ROCKED BY GRACE (LOVE AND CHAOS SERIES Book 1)

  ROCKED BY GRACE

  ~ by M.J. Schiller

  Copyright © 2020 Mary Jean Schiller

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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  including photocopying, recording or by any information

  storage and retrieval system, without the written

  permission of the publish-er, except where permitted by law.

  Published By Kissmet Publishing

  CHAPTER ONE

  Zane

  There was a difference between having a life and living a life, and I really wanted to discover what that difference was. I had a life. Most would say it was a good life. But for me it seemed like all I was doing was chasing the second hand on a clock. I would move forward through the day, but at the close I had nothing to show for it other than the passage of time. At the ripe old age of twenty-six, I was tired beyond belief and walking through my days and nights like a zombie.

  But the people who had been filling the stadium for the last hour and a half were not here to see the walking dead. They were doctors, lawyers, garbage men, seamstresses…. They came from small towns and cities, ghettos like those I grew up in, and plush estates like the ones I lived in now. I had come to know the people behind those gilded doors had their own kinds of problems. But all of these people occupying seats in the heart of this building or swaying drunkenly on the floor, they worked, sweated, and stressed to earn the money to buy the tickets to this concert and listen to my music. I wouldn’t let them down.

  After all, I was one of them once. I even sold my ten-speed to purchase tickets to see my idol, Colton Remkus, who was one of our openers tonight. Because of that, I vowed to sing the hits I’d sung a biljallion times before like I recently released them and they were still fresh. As Colt did for me. Though I didn’t feel like I had the heart for it, I would bring the vitality of the damned Energizer Bunny if it killed me.

  Knuckles rapped on my dressing room door, and Richard Belamont, our manager, swung it open, holding onto the knob as he stuck his head in. “Five minutes, Zane.”

  I nodded. “Coming.”

  My bandmates would already be backstage. Waiting in the wings with them and their chatter always ramped up my anxiety, so I preferred a last minute entrance. I stood and swung my gold sequined jacket from a chair at my dressing table and glanced into the mirror above it. I adjusted my tie to the right, then decided it was fine in the first place and moved it to the left. I didn’t fit the dress code of the average rocker, but I was okay with that. I didn’t even own any concert T-shirts or ripped jeans, but I had blazers that would blind the sun with their brightness, and a shitload of suspenders, hats, ties, etc.

  The jacket hooked on a finger and slung over my shoulder, I left the room, not bothering to turn off the light. The clicking of my boots across the concrete floor was somehow reassuring. The waiting was over, at least. Now that I could do something, now I was actually moving forward along the hall, the tightness of my body released in motion, I felt better. Once I hit the stage and my bandmates made their instruments sing, I would feel completely at home and in my element. I wished I didn’t get so uptight—and I was better than I used to be, for sure—but it simply was the way it was. I learned to live with it, and thankfully, the others seemed to respect my sometimes moody and erratic behavior. I continued my solitary stroll to the footlights to meet with the other members of Just Short of Chaos, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream, the oil that loosened my insides and made it easier for me to breathe.

  As I got closer to the auditorium, the walls seemed to vibrate with the sound of the crowd. I casually passed my hand across the cinderblocks. They were actually throbbing with the excitement of the audience, the tremors running along my fingers and throughout my arm. We had a lively bunch tonight. After Midnight did a great job of igniting the crowd, and they were followed by Colton Remkus and his band, who whipped the place into a frenzy. I hoped Just Short of Chaos could live up to our headliner billing after that. I still couldn’t believe Colton Remkus was opening for us. I scratched my chin. It was unbelievable. But Colt was so easygoing and down to earth. Funny even, though squeaky clean for a rock star, which at times was uncomfortable, seeing as we were far from it.

  Pressing against the release bar, I pushed through the metal doors at the end of the hall. A twinge of apprehension stirred when people were hanging inside the hall beyond the door, leaning against the walls and talking. Not for my safety, but because I might need to make conversation or act in a socially acceptable way. I took a deep breath in through my nose.

