Ruin Porn (6 page)

Finn shook his head and took a couple steps back to stand next to Evin. Evin was tense as hell. His eyes were closed, sweat glistening on his brow as he thrummed his fingers as if he was holding the bass already. He muttered something that Finn couldn’t catch. Was he praying? Giving himself a pep talk?

Finn wasn’t worried about Evin’s ability to play; the talented rookie could give him a run for his money on lead. The way Evin had taken to the bass with such ease—like he’d been playing it his whole life—was impressive as hell. Still, his new bandmate looked like he was about to puke as he waited for the lights to dim so that Rez could take the stage for their first official concert of the tour. It was a safe guess that upchucking wasn’t the impression Evin wanted to leave with the fans.

“Dude, you okay?” Finn asked close to Evin’s ear so he could hear him.

Evin nodded, but the sour expression on his face didn’t convince Finn that he was telling the truth.

“Seriously, you look like you’re about to be sick.”

Evin opened his eyes, the hazel color blown out by the dilated pupils. The look reminded Finn of those creepy-ass contacts Marilyn Manson had used to black out his eyeballs. Then Evin’s lip curled into a slight grin and the warmth returned to his face.

“I’m not going to heave, but I may end up on my ass. Holy fuck are my knees shaking,” Evin admitted.

“As long as you can still play while on your ass, it’s all good. Just make it look like part of your act. You know, being the great dancer you are,” Finn teased with a wink.

“Fuck you,” Evin scoffed, but the laughter in his eyes took the sting out of the harsh statement.

Finn held out his fist. “You got this, Ev. I promise.”

Evin took a breath and shook out his arms from shoulders to fingertips before bumping Finn back with his fist. “I know I do. It’s just that your fans”—Finn could see the moment Evin caught himself—“our fans, they’re maniacal. I’m kinda freaked about how they’re going to take this switch up. You know there’s always that asshole in the crowd yelling ‘more bass’ or something equally as fucked.”

Finn had to concede the point. “And we’re in Dublin. The arseholes here get really drunk and belligerent.”

“That’s not just a stereotype?”

“It’s a stereotype for a reason.” The lights dimmed and Finn’s heartbeat kicked up a notch. He had to lean in closer for Evin to hear him. “Come on, Ev. Fuck ’em all.”

Evin held Finn’s gaze for a second, the freaked-out expression easing from his features. “Let’s do this,” he said confidently.

The roar of the crowd, chants of
Rez
,
Rez
,
Rez
, enveloped them as they made their way onto the stage. The bright lights overhead obscured the faces in the dark theater, but Finn felt them, heard them, and he was fueled by their cacophonous energy.

Miah took his place at his rightful position—center stage—dressed in tight black skinny jeans and a matching tank that showed off his ink. He ran his fingers through his blond hair, swaying seductively to Finn’s intro. The chicks in the front row went wild, squealing and screaming. The volume increased exponentially when Miah began to belt out the first words of “Chene.”

Finn kept Evin in his sights out of the corner of his eye. Evin was still a little stiff, but just as Finn knew he would, he played along flawlessly. As Finn’s first guitar solo grew near, he inched his way closer and closer to Evin until they were shoulder to shoulder. Rez occasionally used a temp bass player in the studio, but while touring it was Miah’s keyboard that stood in when needed.

Now that they had Evin on stage with them, though, Finn couldn’t believe they’d gone this long without him. Their sound was deeper, richer, with a chill-drunk boom that filled Finn up.

They transitioned into “Orange”—a track that showcased Miah’s vocals and a heavy drumbeat more than Finn’s guitar—and Finn used the temporary lull to fuck around with Evin. He leaned on him, making Evin prop him up as he wobbled and pretended his knees were going weak. Evin mouthed
asshole
at Finn and kept playing, that gray cast to his skin finally disappearing as he relaxed.

Evin pulled away, and Finn dropped to the floor and onto his back, continuing to play. Evin let go of his bass long enough to give him the finger. Finn chuckled and got to his knees first, then his feet. When he looked up, Miah was shaking his head at him and holding back a laugh.

They were all children. Destined to never grow up because the career path they’d chosen allowed them—no,
required
them—to make fools of themselves in cities all over the world.

Then “Orange” ended and Miah grabbed his mic off the stand and prowled to the front of the stage. “Good evening, Dublin!”

