They’d been on the bus for what felt like weeks. So long that they were way overdue for a day off inside of an actual hotel room — and every single member of ShapeShifter was grossed out by the thought of how excited they were about something as sterile and isolated as a hotel room. But at this point, with only the bus or the inside of the venue to look at, a hotel seemed like the ultimate luxury.

During these stretches, it wasn’t unusual for no one to talk. No one had anything to say, really. Not when you were spending exactly every waking minute with each other. Not when you’d done this dance for years.

Mitchell didn’t even have much to say to Kerri, which was pretty pathetic considering they were still newlyweds. She didn’t seem to care, except that she was as bored as the rest of them. So bored that she had squished herself on the couch beside him, her chin on his upraised knee. Instead of drawing, she was playing idly with the hair on his leg. He knew she wouldn’t be doing it if he’d put his jeans back on, but when all you were doing was sitting on a bus, why bother with pants?

He could only take so much of Kerri’s petting and stroking. It wasn’t hot, it wasn’t comforting. It was just damn annoying.

He lifted his leg and straightened it, moving gently so he didn’t startle her onto the floor or hurt her. “Woman,” he growled, “my leg is not a guitar. If you want to strum something, go find one.”

With a shrug, Kerri stood up.

“What are you doing?” He knew he flailed as he sat up, but he didn’t care. She’d been supposed to stop petting him, not do … whatever.

“Getting a guitar,” she said carelessly, and disappeared into the bunks.

Eric and Daniel chuckled as Mitchell groaned, but Trevor nodded. “That’ll teach your dumb ass,” the bass player said and lit a cigarette. “You know she can’t resist a challenge. Even an easy one like that.”

“At least it’ll give us something to do,” Daniel said as Kerri came back carrying Mabel.

She sat down at the other end of Trevor’s couch, facing Mitchell, and put the guitar properly on her right leg. Then she shook out her hair and straightened her back, looking to the table at Eric. Mitchell noticed how pointedly she ignored him. He tried to keep his latest groan inaudible; it would only egg her on.

“So. What do I do now?” she asked Eric, a too-bright smile plastered to her face.

Mitchell wanted to cover his own face with his hands. Anything to keep from watching this. But he couldn’t look away.

“You need a pick,” Eric said.

Kerri handed the guitar to Trevor, who took it with a sneer. She stood up, watching Mitchell as if she expected him to do something.

“What?” he asked as she stared down at him. Fuck, but he hated it when she smiled like that. All smug and full of herself — and about to make him the butt of some joke, he was sure. Anyone with a shred of common sense would get up and leave before it happened, but he was stuck there, both by his own inertia and some sick need to be present.

Kerri bent down so she could reach across him, making sure she brushed her breast against his face. She dug in the change pocket of his jeans.

He refused to so much as breathe until she came up with one of the eight million or so picks they’d had made for this tour. He told himself not to panic; he still had two others in there. And maybe she’d give it back. Or, even better, make him come looking for it.

She smirked at him as she reseated herself and took Mabel back from Trevor.

“Okay,” she said to Eric, “now what?”

Trevor leaned forward as Eric motioned Mitchell out of the way so he could sit across from Kerri and give her instructions. She made a show of not knowing how to hold the pick or how to use it.

Her performance set Mitchell’s teeth on edge. And that was before she struck a note.

“What about my face?” she asked when Eric told her she was ready to move on to the next step.

“What about it?” Eric asked.

“Not even Asshole there can play guitar with his face,” Trevor said, jerking his chin at Mitchell, who growled. Kerri didn’t need to know about the time he’d tried. Hell, Mitchell wasn’t sure Trevor knew about it.

Kerri took a deep, exaggerated breath. “I know that,” she said. “But to watch the three of you, in order to play guitar, you also have to make faces. Like this,” she said, puckering up like she’d eaten a lemon. “Or this,” she said, opening her mouth and widening her eyes.

Daniel laughed.

“Oh, you’re not much better, you know,” Kerri said, pointing the pick at him. She stuck her tongue into her cheek and, again, let her jaw drop open.

Mitchell bit back a smile, but Eric didn’t bother hiding it. Her faces were poor imitations of theirs, but they got the point across. Daniel pretended he didn’t care, and Trevor was pretending he wasn’t paying attention, even though his eyes flicked back and forth. He was, like always, too full of himself to give in and have a good time, especially because it was Kerri at the root of it all. Trevor couldn’t stand it when she pulled shit like this — because he wanted to be the one at the center of it.

“You know what’s going to happen now?” Daniel asked, picking up Eric’s cigarettes and fiddling with the pack. “We’re going to get on stage tonight and obsess about our faces.”

That was entirely too true.

Mitchell told himself he shouldn’t care. Guitar players were supposed to make faces; the girls in the crowd ate it up. The guys thought it was the path to coolness — and a lot of them practiced their faces more than they did their guitars even though the more you played, the more natural the faces turned. It was all part of rock and roll.

Besides, he told himself as Kerri tried to stand up, only to discover the hard way that guitars had straps for a specific reason, if this got inside his head too bad, he’d divorce the wench.

But in the meantime, at least he wasn’t bored.

Has it been too long since we’ve had an outtake just for the fun or it, or WHAT?

