Tulsa Crow

Lowering my Ray-Bans down over my eyes, I tilt my head up to the blue skies. Bogged down with my carry-on in one hand, I spread my other arm out wide. “We have arrived, LA.”

“Stop making a fucking scene, Tulsa,” Jet admonishes, brushing past me to get to the black SUV.

Flashes become distracting, but when the click of cameras rattles around me, I give the paparazzi what they came for—my good side, showing off the dimple in my chin the ladies can’t get enough of.

Just as I throw them a quick salute, Rivers grabs me by the front of the shirt. “C’mon, fucker. Get in the vehicle.”

If my hands were free, I’d pop my collar, but they aren’t, so I climb in through the open door and slide across the leather seat. Just as Rivers shuts the door, I hand Jet my bag, and he tosses it to the back behind Dave. “Hey! I have breakable shit in there,” I say, irritated. “Be careful.”

“Your dildo will be fine.”

“Fuck off.” I try to sound pissed, but I start laughing. “That was funny.”

My brothers and our newest band member, Dave Carson, start laughing along with me, the tension they felt brought on by the paparazzi at LAX dissipating. I don’t let things get to me as easily. Life’s too short for that shit.

Jet, the oldest Crow, has had a lot to handle over the past eight years. He stepped up when our dad stepped out before I was four. When I was a teenager, our mom died, but there was no way Jet would allow us to be separated. At only nineteen, he fought to ensure we stayed together. He quit college and got a job doing landscaping in the afternoons so we could play gigs at night. I had no idea what that sacrifice truly meant until I went to college and had the easy life he never did.

He raised us when no one else gave a damn what happened to us after our mom passed away. Jet sacrificed his own goals to help Rivers and me reach ours. So, we earned our college degrees while he worked. Even though Jet’s a great role model, he’s also a hard ass. His high expectations of us, and for us, were what got us to this point. So it doesn’t matter what we go through—we’re brothers by blood and by choice. I’m a lucky bastard.

A dry sense of humor runs in the family. Sarcasm could be our middle names if my mom hadn’t already been so wickedly funny when it came to that. Jet Mercury, Rivers East, and mine, a little too fitting for me since it seems most out of left field—Tulsa Madigan. It was never a secret that I was a surprise, so who knows where she came up with that name.

I think Louisa Rain Crow knew she was pushing her luck when she got pregnant with me. We can’t all be boy scouts.

Landing in LA today brings us one step closer to opening our first stadium tour tomorrow.

Even though we have an album still sitting at the top of the music charts months after Outlaw Records released it, this trip is what changes everything.

Johnny Outlaw, the famous lead singer, guitarist, and band spokesman for The Resistance, signed us to a two-album deal last year. Part of the deal was that we open for his band on their US tour. Not like we’d say no.

Since we signed, we’ve gotten to know Tommy, their manager and now ours, and Dex, one of the founding members and drummer of The Resistance, well.

Kaz and Derrick round out their band, and like I used to be, they’re guitarists. Dex moved me to drums after hearing I played, and I’ve been there ever since.

Although fame is new to us, money is not something we’ve ever been able to spend freely.

We have groupies at our beck and call . . . okay, that’s not new. We’ve laid plenty of pretties. As the motherfuckin’ Crow Brothers, we’ve owned the Austin music scene for years. But now it’s time to take over the world.

Rivers lays his head back with his shades over his eyes. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep. As his roommate, I’m well aware he’s not been sleeping much. I often hear the TV on in the middle of the night, then I’ll find him passed out in the recliner in the living room in the morning. After trying to get him to talk about it a couple of times, to no avail, I let him have his privacy. He’s always been quieter, but whatever he’s been going through this past year is wearing on him, and this tour hasn’t even begun.

I glance back at Jet, who sees Rivers. He shrugs and turns his attention out the tinted windows. His phone rests on his thigh; he keeps it handy at all times. The unshakeable Jet Crow has become a family man; with his pregnant wife and kid back in Austin, he’s got more on his mind than the set list.

He’ll relax once school ends. Then his son, Alfie, and wife, Hannah, can visit us on tour.