The roar from the crowd reverberated up Finn’s legs and into his bones. He left Evin’s side of the stage and made his way in front of Ritchie, who stuck his tongue out and tried to brain him with a drumstick propelled in the audience’s direction. Finn glared at him and mouthed
What the fuck?
Ritchie gave an
I don’t fucking know, dude
shrug as if he was the innocent party and went back to staring at his nails.

Oh yeah, they were fucking professionals.

Miah was in the middle of his brief welcome speech and Finn was already picking lightly at the riff for the beginning of one of their most beloved tracks when someone yelled from the audience, “Who the hell is that guy?”

Miah glanced over his shoulder and jumped back as if he was shocked to see Evin on stage with them. Then he gave the smile that was his best asset and his best defense mechanism.

“I don’t know,” Miah purred into the mic. “But I think we may keep him.”

Remembering what Evin had said to him before they took the stage, Finn cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “More bass!”

Evin went bright red as the audience roared, and Finn knew he was fucked. This guy was way too adorable.

T
HE
STENCH
of stale beer, sweat, and tobacco smoke hung thick in the dank wood-paneled backstage room, yet Ritchie couldn’t stop smiling. They’d just played their first official show of the Made in Americana tour to a sellout crowd. He was buzzing with a postconcert high that was like velvet lightning in his veins. As the band mom, it was his job to make sure every night, every concert just got better.

Ritchie set his laptop on the coffee table and used the Wi-Fi to connect to the flat-screen TV on the wall so everyone could see his screen. “Alright, boys, time for a little postgame wrap-up and analysis.” He scrolled through the YouTube videos tagged as
Rez
and
live
to find the ones for the concert that had just finished, knowing they would already be uploaded. Rezors moved fast when it came to social media.

“Boooooo, are you fucking serious?” Miah scoffed and whomped Ritchie across the back of his head.

“Why can’t we go hit the clubs, get seriously fucked-up, and bang ourselves into a coma like most rockers do while on the road?” Finn asked as he flopped down on the threadbare couch.

“Because getting fucked-up gives you gas, and banging gives you STDs. You’ll thank me when your dick doesn’t fall off, so just deal,” Ritchie responded and hit Play.

“What’s going on?” Evin asked as he came out of the bathroom buttoning up his pants. Ritchie caught Finn glancing in Evin’s direction, then backtracking, eyes lingering just a little too long on their new bassist, just like they had been all night. Now definitely wasn’t the time to address that potential fuckery. And definitely not in front of Miah.

“Ritchie is tormenting us with his stupid ‘postgame wrap-up,’” Finn grumbled and pointed to a table set up with snacks and drinks. “Grab a beer and come suffer along with the rest of us.”

“Postgame wrap-up?” Evin asked in confusion.

“Ignore these dickwads,” Ritchie huffed. “Rezors post videos of the show before we can even get off the stage. We get a chance to see the show through their eyes. Gives us a better idea of what works, what doesn’t. We can then discuss ways in which we can improve.”

Evin grabbed a beer and flopped down on the empty spot between Ritchie and Finn. “Sounds like a great idea to me.”

“Oh God,” Finn griped. “Stop encouraging him.”

Finn acted like he hated the idea, but his eyes were glued to the screen, just like the rest of the band, as the video played. Sid stood off to the side, never one to crowd, arms over his chest, watching the screen with a smile on his face.

The video was taken by someone close to the stage who panned back and forth across it as Resonator jammed to “Chene.” Miah worked the crowd, squatting down slightly and touching the hands outstretched toward him. Even in the blurry image, Miah’s magnetism was undeniable. He was the perfect front man. He could work a crowd into a frenzy, leave the girls with wet panties, and truth be told, many dudes with woodies either from lust, awe, or envy. But it was Finn the operator of the camera obviously had the hots for. While they took in the action on the stage, they were constantly zooming in on Finn’s smiling face, sucker stick hanging from his mouth.

“I think someone likes the way you suck, Finnegan,” Ritchie teased.

Finn flipped Ritchie the bird. “Fuck you, Dick.”

Evin looked over at Ritchie with a questioning look. Ritchie could see the wheels turning, and the moment it hit him, Evin’s eyes went wide. “Don’t you even think about it,” Ritchie warned. “My full name is Richard Ritchie Don’t-Call-Me-Dick Myer.”

