Battle of the Bands

Battle of the Bands

By J.M. Snyder

Published by
JMS Books LLC
at
Smashwords

This story is included in the print book
Shorts
by J.M. Snyder.

Visit
http://www.jmsnyder.net
for
more information.

Copyright 2010
J.M. Snyder

ISBN 978-1-45240-271-0

For more titles by J.M. Snyder at Smashwords
visit
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jmsnyder

* * * *

Cover Photo Credit:
Darko Novakovic

Used under a Standard Royalty-Free
License.

Cover Design:
J.M. Snyder

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is
for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it
is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will
be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or
reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in
writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts
used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It
contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language
which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store
your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s
imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be
made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

Published in the United States of
America.

NOTE: “Battle of the Bands” originally
appeared online at Ruthie’s Club and also appears in the anthology
Love Notes
, published by Ravenous Romance.

* * * *

Battle of the Bands

By J.M. Snyder

Backstage at Catch-22’s third annual
Battle of the Bands
, members of the local rock group Tainted
Black waited for their turn on stage. Lead singer Benjamin Cooper
leaned back against the stage door, arms crossed and head down so
the curtain of brown curls that hung to his chin hid his face. His
drummer, Scott McKree, stood nearby, beating his drumsticks in a
rapid rattat rhythm on Benjamin’s left arm. The sticks made a light
popping sound on Benjamin’s leather jacket and struck so fast that
he didn’t feel them. Their bassist, Mark Johnson, had wandered off
in search of a joint or a soda machine, whichever he could find
first.

Under the cover of his hair, Benjamin watched
someone in the shadowed wings of the stage. He knew the guy, knew
him well—Ty Haiden fronted a rival band called Hazard. He wasn’t
hard to miss, with long black hair that fell straight down past his
shoulders and dark eyes that seemed in this dim light to be all
iris, wide and dilated. He had a bit of a goatee, dark hair kept
short on his chin that rimmed his mouth and edged his cheeks. It
gave him a devilish appearance.

As if he felt the steady weight of Benjamin’s
gaze burning into him, Ty glanced over his shoulder. When their
eyes locked, an arc of energy shot between them, closing the
distance and canceling out everyone else, a shock that jolted
Benjamin’s already racing heart and sent it plummeting to throb
somewhere below his belt. Ty gave him a slight nod, just a tilt of
the chin really, very professional. Nothing overt, nothing
personal
. Benjamin’s return smirk was hidden by his
hair.

Suddenly Mark stepped in front of him,
blocking his view. “So how about it?” he asked.

Benjamin forced his thoughts away from Ty
Haiden. “How about what?” he wanted to know. When had he returned?
“Are you talking to me?”

Mark sighed dramatically and turned to Scott
instead. “What do
you
think about a different cover? Maybe a
little
Free Bird
, eh Skree? We can do that, right? The
change ups are wicked—”

“We ain’t changing the song now,” Benjamin
muttered. According to the competition schedule, Tainted Black
played next, followed by Hazard. There was no time to practice a
different song…was he serious?

Mark didn’t let it drop. “But we always do
the Stones, man. I’m just saying Skynard would be something
new…”

Skree’s face darkened and he let up with the
drumsticks long enough to give Mark a hard shove. “We’re doing the
same one we always do.”

Somewhere behind him came a raucous laugh.
“Too bad it sucks.”

Benjamin looked up at the voice of Nick
Staver, Hazard’s drummer. The animosity between him and Skree was
legendary in Richmond’s local rock scene—both bands had been
disqualified from numerous competitions before due to the drummers’
fights. As he closed the distance between them, Nick jeered, “When
are you losers gonna learn the words to that fucking song? You
always sing it wrong. It’s
painted
black, you idiots.”

Skree whirled around, a drumstick held tight
in either fist like a kitana sword, ready to fight. He glared down
Nick and the two guitarists behind him, guys whose names Benjamin
never bothered to remember. From where he stood by the stage
curtain, Ty glanced their way.
Stay there
, Benjamin prayed.
As long as Ty kept out of it, he wouldn’t have to get involved.
Skree stepped up to Nick and challenged, “What are you guys doing
here? This ain’t karaoke night.”

“We’re gonna wipe the stage with you,
dickwad,” Nick countered. He leaned forward and his band mates made
a show of keeping him back. “No
way
you can hold your own
against me and you know it.”

“A three year old banging on pots and pans
sounds better than you,” Skree insulted. It always started this
way, name-calling and insults, until someone threw a punch. “Call
your daughter’s daycare—maybe they’ll give you lessons.”

Nick lunged and, this time, the guitarists
didn’t have to fake holding him—the muscles in their thin arms
stood out like cords as they struggled to keep him from pouncing on
Skree. “Don’t you
dare
talk about my daughter!” the drummer
warned. “Where the hell do you get off—”

Suddenly Ty was there between them. “Nick,”
he cautioned. His gaze flicked past Skree to Benjamin like a
challenge. Over his shoulder, he told his band, “Cut it out.”

