CHAPTER THREE: Olivia

“You nervous, Liv?” the bartender asked as he set four bottles of Miller Lite and four tequila shots on my tray. I handed him the customer’s credit card and tried to act much cooler than I felt.

“Nah. I’ve played a hundred gigs,” I said, giving him a carefree shrug to prove how not nervous I was. It looked more like a twitch than a shrug. “This is just another one.”

He snorted at me. “Only this one could land you a record deal with BEG.” He ran the card and handed it back with the receipt for the customer to sign. He nodded at the packed house behind me. “Cain Bohannon himself is supposed to be here at nine. Rusty has a VIP table for him on the upper deck. That’s Sherry’s section. You should see if she’ll let you work the table for her.”

I hefted the heavy tray onto one hand so I could use the other hand to part the crowd. That was one of the few perks of being a cocktail waitress: My arms were toned and muscled. I had guns like a dude. Which, I’d been told more than once, looked sexy as hell when I was onstage, hammering away at my guitar.

“Why would I want to work Sherry’s table?” I asked. “My section is full.”

“So you can schmooze Bohannon ahead of time,” he said in a tone that told me he thought I was an idiot for not thinking of it myself. “Just offer to give Sherry the tips and she’ll do it for you.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Don’t think too long,” he said, nodding at the crowd that was already getting restless. “You’re gonna need all the help you can get with this crowd.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said, flipping him the bird over my shoulder as I turned away. I paused for a second to survey the packed and rowdy crowd. They were young, hard-partying, opinionated assholes. If they liked your music, they let you know by screaming and applauding. If they didn’t like your music, they let you know by booing the shit out of you and throwing beer bottles at your head until you ran offstage in fear for your life.

I knew every band in the lineup. There were a few rock cover bands I wasn’t too worried about (BEG wasn’t going to give a contract to a freakin’ cover band). Then there were a few bands that bordered on heavy metal, a few that leaned toward old-style grunge, and a few, like the Flakes, that gave new meaning to the term “punk rock.”

Mona called it “spoiled-rotten white girl punk” because that was what most of our followers were. We were as loud and edgy as the guys, but we were the only all-girl band on the bill. I had no idea how we’d fare with this crowd. Maybe doing a little schmoozing ahead of time wasn’t such a bad idea.

As I walked from the bar my eyes started scanning the room for Sherry, the waitress assigned to work the upper level. If she would let me work Cain Bohannon’s table, I’d give her all of my tips for the night. Fuck pride and fair play. I would do anything and everything it took to get my name on a BEG contract.

* * *

“Okay, kids, this is how this is going to work,” Rusty, the club owner, said as one member of each band stood circling him backstage. We were all nervous as hell—well, those of us who weren’t high or drunk already—but we were all doing our best to act cool.

Rusty held a paper bag above his head. “There are twelve numbers in the bag,” he said. “Each band gets to pull out one number. The number you get is your number in the lineup for the night. Period. I don’t want to hear any whining or bitching and moaning about high numbers. And no exchanging or selling your numbers. Do that and you’re out. Am I clear?”

Rusty was a fifty-something hippie with a gray braid that ran halfway down his back and a mountain-man beard that hung halfway down his chest. He always wore a red Willie Nelson bandana tied around his head. He dressed like he was on his way to Woodstock and barked orders like a drill sergeant.

Rusty held out the bag to me. “Ladies first, Liv,” he said, shaking the bag at me. He gave me a wink. “Good luck.”

I held my breath as I thrust my hand into the bag. I pulled out a folded slip of paper and handed it to Rusty. He opened the paper. I saw him wince a little when he read the number.

“The Flakes are number eleven,” he said, holding up the paper for all to see. He held out the paper to me and sighed. “Sorry, Liv. No do-overs.”

I didn’t understand the meaning of his words, but everyone else did, because they all moaned—or chuckled—at my misfortune. I’d never been in a battle of bands before. I took the paper and gave Rusty a confused look. “Is number eleven bad?”

“Means you’re up next to last, sweet cheeks,” a guy with hair cut into a pink mohawk said.

“Worst fuckin’ spot of the night,” a black guy with an afro the size of a medicine ball added. “I mean, other than twelve.”

“Why? I don’t understand?” I realized I was holding out the slip of paper as if it were covered in anthrax. I willed the nervous tears from my eyes and looked at Rusty. “Rusty, what are they talking about?”

He sighed and put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let them get to you, Liv. They’re all just jealous because they know you’re gonna kick their dicks in the dirt.”

“No, we’re not,” mohawk dude said, spit shooting from his lips. He tugged the note from my hand and held it out so I could see the number Rusty had scrawled on the paper. “You’re number fucking eleven. The higher your number, the lower your chances of winning.”

I grabbed the paper from his hand and gave him a frown. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s common sense, big tits,” he said, glancing at my breasts beneath the tight Rusty Nail T-shirt. “The fuckers who judge these things don’t even wanna be here. They’re here on the off chance that they might discover another Prince or Springsteen. So, they start drinking right away. They pay attention to the first few acts, but then, when the drinks start to kick in and the music all starts to sound the fucking same, they tune out. Any number above four or five is death. You might as well set fire to the fucking stage, because that’s what it’ll take to get their fucking attention.”

“That’s enough,” Rusty snapped, giving the guy a shove to put him in his place. “Let’s get this done so we can start the show.”

He shook the bag and held it out to Mohawk.

“Okay, big mouth, let’s see what you get.”

Mohawk stuck his skinny fingers into the bag and pulled out a folded slip of paper and handed it to Rusty.

Rusty unfolded the paper, looked at the number, and smiled.

“Proof that God doesn’t like assholes,” Rusty said, holding out the paper to Mohawk. “You’re number twelve.”