“I thought it was Ritchie Dickwad Myer,” Miah chuckled. “Oh wait, or is that dickless?”

Ritchie grabbed his crotch. “I got your dickless, Eugene.”

“Eugene?” Evin snorted and then jerked upright when the beer he was drinking shot out of his nose, causing Finn to scramble away and start cracking up.

“What the hell you laughing at, Pawdog?” Miah scoffed.

“It’s Padraig, like paw plus drig, you simpleton,” Finn sniffed haughtily with a dismissive wave.

Sid closed the lid on the forgotten laptop. “Alright, alright, boys, let’s calm down.”

“He started it,” Ritchie accused, pointing a finger at Miah.

“I did not,” Miah retorted and stuck out his tongue.

“Oh dear Lord, give me strength,” Sid muttered.

Good luck with that
, Ritchie thought wryly. The three of them had been mercilessly teasing each other since they’d met. There really was no hope for them.

Evin finally got his coughing fit under control and walked across the room, wiping the mess from his shirt. “Who needs another beer?”

“Me,” all three of them said at the same time and started laughing again.

Bottles handed out, Evin took his seat next to Finn and the four of them sipped on their beers as Sid got serious.

“Tonight’s show was good, and while you were on the stage, I got a text from Schaffer letting me know tomorrow night is officially sold out.”

“Yes!” Ritchie bumped Evin’s shoulder, a big satisfied grin on his face, then leaned around Evin and high-fived Finn.

Miah dove onto Ritchie’s lap, nearly knocking the wind out of him, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “Fuck yeah, we rock!”

“Jesus, Miah, watch the nut sac,” Ritchie complained and stabbed his index finger into Miah’s ribs. Which was a really, really bad idea, since it caused Miah to squirm. Ritchie gritted his teeth, then huffed out a relieved breath when Miah grew still.

“Listen up,” Sid called out. “I’ve booked us a couple of hours in the studio tomorrow before we head to Amsterdam. Nothing official, but Schaffer—” Sid stopped and turned toward Evin. “—he’s your manager, by the way. He thought it would be a great opportunity to get in there and see how the new songs are coming along.”

“Damn, he’s a fucking slave driver,” Finn complained. “Aren’t we going to get any time to do a little sightseeing? You do realize this is the land of my peeps, don’t you?”

“Sure, you have Sunday before dawn,” Sid responded with a shrug.

“Predawn?” Finn scoffed.

“Oh, stop worrying, Finnegan,” Miah butted in. “That gives you plenty of time to check out your quote-unquote ancestors. It’s Ireland, for fuck’s sake, the pubs are always open. You can go wandering through a cemetery when you’re half-arsed tonight.”

“Oh great, here we go with the stereotypical bullshit again that the Irish are all drunks. You do realize that Ireland has the highest proportion of nondrinkers per capita, don’t you?” Finn countered.

“Whatever,” Miah retorted. “That’s some urban legend bullshit that hasn’t been true since the Catholic alcohol abstinence movement.”

Ritchie groaned. Sid’s update was officially over and the Finn-Miah verbal cutdown hour had commenced. Sid was an accountant by trade—nice-guy nerd who kicked ass with numbers and organizational skills. The only reason he had the job as their tour manager was because he was the nephew of Schaffer’s wife, and his main problem was, and always would be, that he was a pushover when it came to reining in the more explosive personalities of the band. Neither Miah nor Finn would listen to Sid, let alone Ritchie, when they got this riled up. So he leaned over to whisper in Evin’s ear.

“Trust me, you do not want these two in a history debate. Say something to get their attention.” He was damn sure that Finn, at the very least, would snap to attention when Evin opened his mouth. Finn’s eyes had been locked to Evin’s lips enough tonight for Ritchie to know where Finn’s real focus was.

Evin whipped his head around and nearly smacked into Ritchie’s face. “Me? How the hell am I supposed to—?”

“Just say anything. Otherwise this bickering could go on for hours,” Ritchie implored.

Evin hesitated for a moment until Ritchie pushed him into Finn’s side. “Uh… um… so you like history, huh, Finn?” Evin sat forward to block Finn’s view of Miah.

“Like it? I fucking aced it every year. And, by the way, Miah failed it. Every year.” Finn tried to look around Evin to glare at Miah, but bless Evin’s heart, he didn’t allow it.

“Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous of my superior knowledge,” Miah retorted.