Chapter 2

Fucking Poe. Again. His brother was going to ruin the band before they ever got to headline a goddamn venue. Not that Edgar Allen’s poetry wasn’t great and all, but how much inspiration could the lead singer of a metalcore band get from the ratty old book he’d read a thousand times?

Back braced on the wall at the head of his top bunk on the tour bus, Alder Trousseau continued polishing the dark wood of his guitar, breathing in the rich aroma of maple and the sweet scent of carnauba wax. Holding his metal pick between his lips, he began humming the melody he’d been toying with for a few days now. Between practice and travel and appearances, he hadn’t gotten a chance to pull out the sheet and jot down the notes. But as soon as they got back on the road, he was getting the guys together and writing this shit down. If it was still in his head after this long, it would stick with the fans.

Which covered the guitar, and the bass and the drums were easy enough to pull into a mind-blowing harmony, but without the lyrics, they had nothing. Braver “Brave” Trousseau, lead singer of Winter’s Wrath and Alder’s brother, was the lyrics guy. And he was a fucking god at whipping together terrifyingly beautiful phrases out of nowhere.

Only, considering how much time Brave had spent staring at that book during this tour, their next album was gonna be all ‘Ravens’ and ‘Nevermore’.

“Stop staring at me, asshole.” Brave pushed off the opposite bottom bunk and tossed the book at Alder’s head, snorting when Alder snatched it inches from his face. His long, wavy black hair covered half of his face as he sneered up at Alder. “You’re not the only one working his ass off for this band.”

Alder picked up the book, pitching it back to his brother. “Is this work?”

Rolling his broad, heavily tattooed shoulders, Brave nodded. “Yeah. Poe was a master at using words to freak people out.”

Great. I was right. Alder sighed. “So we’re singing about the birds?”

“That’s Alfred Hitchcock, dumbass.” Brave rested his forearms on the side of Alder’s bunk, amusement slanting his lips. “We’re singing about Santa Claus.”

Shit. Alder scowled and dropped his gaze to his guitar. No use in asking Brave if he was joking. If he was, he’d make Alder feel stupid for believing him. If he wasn’t…well, that was a scary thought.

Horror poetry and Old Saint Nick. Wouldn’t Krampus make more sense?

Smacking the mattress, probably just to make Alder jump, Brave let out a gruff laugh. “Pussy. You just stay there, stroking your wood. I’m gonna go fuck your boyfriend.”

Yeah, and I’m the asshole? Not even blinking, Alder waited until Brave was about halfway across the bus before he spoke. “Daphne Du Maurier wrote The Birds. Evan Hunter did the adaption for Hitchcock’s film. Jesse isn’t my boyfriend, but if you wanna get him fired from the crew, go for it.”

“He’s not getting fired for letting me fuck him.”

“No, he’ll get fired for not getting the van loaded. Damn it, Brave, go get a groupie to suck your dick. You’re a real bitch when you haven’t gotten laid in awhile.” Alder had to fight to keep his hands from shaking as the rage he’d suppressed bubbled to the surface. They’d been on the road, on this fucking bus, for way too long. They were usually on their way home from a gig before he and Brave started on each other, but they’d had twice as many shows booked this time. Their manager was pushing them to another level, which made tolerating his dick of an older brother more than worth it.

Their hard work would pay off. If they didn’t kill one another first.

Thing was, Brave would probably be easier to deal with after he fucked Jesse, but even though Jesse was one of their best roadies, their manager, Zach Cole, wouldn’t hesitate to fire him for slacking off. No matter whose fault it was. A roadie like Jesse was a lot easier to replace than a vocalist.

Right, and wanting him around has nothing to do with the fact that you’re in love with the man.

The narrowed eyed look Brave gave him meant one of two things. Either he was gonna have a cold comeback, or he’d figure out his comment about fucking Jesse had actually gotten to Alder. Either way, Brave was gearing up for a fight.

The front door of the bus slid open, cutting through the tension. Alder grinned when he saw the band’s lanky young drummer, Tate Maddox, bounce onto the bus with his usual wild energy. The long part of his golden brown, semi-mohawk fell over the close shaved side of his head as he gave them a sideways look.

“Are you guys at each other again? Three more shows before we’re in Vegas, baby! I’m putting all my savings on the tables. Need you guys to keep Cole off my ass so I can win enough money for us to make our first epic music video! No more cheesy lyric shit.” Tate made devil horns with one hand and brought it to his lips to wiggle his tongue between his fingers. “I’ll put on black lipstick or whatever he wants, but I need my pretty mug all over MTV!”

“MTV hardly ever shows music vids anymore, Tate. Not sure you were even born when they did.” Brave rolled his eyes, sidling past the drummer to make his way off the bus.

Nice. Alder slid off the top bunk to sit on the one Tate had claimed beneath it. Of the five guys in the band, Tate was the only one who still had his head in the clouds after years of hard work and little reward. The band was doing well, taking where they’d started into consideration. They opened for huge names and none of the guys needed steady jobs to make a living. So what if they didn’t have mansions and guitars that cost more than most cars? They were living the dream.

The dirty, endless days and sleepless nights dream.