I never think too much about it, but a little knot tightens in my gut when I think about all of us settling down with families of our own. It’s always been easy to see Jet in that role since it’s the one he’s taken on most of my whole life, but Rivers . . . I thought he and his girl would make it—they didn’t.

I tried the girlfriend route back in high school, and it didn’t work for me either. Fuck that noise. I’m twenty-three and single. I’m a rock star and heading out on tour. Nothing is going to tie me down before my time. I can’t wait to fuck my way through the states. Other than playing music, sex is my favorite sport. And like most sports, it took a lot of practice to be this perfect.

* * *

Jet, Rivers, and Dave walk into the bar behind me. I stop and look around as the patrons check us out as well. Tommy stands from a table in the back. That’s when I see he’s with two other guys I don’t recognize.

Dave takes off first, and we follow. After we greet Tommy, he introduces us to the other guys. “Laird and Shane Faris of Faris Wheel. These guys are opening for you.”

Outlaw Records signed Faris Wheel to a deal around the same time as us. They put out an EP like we did, but their first full album is still in the works from what I’ve heard from Jet.

While we shake hands, Jet takes the lead. “Man, good to meet you guys. I dig your music and style.”

Laird replies, “Dude, that’s a huge honor. I’ve been listening to your record on repeat since it released. It’s incredible.”

“Thanks.” Peering behind him, Rivers asks, “Where’s your lead singer?”

“Sleeping,” Shane says, chuckling.

Rivers laughs. “I hear ya. We got in yesterday, did a few interviews, and then crashed.”

“That’s what all of us should probably be doing tonight.” Sarcastically, Tommy adds, “On that note, I’m buying the first round.”

One becomes two.

Rivers is smiling, relaxed, and having a good time. Jet’s been talking to Tommy mostly. I ask Shane, “If you play drums, and he’s on lead, then who’s playing bass?”

“The Resistance has hired a studio player to hit the stage with us. Jagger will be traveling back and forth to LA until he’s done with an album he’s working for a big singer.”

“Dave joined us after the album but before the tour. We’ve had time to work with him, so he knows the songs like they’re his own. And he’s a damn good guitarist anyway.”

He downs some of his beer and sets it down. “This guy is cool. I heard he’s done this before.”

Two drinks become three.

“Those guys were wild as fuck when they started out,” Tommy says, referring to the guys in The Resistance.

I ask, “What changed?”

“They did,” he says, chuckling.

Rivers tips the waitress for the drinks and takes a gulp before asking, “Why did they change?”

Tommy leans back in his chair after accepting another beer that’s just been delivered. “Women. They have a way of changing us before we realize it’s even happened.”

Scrolling through an app on my phone, I mutter, “Not me.” I don’t realize they heard me until the silence draws my attention. “What?”

Jet laughs. “Tulsa still thinks he’s invincible to commitment and responsibility.”

Tommy taps his glass against mine. “Good luck with that. Like women, age has a way of changing us.”

Resting his elbows on the table, Shane leans forward. “If you could give one word of advice before we kick off this tour, what would it be?”

“Thinking back, I’d advise you to be careful who you allow into your life on the road. Groupies can be fun, but there are some crazy people out there. I’m not saying you have to be a saint, because where’s the fun in that? But if you do find yourself in a mess, it becomes a mess for all of us. No one is untouchable, and everyone is replaceable. I don’t give a shit if you wrote the fucking songs. Put this tour at risk and you’re gone.”

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Rivers says, “I’m ready to go. Anyone else want to catch a cab back?”

Tommy nods. “I will. Drinks are on me. You guys are lightweights.”

When he leaves to close the tab, Jet hits my chest. “I’m leaving. Are you staying?”

“Yeah. Laird? Shane? You stayin’?”

“I’m staying,” Laird replies, tipping his glass back and finishing another beer.

Jet adds, “Wear a condom.”

“I always do.”

Three drinks become four.

Fuck. I dip my head down. “I’m fucking drunk.”

Laird knocks into me. “How drunk? There are two chicks I’m thinking might want more of our time.”

“How hot are they?”

“I’ve had four beers and fszoy shots,” he slurs. I don’t even know what he said, but he adds, “Does it matter anymore?”

