chip
added as he went to sit on the couch beside Graham.

“Piece of shit is right,” Mickey said, not
looking up from his joint. “It’s only a matter of time before she
goes off the road.”

“Such pessimism,” Robbie scolded him. He
took a big sip of his beer before looking around, admiring it.

I did the same, if not just to take the
pressure off of me. The table we sat at was small and kind of
cramped, but would do to have a bite or play a game of cards. The
carpet of the bus was this dirty green that matched the velour of
the couch cushions. It probably sat three people comfortably and
looked long enough that even the 6’3” Sage could stretch out on it.
Above the couch were cupboards and a small stack of 8-track tapes
and books. Further back, there was a closet, and then two bunk beds
tucked into the side. Behind Noelle and Mickey was another set of
two forward-facing seats, and behind that a tiny kitchen consisting
of a mini fridge, sink, and one burner. I couldn’t tell what was in
the back but I assumed it was a bathroom and more beds. It was a
nice bus…or it would have been in 1965. Now it was down at its
heels, a victim of too many wild tours.

“Our driver’s pretty cool too,” Robbie went
on to say. “He used to drive around Elvis. He has many stories. We
have yet to get him drunk to hear them, but we have plans. Ain’t
that right, Boyo?”

Mickey nodded and lit the joint at his lips.
After inhaling and passing to Noelle, he let out a slow puff of air
that drifted off into the bus’s already smoky atmosphere. “Yeah. If
Bob doesn’t have a heart attack on us.”

“So why did they send you here?” I heard
Graham say from beside me.

“Pardon me?”

“Creem,” he explained, nostrils flaring
slightly.

I gave him a look. His harping on about this
was getting on my nerves.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Jacob arranged
this, why don’t you go ask him?”

Okay. So chiding the members of the band
that I was supposed to interview probably wasn’t the best idea.

And then I remembered. I looked beside me at
Robbie, still finding it unnerving that he was just inches away,
our hips touching on the seat. “Speaking of Jacob, he’s outside the
gate. He gave me his pass because I didn’t have one. He said he
wants one of you to go get him.”

Robbie shook his head and reached over for
the joint dangling from Mickey’s slightly shaking fingers. “Rusty,
don’t worry about The Cob. That’s rule number one on the bus.
Having Jacob around is like having a creepy babysitter who owes
money to the mob.”

“I swear Jacob is the mob,” Mickey said in
between coughs. “Even the names rhyme.”

“That’s brilliant,” Robbie told him, blowing
smoke in his face. “You should start writing lyrics for the
band.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Mickey replied.

“I’ve tried. My dick was too big.” Robbie
leaned back in the seat, his legs spread open, knee bumping against
mine. My goodness he had on tight pants.

I looked away and cleared my throat.

Noelle got off of Mickey’s lap, making
annoyed noises.

“I’ll go get Jacob,” she said, reaching for
a pass that was hanging off a cupboard knob. She looked back at
Mickey and he tapped the side of his nose.

“Could you two be any more obvious?” Graham
said.

“Shut up, Graham,” she retorted over her
skinny shoulder and flounced down the stairs and out of the
bus.

“You do drugs, Rusty?” Mickey said with
glazed eyes.

I could feel everyone looking at me.

“I smoke a little dope from time to time,” I
admitted.

“No coke?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Acid?” asked Chip.

“Quaaludes?” asked Robbie.

“No.” I felt like I should elaborate with
some excuse but there wasn’t really much to say other than the fact
that I didn’t do hard drugs. I’d seen what my mother had gone
through on prescription meds and that was enough for me.

Robbie put his hand over mine and squeezed
it. It was warm, and his lovely well-formed fingers were delicate
and soft. “Good for you. More for us then.”

He took another toke of the joint then
added, “But don’t quote us on that.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t quote us on anything
until we say when,” Mickey mused, suddenly sounding concerned.

“You’re just thinking about Noe. Your woman
is going to get in trouble,” Robbie said to him.

“No,” Graham spoke up. “You’re going to get
us in trouble. You always do. Starting with hitting on the hack
here.”

I shot Graham another glare. Did he and
Noelle make some sort of deal to tag team me?

Robbie took his hand away, looking
chagrined.

“Sorry, I can be too friendly.”

Chip snorted. “That’s an
understatement.”

“I do mean well,” Robbie continued, good
naturedly. He looked over at Graham. “And I think you need to mind
your manners over there. Oh wait, forget it. You don’t even have a
soul.”

Clearly having enough of our company, Graham
got to his feet with a sigh and looked down at us. “We all lost our
souls when we joined this band. And despite what Mickey says, I
think you should quote me on that.”

He pointed at me, his nicotine-stained
finger right in my face, then left the bus. Now it was just me, a
buzzed Chip on his fourth beer, a stoned Mickey, and Robbie.

At least the atmosphere wasn’t so volatile.
I felt my body relax for the first time since stepping on the
bus.

Or maybe it was the fact that the thing was
now hot boxed.

