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Late Summer 1999

Holy shit, we made it!

For the last two fucking years, we’d been busting ass with recording and touring through the Southern states, and we’d made it onto The Twisted Festivus Tour—on the main fucking stage!

Nerves always got the better of me, and I was hurling up my lunch and a bit of whiskey in the trash can offstage. By now, I was used to it.

Jace patted me on the back and held out a bottle of water. “You good, brother?”

Giving myself a shake, I nodded. “Clean as a whistle.”

He snorted. I chugged the water.

Back in New Orleans, this was our last show before we would fly out tomorrow to kick off our first European tour. And, on top of that, we were opening for the last two big names of the Festivus roster. I was so fucking proud of us; it was unreal.

I knew now more than ever that, no matter what, NOLA’s Junk was going to fuckin’ make it. Our first album, Adopted Son, was selling great. We had a die-hard fan base that was fuckin’ crazy, and we were churning out songs on a weekly basis. The sky was the fuckin’ limit.

Looking at Phil rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck, warming up before going up onstage, I couldn’t help but recognize the sheer power of the man. This last year had changed him—and not necessarily for the better. Granted, he was a machine when it came to the band, but he wasn’t the same Phil I had known and loved.

He had fallen hard for that Kenna chick at the night club Bougainvillea, and he’d never gotten over losing her that night. In the span of a couple of hours, the man had lost his soul, some part of him that had made him who he was. Since then, he’d written some incredible shit though. Phil had poured his pain and longing into the music, and it fuckin’ showed.

My best friend, my brother, and my heart’s deepest desire. I thought I had fallen in love with him when we were around twelve years old. I remembered waking up one morning at his place and watching him as he’d slept. I had been filled with such a wonderful feeling. He was so…gorgeous. It had taken all my willpower not to reach out and touch him.

He looked a hell of a lot different now.

Phil was the most stunning being on the face of the earth to me. He’d only gotten more beautiful as the years passed, too. Even when he had gone through that bizarre growth spurt, I’d fallen hard for the sculpt of the bones in his face. Thank God he’d filled out some though because he really had been a lanky motherfucker.

Phil busted me checking him out, and he gave me a smile and a wink, warming me to my soul. That was what was so awesome about him. He was such a laid-back motherfucker. Shit never really fazed him, not until…

Not until the night he’d met Kenna.

And Kenna’s friend, Alys…fuck, that woman was off-the-chain sexy. Those tits. That mouth. That night, I had whacked off, thinking of those lips wrapped around my dick, while her big hazel eyes stared up at me. That had been an eye-opening experience for me. If I ever fell in love with a woman, I’d want it to be Alys because she was just one of the three coolest chicks I’d ever met.

Her two best friends were the other two.

Phil came up to me and clapped me on the back. “You all right?”

“Yup. Ready to do this. You?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Our roadies were done setting up our shit. One of them, Duck, handed me my bass, and Jason already had his guitar on him. Flipper ran his skinny ass out onstage and hopped behind his drums. The crowd went fuckin’ apeshit.

“Let’s kill ’em!” shouted Jace.

“Sore and beggin’ for more!” I replied, throwing on my five-string.

We took our positions, and that thrill that had started out as nausea went into a full-on high as I took in the audience. Phil was the last one onstage, making the audience completely lose their shit.

For an hour and fifteen minutes, we rocked those motherfuckers to the ground.

“Thank you, NOLA’s Own!” Phil roared, throwing his mic down.

Fuck, we were busted, hot, and sweaty. Phil’s copper skin gleamed like it’d been oiled. Bending down to grab a bottle of water, he straightened up—and fuckin’ froze.

I got a strange feeling in my gut. Something was going on, and it could threaten fuckin’ everything. It could completely derail my sacrifice. Something inside me was telling me this. Maybe Granny’s spirit guides or some divine force.

I ran up to Phil and heard him shout, “Baby Girl!”

Fuck that! I haven’t committed my ass to this shit for him to throw it all away! If I’m sacrificing my fuckin’ life for them, then he can live without his woman for however long is needed.

I threw my arm around his shoulders, howling with outrage.

But something happened—a shift in the atmosphere. A wave of peace crashed over us, and when I looked into the crowd, I saw her—Phil’s Baby Girl. She had eyes only for Phil, but she was…

She was sacrificing her happiness with him, so my own sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. She was telling him so much in that look, in the pressing together of her hands. I felt Phil relax, and looking at his Baby Girl, I had such a deep appreciation and respect for her. No matter what, she loved Phil, loved him enough…to let him go.

Thank you! I screamed at her inside my head. I’ll bring him back to you, I promise!

Then, my eyes drifted just slightly to the left, and there stood Alys, the arms of a towering ginger wrapped around her, holding her safe.

Fuck, they were both gorgeous.

I’m coming back for you, woman. Looking at the dude, I thought, Maybe for you, too.

We landed in Amsterdam a day and a half later.

Rattlesnake Records had put us in first-class, and thank fuck because it was a hell of a flight.

Phil had gotten piss fuckin’ drunk and ended up getting head in the restroom from some hairy beast. Jason and Sheri had been told to fuckin’ stop being gross in front of the other passengers. Poor Tim had been close to losing his shit at that point. And Flipper had been banned from alcohol for the duration of the flight. The man would always end up naked when he was drunk.

Sheri had slipped me a Valium, and, fuck, that had taken the edge off for sure. I didn’t know how she did it, but that woman always knew what we needed.

Fuckin’ brilliant.

I knew that my life would be charmed for the next seven years. No matter what I did, I wasn’t gonna die. I wouldn’t overdose on anything. I wouldn’t die in a plane crash. But…I only had seven fuckin’ years left. I didn’t want to waste it on being wrecked and high. Weed was one fuckin’ thing and the occasional pill to help me feel mellow. But I had a limited amount of time with the people I loved, and I wanted to take that shit with me when I went.

