The Rebellion Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  On a Personal Note

  About the Author

  Also by S.L. SCOTT

  The Rebellion

  S.L. SCOTT

  S.L. SCOTT

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  On a Personal Note

  About the Author

  Also by S.L. SCOTT

  Copyright © 2017 by S.L. SCOTT

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Okay Creations

  Cover Image: Scott Hoover

  Editing:

  Becca Mysoor, Evident Ink

  Marion Archer, Making Manuscripts

  Marla Esposito, Proofing Style

  Virginia Carey, Proofreading

  Kristen Johnson, Proofreader

  ISBN: 978-1-940071-50-3

  For the music lovers and the shower singers, the late night writers, and the believers, Dreams Can Come True.

  Prologue

  Derrick Masters

  Climbing in the back of the SUV with the rest of the band, I slam the door shut behind me. “Go.”

  The vehicle makes it around the corner before the fans even realize we left through a different exit. Somewhere along this tour, we’ve developed a drive-away habit with Johnny in the third row, Kaz and Dex in the middle, I’m in the first row, and Tommy is upfront with the driver. The best thing about this arrangement is that I can spread out and lie down, which is exactly what I do. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I close my eyes and remember when this used to be fun.

  Running from rabid fans builds an ego fast. But after two years of sneaking away through back exits, finding groupies in hotel bathrooms, and getting mail with locks of hair and proclamations of eternal devotion, the illusion I once lived in has been destroyed. All hail the life of a rock star. My rose-colored glasses have been traded for scratched designer shades that shield me from the normalcies of everyday life. The lap of luxury has replaced simple pleasures. The lifestyle of the rich and famous is and was intoxicating for a while. Now I just wish I could walk down the street without being harassed for an autograph or a picture.

  The ride from the arena to the hotel doesn’t take long, but the adrenaline from the concert is draining, leaving me lifeless on this seat, and a little annoyed. “Did you see that couple in the front row?”

  Johnny asks, “What couple?”

  “The one face-fucking the entire fucking concert.”

  He laughs. Once. “What about them?”

  “They should be coming for the music.”

  Kaz says, “They were.”

  “If they were, they should be listening to it.”

  Now Dex is laughing. “What the fuck’s gotten into you, Derrick? What do you care if some couple is getting off to our music?”

  I sound like a lunatic, and a prude at that. Why do I care? They paid their thousands for those seats. If they want to strip naked and fuck for real it shouldn’t bother me. But it does and I don’t know why.

  Maybe it’s because I haven’t kissed a woman like that in a long fucking time. Not a real kiss—one with more meaning behind it than getting laid for the night. The last time I kissed someone like that . . . I stop myself from going there because every time I do, it’s a downward spiral from there. But when I think of a kiss, she’s the only woman who comes to mind, the only woman that when our lips embraced, a part of our souls were exchanged.

  Did she keep all the pieces I’m missing? The holes I’m still searching to fill that she left behind?

  The door slides open and I sit up to get out. The guys pile out behind me and we go in the back entrance to the private elevators. One helluva good-looking brunette catches my eye while the guys brush by quietly. It’s always quiet after a show. We’re exhausted and tired of being “on” for everyone.

  She hands me a card key and her business card, and says, “We’ve upgraded you to one of our suites. I’d be happy to give you a private tour, Mr. Masters.”

  Tempting. So damn tempting. I could fuck all night, but it’s not going to change the fact that my head’s already fucked up over a girl I can’t seem to stop thinking about lately. There’s no reason for me to give her a second thought. She should be nothing but a ghost from my past—part of a past I left behind.

  I just wish I hadn’t left her behind with it. I slip my shades back on as flashes from the lobby start going off in the distance. “Thank you for the upgrade. I’ll take a rain check on the tour.”

  “My pleasure, and my number’s on the card if you need anything at all.”

  Funny how life works.

  The one thing I need is the only thing I can’t have. The only person I can’t have.

  “Get the fuck in here.” My shirt is grabbed and I’m yanked into the elevator by Dex.

  The brass doors close behind me and I stand there facing the band, this band of dreamers who live their dream every day. “I should have taken her up on the tour.”

  Kaz leans against the corner. “I’m surprised you didn’t.”

  Music is piped in and it takes a second, but we all hear it. With our heads tilted toward the speaker, one of our most popular songs has been turned into classical elevator music. Johnny shakes his head. “Fuck me.” Turning his atten
tion down, he starts texting.