His logic is as drunk as he is. I look up and lock eyes on two hot-as-a-summer-night women who are not shy about where their eyes linger. “Shane?”

“What?”

Closing one eye, I attempt to narrow my eyes to see more clearly through my liquor goggles. “Two o’clock. Hot or not?”

“Damn hot.”

Laird says, “Come on before they find some other fuckers to fuck around with.”

Sauntering over to them with Laird on my tail, I give them my best. “Sorry to bother your ladies’ night, but I was wondering if you could settle a bet for us?”

By all appearances, this chick’s not low maintenance. Long, black hair and cat eyes with heavy makeup. Tight jeans. High heels. Fake tits huddle under a tight knit leopard print top.

She’s not like the girls back home in Austin who have an innocence about them. She’s no saint. She might just eat me alive, but it’s just one night, not marriage. When she asks what the bet is, she giggles and taps her friend’s knee. Laird swoops in on the lie and replies, “Do you think it’s better to go home with a guitarist or a drummer?”

Her friend says, “Give us one of each.”

Laird says, “Guitarists do it faster with their fingers.”

“Drummers do it with rhythm,” I add, resting my hand on the bar behind her. “What do you like—faster or—”

“Are you a drummer?”

“I sure am, sweetheart.”

“Drummer.” She runs her fingers down my neck and pops the collar of my shirt. “Definitely, drummer.”

Her friend says, “Good thing I have a weakness for guitarists.”

“I think I win,” Laird says and then kisses her. “Wanna get out of here?”

She hops off her barstool. “Absolutely.”

I look her friend up and down before licking my lips. “Tulsa Crow. What’s your name?” I ask. I may sleep with a lot of women, but I always get their name first.

“Miracle.”

“Nice to meet you, Miracle. Can I buy you a drink?”

“I think we can skip the niceties and get down to business. That’s my roommate. We’ll ride with her.”

* * *

The next morning, I step off the elevator onto the floor of my hotel room but hold the door open. Laird holds his fist out, and I bump it. “See you at the arena.”

“No doubt,” he says. “I need some sleep after that night.”

“You’re telling me. Your girl screamed a lot.”

“Only when she was coming.”

I laugh. “Fair deuce.” Stepping back, I say, “You’re going to be trouble for me if you like to party that hard.”

“Nah. It was just a good way to kick off the tour.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“Fuck, who am I kidding?” He jabs the button to his floor again. “Maybe again tonight. You in?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m in.”

* * *

We’re led to the stage five minutes before taking it. When we found out Laird and Shane’s band had been added to the tour as an opener for us, we flipped out. I mean, we were already lucky enough to be opening for The Resistance, but then to be bumped to a better lineup position was insanity.

The guys in Faris Wheel are cool, and it was good to party with them last night. As an indie band like us, we get to go through this experience together. We’re just one step ahead since we’ve just released our record. They still landed the tour, though.

Their band frequents the music festival scene, which is different than our journey. But they have built a solid fan base. With their different sound, I’m told they bring a new element to the tour. I look forward to hearing them play.

Johnny, Dex, Derrick, Kaz, and Tommy—the whole Resistance gang—will watch us perform tonight. Our band has never played in front of an audience of this magnitude, but I know we’ll kill it.

With a hot album still on the charts, this tour will be much bigger. Well, technically, it’s The Resistance’s tour, but we’re billed with them.

Holding my sticks, I stretch my arms down, and then twist my torso around. I need to be loose. Drums are becoming second nature over the guitar these days, but I’m still working through it.

Dex bumps into me. When I look back, he nods to the side. I follow him, away from the others. “You’ve got this, Tulsa. This is the reward, the fun part. You’ve worked hard. Go out there and play harder.”

“I got this. I’m ready.” I have no idea if I’m ready or not, but it’s happening, so no use worrying about it. Out of need, I moved from guitar to drums last year. I’d drummed for years just for fun as a distraction once my mom died. I needed the escape. Loud. Aggressive. Freeing. I could wipe my mind of the anger I felt, the grief that burrowed into my heart, and just play. My body knew the rhythm. I hit the kit with pure adrenaline and anger, which was something I couldn’t do on the guitar.