  These are my people. I nodded. “Hey.”

  They bobbed their heads in return. “Good luck,” someone offered.

  I forced myself to make eye contact with the speaker, and managed a small, genuine smile, laughing inside at my own unease. “Thanks.”

  Jericho and Rafe were standing, holding shots, when I stepped around a curtain and over electrical cords weaving across each other like the snakes in the pit in that Indiana Jones movie. Dex had one butt cheek resting on top of an upturned crate, but he hopped to his feet when he saw me and snatched two more shots from the end of another storage case to his left, handing one to me. Without fanfare we raised the glasses for an instant, then threw them back. Whiskey. Must have been Rafe’s turn to pick. Stuff tasted like lighter fluid. Not that I’d drank lighter fluid before. At least not from what I could remember. I could never be sure. Not remembering what I did the night before scared the shit out of me at first, but now it was a matter of course.

  I flipped the emptied shot glass upside down, setting it on the crate Dex abandoned with a sharp ring. The noise accompanied an exclamation that was part exhale, part gasp, as my breath was stolen away by the burn of the alcohol, which seemed to blast a fire into my mouth, along my throat, and throughout my nasal passages.

  “Holy shit!” Dex let out.

  I decided the newest member of our band needed to attend what we affectionately termed, “Drinking Camp.” Although we swore off drugs since our former drummer, Devin’s overdose, we didn’t consider alcohol a drug and abused it more heavily than ever before. If Dex was gonna make it with Just Short of Chaos, he needed to be more than a casual player in our game.

  I willed to life the shit-eating grin I was famous for, super-gluing it on. I shrugged into my jacket, then yanked on the lapels so the fabric fell right. Tugging each cuff down in turn, I looked at my three cohorts. “Let’s do this.” We lined up for our entrance, listening to the countdown music Rafe put together. Ten, nine, eight…. It raised the buzz of excitement to a feverish pitch. The curtain hiding us from view of most of the audience was in front of the monitors flashing each number from ten to one. Each was followed by either an album cover, or an action shot or close-up of a band member. The cheers were loudest for me and Jericho. As our quirky front man and the face of the band, I had a huge following, especially on social media. Jericho was Mr. Sex Appeal, and he knew it. Played it to his advantage. Wore it comfortably, like a favorite sweatshirt. I swung from enjoying the limelight to wanting to disappear for a while, depending on the day of the week. But I kept my reticence hidden. I couldn’t sell the band if I was invisible. And when I was on, I could work a room, or an interview, like nobody’s business, and even enjoy it, to a degree. Only it took a lot of energy and focus to pull it off.

  The number four flashed across the screen.

  Rafe drummed on my shoulders. “You ready, buddy?” He had to shout to be heard above the thunder bellowing on the other side of the curtain.

  I
nodded.

  Three. A shot of Jericho playing behind his head.

  Two. The cover from the album that launched us into the spotlight.

  One. Me, doing my signature gymnastics pass across the stage. It was a great black and white shot of me doing a back tuck, with the light shining from behind me. The concertgoers lost it. Just Short of Chaos’s logo flashed, and Rafe ran out to take his place on the stage, locating his bass and swinging the strap over his neck. Dex followed him, climbing the ramp to his drum stand. Jericho and I brought up the rear, waving our arms and smiling at the audience.

  The noise swelled so it was almost a force, pushing against us. We broke into our latest hit, “Burn Through You,” which had held the number one spot on the charts for the past eight weeks. It was a real crowd pleaser about a guy in a hot relationship that started at a beach bonfire. I carried the burning theme throughout the song until the last verse where the guy was holding the pictures the couple took in one of those hokey photo booths and putting a match to them. It satisfied our fans’ inner pyromaniacs.