Either way I took the opportunity to start
setting some ground rules.

“Look, I’m sort of new at this going on the
road with a band thing,” I told them, trying to get my brain to
think straight. I figured being honest couldn’t hurt in this
situation, or at least with these guys. “So I am not sure what the
rules are about this sort of thing. I know I’m going to be
traveling with you for most of the tour. I’d like to interview
everyone separately at one point, and maybe do one together—”

Robbie sucked in his breath at that. I
continued, my voice shaking with nerves.

“—and I’m also just going to absorb the
atmosphere, the feeling of your shows, what life on the road is
like, what life in Hybrid is like.”

“Do we get to approve what’s written?”
Mickey asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer that.
“Well...no.”

Mickey shook his head and put the joint out
on the table, adding to other burn marks. “I don’t know man, whose
idea was it again to have a journalist with us?”

“Graham,” Robbie said. “But we all agreed.
Even Sage.”

“Actually, I don’t think Sage ever did
agree,” Chip put in. He was now lying down on the couch, a beer
balancing on his belly. “In fact, I think I remember him saying,
‘You guys are all fucking idiots to think this wont fuck us
royally’ and then he threw a book at Graham.”

Mickey let out a short and stupid laugh. “Oh
yeah. Fucking Graham.”

Robbie turned to me. “We think Graham had
this idea that if he got this dipshit ass-kisser journalist from
Rolling Stone, that he’d come and focus just on him. You know, this
ass has got a wicked hard on for drummers or something.”

I looked down at my hands. “Guess I kind of
ruined that.”

“You didn’t ruin it, Rusty,” Chip said. “It
was Jacob’s call in the end, and I’m sure getting a writer who’s an
actual fan of the band—the whole band—won’t hurt us. Plus, like I
said, you’re hot.”

I gave him a wry look even though he was
watching his beer can rise and fall.

“Hot and smart,” Robbie added.

“Dude, stop hitting on her,” Mickey
said.

“Why? Jealous?”

“If I were jealous, Noe would have both my
balls in her purse already.”

I cleared my throat. “So, just to be clear,
I will be observing you all, but you can always ask for things to
be off the record.”

“Can everything be off the record?” asked
Mickey.

I couldn’t help but laugh. He really was
worried.

“No,” I said with a shake of my head. “I’m
just saying…”

“She’s saying watch what you say and try to
keep your drug use hidden, you moron,” said Chip.

“Drug use?” Jacob’s booming accent rolled
into the bus.

We all turned to see him walk onto the bus
and up the stairs.

He smiled down at me. “Thanks for coming to
get me, Dawn.”

“I sent Noelle!” I said defensively. I felt
secretly delighted that we were behaving like chums already instead
of strangers, like arguing with Hybrid’s manager was something I
normally did as part of Dawn Emerson’s normal life.

“You should have sent a cat, it would have
gotten to me faster,” he said, taking a seat beside Mickey with a
groan, like his bones were tired.

“Where is she?” Mickey asked.

“Oh, she and Graham took the flat of beer to
the dressing room. You boys realize you can go hang out there too.
Might be better since we’re about thirty minutes away from
showtime.”

“Did you do soundcheck already?” I
asked.

“Yeah, this afternoon,” Robbie said. That
disappointed me. I’d always wanted to see the band—any band,
actually—during soundcheck. It was like an extra special, private
performance.

“How did it go?” I asked.

Robbie shrugged. “It went…”

His eyes flew across the table to Mickey’s
and they exchanged an unreadable look. Finally Mickey looked at
me.

“Noe can’t play the bass unplugged so we
have her doing simple notes on the keyboard. She’s not too happy
about it.”

“And Graham is being a shit at keeping time
on those fucking tambourines,” Robbie added.

“And I have no idea how to get Robbie’s
voice so it doesn’t overshadow everyone,” Chip said with a
sigh.

Jacob looked at me and smiled, opening his
hands in surrender. “So you can see, you’re about to witness one
hell of a show.”

“The only person who knows what they are
doing is Sage,” Robbie admitted.

“And me,” Mickey put in. I caught the
slightest trace of bitterness in his voice, and the quick look he
shot at Robbie only added to it.

“Of course, you,” Robbie comforted him. He
turned to Jacob expectantly. “So, boss, should we go do this or
what?”

“Take your time,” Jacob said, twirling his
gold rings around his thick fingers. “I’ve already got the money
for us from the owner, so if you want to go at things half-arsed,
be my guest.”

“So passive aggressive, Jacob,” Robbie
chided him softly. “I don’t think I like this side of you.”

Jacob tilted his head and winked at me.
“Just trying to keep the peace with the writer here.”

Robbie put his arm around me and shook me
slightly. “Good old Rusty, already keeping everyone on their best
behavior.”

When I got over the embarrassment and
wanting to squeal like a girl at the fact that Robbie Oliver had
his arm around me, I couldn’t help but wonder—this was their best
behavior?