A guitar is a whole helluva lot easier to carry around and pack up, though. Here I am, after months of working paradiddles, pumping weights, running for endurance, and hitting the drums any chance I had. I’m ready for this. Dex worked with me, showed me how to perform behind the drum kit, how to keep my emotions intact so I could feel the beat, taking blow by blow, and make magic.

This isn’t about losing myself in something to forget the pain. This is about losing myself in something to celebrate. It’s about finding myself in the music.

I’m ready.

I tap the sticks against my leg while listening to Faris Wheel on stage. “That’s a girl singing.” Not a question, though I look at Rivers for an answer.

He nods. “She sounds good and plays guitar.”

Kaz says, “The band’s incredible. From SoCal. Built-in audience, diehard fans. They started out playing Ska and then morphed into a more indie rock sound. When Johnny heard them, he had to sign them.”

We’ve played and toured with a lot of bands over the years. Even though I hadn’t bothered to listen to the Faris Wheel songs Tommy sent us, they sound badass live.

Johnny is standing on the steps that lead to the stage with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s an intense guy. Music isn’t just business to him. It’s art. He stuck his neck out to sign us and to help us succeed. Seeing him up there supporting the other band, I realize this is who he is. This is important to him. We’re important to him. He’s all about the music, the performance, and the entertainment. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t even be here until it was time for his band to go on. We scored more than a record deal when we signed with him.

Tommy squeezes my shoulder. “The stage change will only take ten, fifteen minutes tops. We used the same setup as your album’s tour. This time, the lights will stay down until your first strike. Get out there and make sure it’s set up the way you want. Our roadies are the best, but they’re still learning what you need. We can make any changes you need.”

Jet says, “We’re ready. We’ve done a million shows.” Glancing at me and then at Rivers, he smiles. “It’s nice not to do the grunt work, huh?”

With his strap wrapped around his torso and the bass guitar hanging from his back, Rivers holds his hand out to Jet. We’ve done the same handshake since I was four. “Very nice.”

When Rivers turns to me, we do two slow slides, three fist bumps, and a quick chest hit before I repeat it with Jet. From my shoulder, Jet says, “Just another night on Sixth Street in Austin.”

“Just another night,” I repeat. It’s easier to think it’s a crowd of five hundred, more or less, than to think about twenty K.

Tommy asks, “You guys ready?”

This is it.

Johnny comes down the stage steps and says, “Give ’em hell, guys.”

Dex adds, “Just play your music. That’s all you’ve got to do.”

He makes it sound so easy. Don’t overthink this. Just another night in Austin.

We watch as the other band comes off the stage, following in Johnny’s steps. They’re not our competition. They’re allies in this surreal moment in time. We’re on this tour together. Jet asks, “How is it out there?”

Shane has a mop of crazy brown hair and drumsticks in his hands. “I think I need a cigarette after that.”

Laughing, Rivers asks, “That good?”

Laird says, “Better. The best high of my life.”

Silence falls as from the darkened stage comes an angel in a white dress that hits midthigh on tan legs, feet sporting scuffed, red Converse sneakers. A light from backstage highlights her long, golden hair that hangs over her shoulder. I’ve tugged a few braids in my day in sexual situations. Chicks love it.

Dark lashes almost touch her sweet pink cheeks as she walks down from the stage, stumbling but catching herself before she falls. When she looks up, big blue eyes find me in the shadows of my brothers as the smell of something fruity fills the air.

Cherry. Holy fuck. That’s their lead singer?

She passes me, and says, “Break a leg.”

I’d break two for her. “Shit. I think I’m in lust.”

First, my chest is whacked by Jet, and then Rivers smacks the back of my head and says, “Don’t even think about it.”

“How can I not? Did you see her?”

Dex is shaking his head, and Tommy is laughing. Kaz left with Johnny to join Faris Wheel, but Derrick says, “It’s not a good idea. The drummer is her cousin, and the guitarist is her brother. Words of wisdom: Don’t fuck up the tour, or you’ll be miserable for the next two months.”

Tommy hits my chest when he walks by. “Remember what I told you last night. Don’t risk the tour.”

It’s good advice, but when I look over my shoulder and catch her looking back at me, I know there’s no way in hell I’m not fucking this up.