  About halfway through the piece, I thought about what was coming next. I always gave a shout out to the town we were in. But I realized I had a small problem. I couldn’t remember what town we were in. All of the stadiums looked the same. I couldn’t see the various local advertisements spattered around the place as most of what lay beyond the first ten rows was in utter blackness.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. We were in St. Louis last night…or was it Detroit? No. It was St. Louis because one of After Midnight’s band member’s girlfriends, who was from Germany, thought the Gateway Arch was a sign for a gigantic McDonald’s. But was Detroit our next stop or Kansas City?

  Desperate, I searched in front of me for a clue. Two guys chest pumped, spilling beer everywhere. One brushed at his shirt, spotted with his splattered drink, and I zeroed in on the Royals logo on it. I quickly scanned the area and spotted two more Royals shirts and a Chiefs jersey. Thank God for sports.

  I ran down the short runway extending into the mass of people smashed up against the stage, shaking hands and accepting people’s phones so I could take a selfie with them. Then I took one where I got the two of us and the throng of writhing music lovers in the background. I learned the biggest way to make lifelong devotees was to include them in the concert in some way. Plus that picture became a free advertisement. They’d upload it to Facebook or Instagram, or any of a number of different places, and perhaps tag me, giving me a second opportunity to interact with them. And it wasn’t strictly a self-serving gesture. I really did value our followers and was grateful they shared my love for the music I created. I finished the song back-to-back with Rafe, who was wailing out the concluding guitar lick.

  “Well, how the hell are you Kansas City?” I was answered by a roar. “Seems After Midnight and Colton Remkus got you pretty fired up, huh? Let’s hear it for them one more time.” I waited while they applauded their appreciation. “Well, how about we continue your outstanding concert experience with a little rock of our own. I think you guys might know this one.”

  All it took was one note. One note and they were going nuts. Of course, many of them would have downloaded our set list from Setlist.fm, or found it some other way, but the opening chords of “Running Out On Love” were easily recognizable. It was a song off our first big album. I’d sung it in an average of fifty shows a tour, for four years now, not to mention the music award show performances, practices, video takes…I sang it more than the number of times I recited the Pledge Allegiance times the number of times I sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” And, like singing “Happy Birthday,” I didn’t have to put much thought into it. So, like most nights, I began to assess the audience.

  Directly in front of me, bouncing to the beat, was a cute girl with brown, curly hair. She was a possibility. She was with a blonde. Girls’ night. Perfect. But, I wasn’t settling on the first girl I saw. Al awaited my signal. When I found tonight’s flavor, Al would wade through the crowd and extend an invitation to meet me after the show to the chosen woman. The dude was amazing at reading facial cues and always seemed to know exactly who I had in mind. Not only that, but he would do the same for Rafe and Jericho. Dex didn’t have the luxury of curating his finds. He would have to choose from whoever made it backstage. But, so far, he seemed rather disinterested in hooking up after shows. We wondered, at first, if maybe he was gay. Not that it was a problem. Several of the guys on our crew were gay. However, when groupies actually searched him out, Dex seemed interested enough. He was very discreet with whatever happened after that. Maybe he’d become more open with us as the tour went on.

  I continued my surveillance. Two guys were in each other’s faces, girls clinging to their elbows in an attempt to keep them from coming to blows. Could be an interesting distraction. A blonde to their right caught my attention. She wore a skintight tank, accenting her…assets. Her midriff was bare, and her bellybutton pierced. I couldn’t see the rest of her getup, but I guessed it was equally trashy. As I watched, she slowly ran her tongue around her lips. An easy score, but, in all honesty, it bored me. She pulled her top down to reveal a tat of our logo on her right breast. Impressive. She went the extra mile. I flashed her a grin.

  Al was taking it all in, and started moving in her direction, but I looked him in the eye and gave my head a slight shake. Al nodded and returned to his spot in front of the stage, crossing his beefy arms, his observation flitting from one band member to the next, very serious about his role as solicitor of sex.