Either way, they’d made enough to upgrade from a makeshift sleeper van to a bus for the last two tours. They all had new guitars and Tate had the drum set he’d been drooling over for years. He still hauled around the one he’d gotten in high school for practice, but mostly for sentimental reasons. Kinda like the worn quilt he’d dragged along on way too many tours. The kid had joined the band at only seventeen. And hadn’t grown up much in the few years since.

Resting his elbow on his knee, Alder grinned as Tate pulled a box of cookies from the side of his mattress. Crumbs sprinkled all over the bed as Tate yanked out the plastic cookie tray.

The drummer groaned when he found only one inside. “Shit. Do you think I have time to run and grab a few boxes?”

Alder frowned. “Send one of the roadies.”

“Why?” Tate looked over, then rolled his eyes. “We’re in Ohio. Last night was a fluke. I’ll be fine.”

Maybe, but Alder wasn’t willing to risk it. They’d opened for Horizon at a new venue. There hadn’t been enough security, and dozens of fans had crashed the stage. One nut had slammed into Brave and grinned in his face, wrapping one hand around Brave’s neck as he’d whispered ‘You’d be immortal if you died today.’

The cops had been called in, and after ejecting the crazies in the crowd, the show had been allowed to go on. But Brave had been shaken and Cole had told them all to stick close to the bus. Smart move.

Tate was the youngest member of the band. The restriction was gonna mess with him, but too bad. Either a roadie went for cookies, or Alder would go with him. Not getting cookies wasn’t an option. During the band’s first tour, Tate had been offered hard drugs by several fans and only intervention from Alder and the bass guitarist, Malakai Noble, had kept him from falling down that particular black hole. His sugar addiction had Alder wondering what exactly was in the joints Tate used to smoke, but since Jesse handled all the weed the band used now, he wasn’t too worried. Jesse looked out for them better than any of the venue security they dealt with on the road.

Clearly, since no one would have gotten that close to Brave if Jesse had been backstage. Unfortunately, he’d been stuck in the roadies’ van when Cole found out he wasn’t feeling well. Probably just bad takeout, but Cole was paranoid about any member of the band getting sick. Threats didn’t really register with him, which was probably why he hadn’t commented until the clip ended up on YouTube around midnight.

And even then, he’d just stood in front of them all, arms crossed, a sneer on his lips. “Let the media have their fun with this. We all know there are morons looking for their fifteen minutes of fame at every show. You good, Brave?”

Brave had nodded and let out a hoarse laugh. “Always.”

There were bruises on Brave’s neck today. Alder felt like an asshole for thinking shit about his brother reading Poe. Whatever, Brave would tell him to fuck off if he showed any sympathy.

Tate, however, wouldn’t recover from this shit as quickly, and he’d be an easy target. He had his ‘pretty mug’ up on all the magazine covers the band hit. With their long hair covering their faces in most pictures, Alder and Brave might have a few seconds when a fan might not be sure if it was really them. With his golden brown hair shaved on the sides and a spiked semi-Mohawk on top, Tate was easily recognizable. Never mind those fucking eyes of his, which were such a pale blue-grey they didn’t seem real.

Wrinkling his slightly crooked nose—the only thing on his face that wasn’t model perfect—Tate waved his hand in front of Alder’s face. “Dude, why you looking at me like that?”

Alder shrugged and stood. “Just thinking of you getting jumped on the way to the store. You’re too cute for me to not give a fuck. Come on, we can ask Jesse to make a run. I need some shit anyway.”

Tate licked his bottom lip, cocking his head slightly. “You think I’m cute?”

“Everyone thinks you’re cute.” Alder ruffled Tate’s spiky hair to shift the mood before the kid got the wrong impression. “Kinda like having a puppy on the bus.”

“Gee, thanks.” Tate knocked his hand away and popped off the bunk. “I get it. Shit, I’m gonna have to pay to get a guy to fuck me, aren’t I?”

Not this again. Alder sighed as he followed Tate out to the parking lot. The boy was going through a weird phase lately, hitting on guys and getting in trouble with Cole. Cole was pretty cool about most things. Yeah, he didn’t want them getting plastered and acting like assholes in public, but when they slipped up, he usually just reminded them that they were supposed to be professionals. This wasn’t the fucking 70s.

Their manager hadn’t gotten with the times on the whole ‘Love is love’ thing though. Metal equaled straight to most fans and Cole wouldn’t let any of them fuck up that image.

Which was kinda funny, considering not a single member of the band was completely straight. Cole’d had high hopes for Tate—the kid hadn’t had much experience with either sex when he’d joined them.

He should have known we’d corrupt the boy. Alder caught up with Tate and put his arm over the drummer’s shoulders. He wouldn’t fuck Tate just to satisfy the kid’s curiosity, but there were other ways he could help. “You’ll get everything you want in Vegas, Tate. I promise.”

“Yeah?” Tate grinned, cheering up at just the mention of his favorite city. “Cole can’t watch us all the time, right?”

“Fuck no. And we’re there for a few days, so we can finally get a bit of a break.” A much needed break. Maybe Alder would be less inclined to murder his brother once they got some time away from one another.

Rounding the corner of the trailer, where there was a frame tent set up, Alder stopped in his tracks, spotting Brave pressed close to a shirtless man against the side of another band’s bus. Ripped jeans and wavy, dirty blond hair…Jesse.

Maybe fratricide wasn’t such a bad idea after all.