  Dex is drumming his fingers beside him on the railing. “Now I feel fucking old.”

  Kaz is laughing and hits me in the chest. “Can’t blame us. It’s classic Resistance. A song put out before our time.”

  Tommy asks, “Anyone up for drinks later?”

  Everyone ignores him. Kicking my shoe, he says, “Derrick?”

  “Going out? Nah.”

  “Staying in?” Tommy asks in disbelief.

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t leave me going solo. What’s gotten into you, Moody?”

  “We’ve played six cities in six days,” I complain, catching a glimpse of myself in the metal doors. I look exhausted, my dark hair a mess and my eyes bloodshot. “I need sleep.”

  “You’re twenty-three. These are the best years of your life. Don’t waste them sleeping. Right, Johnny?”

  Johnny’s phone rings, and a wide smile cuts across his world-famous face. The elevator doors open just as he says, “Hey baby,” and walks off.

  Dex and I follow suit and get off. Holding my key in the air, I wave to Tommy and Kaz who remain on the elevator. “It’s good to be me,” I tease.

  Kaz flips me off and Tommy is cut off by the doors closing, “Fucke—”

  Dex walks past me and says, “At twenty-three, I would have taken the tour.”

  “Maybe I still will.”

  I slip my key card into the door and enter the suite. My luggage is in the middle of the living room. A bottle of Jack Daniels and a fruit tray are on the table by the window. I toss the business and key cards down next to the bottle and open it. I don’t bother with the glasses or the fruit tray. I drink straight from the bottle, stand at the window, and stare at the neon lights of the street below. The room is too quiet, the lingering buzz from performing live still rings in my ears. Another sold out show for The Resistance is behind us and I’m left with the silence of a hotel room. Sometimes I love it, when I’m at home, but the road gets lonely. I pick up the phone and call downstairs. When the pretty brunette answers, I say, “About that tour . . .”

  1

  Derrick

  Sitting up in bed, I watch the back of her bent forward while she clasps the straps of her heels around her ankles. She looks back, and says, “If you need any—”

  “Yeah, I’ll call you.”

  A sleek smile slides into place and suddenly I don’t feel like my “tour” was a one-time thing for her. She stands and straightens her skirt. “You’ve got my number.”

  I reach for the card on the nightstand, and hold it up. “I do. Thanks for—”

  “My pleasure.”

  I’m relieved she cut me off. This is the awkward part I dislike the most. Thanking her for sex would up the weirdness factor. She grabs her hotel manager’s jacket and slips it on over her shirt. One last wave, and she says, “It was great meeting you.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  When she disappears, I take her business card in hand again and read out loudly, “Brenda.” The door to the suite shuts and I hear the distinct sound of the lock clicking into place.

  Another city, another—meaningless—distraction. Physically I’m sated, but now what? I pick up my phone and text Tommy Rhodes, the band’s manager and my wingman since Kaz abandoned his post: When do we leave?

  A return text comes fast: One hour.

  I text again: Where are we going?

  Tommy: Nashville.

  Me: Where are we now?

  Tommy: Miami.

  Nashville. Miami. East Coast. We’re a damn long way from home in LA. It shouldn’t bother me. It’s not like I’ve got anything or anyone back home waiting.

  I slide my sunglasses over my eyes and lie back down. I’m a rock star, damn it. This is probably why I used to do drugs in the first place. I could leave my own mind for a while and live in the euphoria of fame. But being in the band means being clean. Sure, they don’t give a shit about marijuana or booze, but with the history of the band, anything harder breaks my contract. That contract is all I ever fucking dreamed about so I’m not going to screw it up for a temporary high. Anyway, I may not have anyone back home that gives a shit about me, but on the road I can have a Brenda in every city.

  Life can be pretty damn sweet if I look at the bright side.

  The only problem with my bright side these days is that my head is overrun with memories of a girl I left with a broken heart and out of tune guitar. I meant to fix that before I left—the guitar. There was no fixing the heart unless I stayed, and I couldn’t. Good reasons at the time, but hell if I can remember what they are now.

  * * *

  I toss my carry-on in the seat next to me and open the shade. Sunny Miami. I’m leaving before I even had time to experience the city. Other than the arena we played last night, I didn’t see anything beyond the inside of the hotel and an SUV. Releasing a hard breath, I slam the shade back down and close my eyes.

  “Rough night?”