  I went back to the brunette who I first noticed, but this time her blonde friend was facing me. Our gazes met and she smiled wider. It wasn’t a come-hither smile, more like a friendly greeting. She didn’t seem interested in coming on to me at all. Her girlfriend must be the fan, and the blonde was here for her. Fine. I could respect that. But she seemed to know all the lyrics. Curious. I focused on her. She wore a red top tied behind her neck. The material crossed between her breasts, but didn’t reveal anything. Only hinted at her shapeliness. Not your usual concert attire.

  The third song ended and we slid into another. I continued to scan the crowd, evaluating. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Big boobs, bigger boobs, freakishly ginormous boobs. Why did everyone have boobs these days? Black leather, low-cut concert T’s, cheetah print, the standards. I located the usual ring of shirtless guys bouncing off each other’s chests and knocking women who weren’t paying attention over, causing their boyfriends to join in the fray. Idiots. But time and again I came back to the pretty blonde in front of the stage. I’d put money on her being tipsy, and her friend was definitely wasted, swaying on her heels like a pier on pylons during hurricane season. The blonde caught her elbows several times and righted her, laughing and rolling her eyes at her friend’s antics. A pair of guys behind them were watching the two with interest, speaking into each other’s ears and nodding. I could tell they had bad intentions, which normally didn’t bother me that much, but for some reason pricked at me tonight.

  I was getting hot. Under the lights, and dancing my ass off, it was like a hundred and twenty degrees. By the end of the night I would be shirtless, kind of my thing, but I needed to leave the jacket on for the next song, at least. It had a Frank Sinatra flavor to it, and I needed to look my most debonair on that one to woo my female fans, though they didn’t need wooing. I sang it in a deep baritone the women found sexy, a stark contrast to my more common falsetto singing. I had one of the widest ranges in the industry, and I liked to play with it.

  I moved to stage left, singing to a group of four African American women who appeared to be having the time of their lives. A little older than my usual fans, but they seemed like a fun bunch. The song wrapped up and the throwback tune began. I swayed to the retro music accompanying me. I could move, but only to my music. If I was dragged out onto the dance floor to something else I was the nerdiest, most white, most uncomfortable guy out there. I loved dancing to my tunes. It was so freeing. It was so freeing being Zane San
ders, rock star, and not Zane Alexander Salvetti, excruciatingly introverted geek. The persona I created, the image I fashioned over time, took over, and I could be smooth, confident, and in control. It never failed to amaze me.

  When I swung back to center stage, I caught The Girl staring at me, as I was staring at her. I don’t know when she became The Girl, but she was. And she wasn’t even The Girl of the Night, which was even more curious. Only The Girl. Our gazes locked, which seemed to embolden me, and I was suddenly singing to her, and to her only, as I sauntered across the stage deliberately. I was aware, in a peripheral way, of The Girl’s friend’s jaw dropping open and her elbowing my target. I could read the lips easily. “He’s singing to you,” followed by a squeal. I couldn’t hear one, but I was certain one came from her. My Girl—she was My Girl now?—ignored her friend and continued to peer into my eyes, the corners of her mouth quivering slightly, her face bright.

  I’m not sure at what point on my stroll across the stage things changed, but they did. The closer I got to her, the more everything was altered, becoming surreal. It started off as casual, fun, flirty—just another night, another stage, another girl. But it was like on those sci-fi shows, I came in range of her tractor beam and I couldn’t resist the pull. And nothing felt the same as it was minutes before. Everything seemed to have more weight now, more importance, and I was filled with an odd energy. It was like I’d been asleep for years and awoken in a new and wonderful world.

  I came to the lyric, “Don’t you want me to love you tonight?” and for the first time, I wasn’t simply singing the words, I was expressing them. My heart thundered, like the beat of Dex’s drums, and it was as if everything faded away for a second. The fans, the security, my band members, everything became blurry, with Her the only thing in focus. The music became a smear of sound, except for my vocal. “Don’t you want me to love you tonight?” It was like I was watching myself, with no control over what I did. Closer and closer I came to her. Then, in slow motion, like in a dream, I watched myself extend my hand to her.