So much for staying out of the fight
,
Benjamin thought with a weary sigh
.
He unfolded himself and
stepped in front of Skree. “Can’t you keep that drummer of yours
under control?” Hazard’s singer asked him.

For a moment their eyes met. Benjamin felt
that same energy spin out between them, a pulsing fire that burned
from his throat to his groin, twisting everything inside him on the
way down. Flicking his hair out of his face, he replied, “The way
you do with yours.” He started to move away, thought better of it,
and leaned closer to Ty. The familiar whiff of clean, sharp soap
and spicy deodorant made his balls clench. To Nick, just behind the
lead singer, Benjamin said softly, “It’s
paint it
black.”
One corner of Ty’s mouth pulled up in a half smile, which
encouraged Benjamin. “Next time you’re going to insult us, get it
right.”

Before he could lose himself in the scent of
soap and Old Spice, Benjamin turned on his heel and walked off,
heading for the stage. Skree and Mark followed after him, probably
casting suspicious glances back at Hazard, but Benjamin didn’t turn
around to check. He didn’t want them to see the grin that
threatened to split his face.

* * * *

Onstage, Benjamin leaned into the mike with
the stand tilted down over the edge of the stage—a dangerous move
that drove the girls in the front row wild. His lyrics were lost in
the music—Skree’s drums throbbed out a primal beat, and Mark revved
his bass like a racecar squealing around the track. The bass rose
in pitch, drawing the song up after it, ripping the words from
Benjamin’s throat in a scream of rage and lust. Sweat blinded him,
slicked his hair to the back of his neck, his forehead, his cheeks.
He wiped it out of his eyes and leaned towards the crowd, away from
the music that pounded through him.

Chin tucked in, head down, Benjamin kept his
eyes on the crowd. The look he projected from the stage was pure
sex—raw, needy. A snarl, one of his best, with the slightest hint
of a boyish pout, and the crowd surged around him. Hands reached
for him, fingers brushed the tops of his boots and tried to find
purchase in his jeans to pull him down. Behind him the music
swelled higher, a climax he felt building deep within his chest,
where the drum beat out the sound of his heart. He let the music
sweep him away, the words mere whispers now, the song spent.
Hunched over the mike, cradling it in one hand while the other held
the stand out of his way, he fell to one knee and let the final
lyrics drain out of him. As the last word faded and the music died
away, he turned and caught a glimpse of Ty backstage.

Watching. Waiting.

* * * *

After their set, Benjamin didn’t stick around
for Hazard’s performance. He didn’t have to—their song filled the
club, and Skree kept up a running commentary that Benjamin could
have lived without. “Wrong note,” the drummer chided as they headed
for the men’s room, the closest thing to a dressing room that
Catch-22 offered. Skree kicked the door open and laughed when it
swung into the wall with a thin crack. “Wrong lead-in. Damn. Did
you hear the stutter in that drum roll? I thought they knew this
song.”

Shoving past his band mates, Benjamin
shrugged out of his leather jacket and sighed when stale air cooled
the sweat that stained his T-shirt. “Give it up,” he muttered. He
draped his jacket over a nearby towel dispenser and turned on the
water in the sink full blast.

“We’re gonna win this hands down,” Skree
stated. He stood to one side of the door and held it open with his
foot so he could hear Hazard’s finale. “Listen to that shit, will
you?”

“I said drop it.” Benjamin leaned over the
sink and splashed a handful of water into his face. It felt
delicious on his heated skin and God, so
cold
. His arms
broke out in goose bumps from the chill. Another splash trickled
down his chin to dampen the neckline of his T-shirt. Right at that
moment, he would’ve given anything to make the rest of his band
disappear.

Mark took up a position inside the door near
Skree. “You can’t even hear the crowd,” he said with a laugh.

“What did I say?” Benjamin asked. Then he
ducked his head beneath the faucet, drowning out any reply. Eyes
closed, he let the water wash away his band, the music, the club,
and the competition, it all ran down the drain. The only thing he
couldn’t seem to shake were the eyes he saw burning behind his,
dark eyes, swirling, alive. Suddenly his pants felt too tight, and
he shifted from one foot to the other in an effort to relieve the
budding ache in his crotch.

He heard a scuffle behind him. Before he
could look up someone rammed into him, hard, knocking him against
the wall. The spigot caught him in the back of the head and for a
brief instant the darkness behind his closed eyes flared white.
“What the fuck…” he started, flinging wet hair out of his face.

A heavy hand on his chest stopped him. Ty
held him back, those eyes unreadable in the harsh bulbs overhead.
“Stay right there,” he warned.

Past Ty, Benjamin could see Skree struggling
with Nick in the doorway. The taller drummer had Skree in a bear
hug, arms pinned at his sides, but Skree pummeled his fists into
Nick’s midsection, bellowing in rage. Skree’s feet were planted
wide between the wall and the open door, giving him some leverage
for the fight. But Mark was still behind the door, pinned in place
with the doorknob in his stomach. Dimly Benjamin felt a drop of
water drizzle down his back. Where Ty’s hand rested on his chest,
his skin felt itchy and hot. “What’s this all about?” he wanted to
know.