  I don’t have to open my eyes to recognize the voice—Kaz. My best friend, my former roommate, and the bassist for The Resistance aka the best band in the world, moved on. I know I’m lucky. I was chosen from guitarists vying for this spot from around the world to join this band, along with Kaz. It was a quick and easy fix to a spot they had open. At the time, it was a two-for-one kind of deal.

  It took the man behind the brand, Johnny Outlaw—lead singer, former rock star bad boy, and the face of the band—two minutes to decide. As a guitarist himself, he knew what he was looking for. We continued to play through three more songs for the other surviving band member, Dex Caggiano—drummer extraordinaire—to decide. He said he actually didn’t need to hear more, but liked watching us sweat our hearts out through every chord we played. It was an asshole move. So basically he’s my idol now.

  The trial period ended a long time ago and we’ve been officially part of the band for years now. Our dreams came true. Dreams and goals, bucket lists and accomplishments, but once those goals are reached, what then?

  Before I can say anything to Kaz, Johnny sits across from me and buckles in. Fuck. This can only mean one of two things—I fucked up something in the show last night or he’s firing me. The dude never sits by me. He actually sleeps in the bedroom of the private plane most flights. Or is stuck in interviews and doing PR shit. Having him sitting across from me right now is worrisome to say the least. He’s not talking at me. He’s talking to me. I like this shift in our relationship, this new dynamic.

  He stares at me until I remove my sunglasses, then he says, “We all burn out at some point or another. Some take longer to get there. Some sooner. It’s how you handle it that determines your future. How do you plan to handle it?”

  Sitting back, my leg begins to bounce and I scoff defensively. “I’m not burned out.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “There’s nothing to handle. I’m happy as a clam.”

  His jaw tics. That usually only happens when he’s pissed, but his eyes don’t show any anger. Blowing out a deep breath, he looks out the window as the plane starts down the tarmac. He says, “Mine was Germany.”

  “Your what?”

  “My bottom.” When he turns back to me he says, “The fallout from partying, drugs, booze, women, the whole fucking cliché was a year earlier. Sure, I still did a lot of shit after, but no more hard drugs. As for the women, it was entertaining for a while, but there was no substance. No one I wanted to call the next day or even get their number. Some of the time . . . a lot of the time I didn’t even bother with their names.”

  Brenda comes to mind. I caught that one as she was walking out the door this morning.

  “Look,” he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “It happens to all of us. Not many relate, or ever will understand this life on the road, the demands of being in a band that’s as successful as The Resistance. But we do. All five of us do. Tommy’s given up his life to put us first without the fame or notoriety we have. The rest of us, we’r
e doing the best we can in an extraordinary situation. But I’m telling you. I see the signs. I see it destroying you. Slowly. Meticulously, almost to where you don’t notice you’re not you anymore.” We haven’t reached altitude yet, but Johnny stands. “It’s great to be a rock star, but not at the expense of having a life. Two tours in two years wears on you. When we get back to LA, find a life again, Derrick. It’s the only way you’ll survive when you’re on the road.” I watch as he walks down the aisle to the bedroom and disappears inside. What the hell?

  As soon as the door shuts, Kaz pops into the chair Johnny vacated. “Shit, man. What’d he say?”

  Find a life.

  Get a life.

  Live my life.

  “Find myself again.”

  “I didn’t know you were lost.”

  “Neither did I. Until now.”

  * * *

  We land a few hours later to fans screaming behind the metal fence at the private airport. I wave while coming down the stairs and then slide into the first SUV. Dex slides in after me and shuts the door. Tommy, Kaz, and Johnny take up the next black SUV parked beside the plane.

  My head pivots in Dex’s direction. “What up?”

  He nods while staring at his phone, reading something on the screen.

  I look out the window next to me already forgetting which city we’re in.

  “I’m not going to lecture you,” he starts. “I leave that to Tommy and Johnny. This band is their baby, hence why we’re still hitting the road so hard with each new album.”

  I’m actually surprised he’s talking to me about this. Dex is reserved. Most would say he’s not, but over time I’ve learned he rarely instigates trouble despite his bad reputation. He’s more of a reactionary man. “It’s fine.” I’m not sure what to say. “It’s smart to support the record.”

  “I heard what Outlaw said on the plane. He’s right. We see the signs.”

  “What are they?”

  “You’re fucking up, not on stage. You’re incredible on stage. But you don’t have anything keeping you grounded.”