For a few days in Amsterdam, we were like kids in a fuckin’ candy store. We were set up in an all right hotel in the Red Light District, which was pretty badass.

Holy shit, the sex.

I was all for trying out anything that came past my dick. The other guys and Sheri seemed up for anything, too. I was banging chicks and dudes left, right, and fuckin’ center. I didn’t think I’d had so much fuckin’ fun in my life.

Then, we met up with Cornered Cannibal.

The day before the tour was to kick off, Tim arranged with the Cannibal’s manager for our two bands to meet in a bar.

I was excited. These guys were some of the most hard-core motherfuckers. Dark, twisted death metal, their sound wasn’t really like anything we played. They liked to portray themselves as evil incarnate or some such shit. I liked some of their songs, but what really impressed me the most was their guitarist.

Devon GianFranco was the youngest in the band and, by far, the most talented. He was perhaps the greatest guitarist of our age. Even Jason grudgingly admitted the guy was gifted. That spoke fuckin’ volumes because Jason himself was fuckin’ gifted. More than any of the Cannibals, I wanted to meet Devon.

We all headed down to a place called Jesper’s Pub in the Red Light District, our hotel not too far from the bar. We were stoned seven ways to Sunday.

God bless legal weed.

Phil was finally showing some enthusiasm. He’d certainly thrown himself into all the sex, drugs, and booze we encountered with a ferocious fuckin’ appetite. It was as though seeing Kenna in the crowd had liberated him yet turned him morose.

Inside the seedy bar, we told the security detail working the door who we were and that we were supposed to meet Jürgen Wilhelmsen—the lead singer for Cornered Cannibal. We were then escorted to a roped off area.

Jürgen had to be the biggest, ugliest man on the fuckin’ planet. His head was massive and reminded me of a baked potato. Dark eyes looked vicious, and he had a thick mouth that couldn’t pull off a smile, even when the fucker was smiling. His strange gingery-brown hair was long and kind of stringy-looking.

When he stood up, I saw that he and Phil were about the same height, but Jürgen must mainline protein shakes and lift weights like a head case because he had twice the muscle mass of Phil.

“It’s good to meet you fuckers,” said Jürgen, his voice nearly bass in pitch.

The rest of the Cannibals—Peder, the bass player; Yuri, the rhythm guitarist; and Kendrick, the drummer—stood and shook our hands. The last one to greet us was Devon.

Holy shit.

The guy was gorgeous. I hardly recognized these guys without their faces painted, and GianFranco had the face of a fuckin’ god. He was tall himself, about six foot two, with longish black hair and the brightest greenish-blue eyes. He was so fuckin’ pretty.

I was about to spaz the fuck out when his long hand wrapped around mine.

“Good to meet you.”

I felt weak in the fuckin’ knees—and not in a need-to-sex-his-ass kind of way. Just that he was a fuckin’ legend, and he was more amazing in person than I could have ever imagined. He even had a sexy-as-fuck accent going on.

“You, too,” I breathed.

He smirked, but something in his eyes was off. A sense of oppression and maybe a hint of a comedown.

Flipper ended up being the life of the party, keeping us all entertained with his boisterous attitude and, once the drinks were flowing, lack of clothing. Tim ended up chasing Flipper out of the bar with him wearing only his boxers.

We were invited back to Jürgen’s hotel room, and buzzing by this point, we figured, What the hell?

Jürgen and the rest of the Cannibals were staying at a swanky place—Hotel de l’Europe. The fugly lead singer led us all up to a suite of rooms so fuckin’ red that it was nearly painful. Very gothic.

And not nearly as surprising was the fact that about six chicks were in varying stages of undress, just lounging around the place.

Next to me, Phil sucked in a sharp breath.

Jürgen heard it, too, and gave Phil a grin teeming with evil. “Help yourself. It’s what they’re here for.”

Damn.

I turned to Jason, who was standing next to me, his arm around Sheri’s waist. I was about to warn him to keep an eye out for her, that shit could get weird—or worse. Sheri was drop-dead gorgeous with her curly white-blonde hair, silvery eyes, and huge tits. I was worried that the Cannibals wouldn’t respect her as our road manager.

But Sheri was practically vibrating with excitement, eyeing the chicks like the rest of the dudes here.

Phil’s hand wrapped around my upper arm, and he pulled me in close. “Don’t let these guys suspect…you know. I don’t trust them.”

I cocked my eyebrow at him, silently asking if he thought I was that stupid.

“Let’s go get our rocks off,” he said before beelining right for the redhead on the couch.

The next morning, I woke up on the floor in the living room of the red hotel suite, a naked woman draped over me. I was pretty fuckin’ naked my damn self. Looking around, I spotted my jeans in a heap on the arm of the couch.

Untangling myself from the woman, I quietly crept over and grabbed my pants. I was hungover, starving, and thirsty as all hell. I didn’t remember too much of the night before, but I could fuckin’ smell the orgiastic sex and multiple body funk in the air.

Somehow, I found the bathroom and pushed the door open. Phil was already in there, splashing water on his face. By the state of him, I could only guess he was feeling just as wrecked as I was.

“Hey, man,” I said, keeping my voice down. “You all right?”

His eyes met mine in the mirror. No, he was far from fuckin’ all right.

“I’m good,” he replied.

For some reason, I felt heartbroken.

Last night, something inside Phil had been damaged. He’d gone somewhere in his head or soul, and the man I had known might never, ever be coming back. Phil was hurting in a way I’d never be able to heal. Looking at me, he knew it, too.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked out.