Dreams generally weren’t welcome in Trevor Wolff’s world. Why bother, when they so rarely came true?

Okay, the dream about the band had, but that was mostly due to Mitchell’s refusal to give up. It had nothing to do with the magic of dreams, how you wake up and suddenly, one day, there it is. Whatever you’d wanted, waiting for you like on a silver platter. Nope, Mitchell had refused to rely on luck and dreams and all that other fairy shit. He’d buckled down and spent hours on the band’s logo, the band’s music, his own guitar, and even bass lessons for Trevor.

Not that Trevor was any closer to being good than he’d been on that first day when Mitchell had first put a bass in his hands. But whatever. He was in a band and who cared if he sucked? He looked good up there.

That was how dreams come true — when you let yourself dream them.

The dream about the Vincent wasn’t likely to come true through hard work. Vincents were rare. They cost a lot of money if they were in great shape. Sometimes, the falling apart ones cost a lot of money, too. ShapeShifter might have started to bring in the bucks, but Trevor still wasn’t flush enough to pay those prices. Getting his hands on a Vincent wasn’t a dream worth letting himself dream about.

Until the phone rang. “Hey, uhh, yeah. This is Ray, over at Hammer, Wrench, and Torque. This Trevor?”

He almost didn’t answer; he was too busy grabbing at the cigarette that had fallen off his lip when he’d heard Wrench’s voice. “Yeah,” he finally said, trying to sound cool while he brushed ashes off his jeans and immediately began playing with the newly burned fibers.

“We wanted to let you know that someone dropped off the frame of a Vincent today. Looks like a D-series Shadow. You interested?”

Trevor’s heart leaped out of his chest. He knew that feeling, all right — but he’d never known it to feel so good.

“You might want to take a look before you say yes or no,” Hammer said.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can be,” Trevor said. He’d have to call Mitchell and convince him to put down the guitar long enough to play chauffeur. It shouldn’t be hard; Amy was home for a visit and that probably meant she was torturing the big idiot to no end. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but Trevor needed a ride more than Mitchell needed what he deserved.

“Think hard, man,” Hammer warned. “It may not be what you want, but if you’ve got the patience, it can be.”

That alone was enough for Trevor. Even if it was a piece of steel that had been hammered flat, he wanted the bike.

No one knew better than Trevor Wolff what it was like to need some work. Or what the payoff was once someone who cared showed some patience.

Ahh. Trevor’s back; I know you guys have missed him. I have, too.

Not sure what the fuss is about? Click on Trevor‘s name and it’ll take you to his bio page. At the bottom are all sorts of links that will take you back to other posts here at the Meet and Greet that Trevor’s starred in. There are a lot, so get a fresh cup of coffee and have fun!

No Thirteen this week, as I’m off to Cub Scout Camp again this summer. As a treat, I thought I’d show you what you guys inspired, based on your responses to this Thirteen I wrote back in May. Hope you like it; there may be more to follow if you do.

Eric didn’t notice it until he was on his way back to sound check. He’d just taken a bathroom break that had been long enough to make his tech feel like part of the band instead of the stand-in for the real guitarist. Stupid touring; it got to him like this every few weeks, it seemed. It got to all of them, but he swore, he got it the worst.

He stopped by the deli tray to grab a slice of turkey. That’s when he noticed it, sitting on the end of the table like it didn’t need to be kept cold or anything.

Mitchell was not going to be happy about it.

Eric wasn’t quite out of the dressing room when the rest of the guys pushed through the door.

“Nice of you to come back,” Trevor told him with one of his usual sneers. “I thought you were a member of ShapeShifter.”

“I didn’t really want the guy puking on stage,” Mitchell told the bass player. Eric tried to get a feel for the guy’s mood. Sometimes, sound check went well and mellowed Mitchell out. Sometimes, it totally sucked and the guy was a dragon. Right now, he was talkative.

“Remember what happened when that one roadie puked?” Mitchell asked. “How fucking bad it smelled? And it lasted until the end of the tour, too. No, Eric, you did the right thing, ducking out on us. We wrote a new song,” the band leader said.

Eric smiled wanly and flopped down on the couch. Mitchell was in a good enough mood. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt someone when he noticed it.

… or then again, maybe he would, Eric thought when Mitchell growled, “What the fuck is that?”

Eric sat up to look.

Mitchell stood in front of it, breathing so hard, his nostrils flared. “Get someone in here who can explain this,” he said.

Since the four of them were alone at the moment, Daniel jumped to do it.

“Just use it for an ashtray,” Trevor said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and reaching to lead by example.

Mitchell strong-armed him out of the way.

“Well, fuck you, too,” Trevor said.

“Not until we get some fucking answers,” Mitchell growled. He hadn’t taken his eyes off it. Eric wasn’t sure he would, even though it was pretty obvious the thing wasn’t going to move by itself.

Daniel came back. “They’re going to find someone,” he said and stood on his toes to peek over Mitchell’s shoulder, as if he needed to be shielded from it. “At least this one’s not green.”

Mitchell growled more loudly. Daniel backed off. Even Trevor took a step back.

A few minutes passed with no one really knowing what to do. All four of them kept throwing glances at it, like they expected it to get up and come after them or something. Maybe melt, Eric decided, picking up a can of Coke from a bus tray full of melting ice. If that ice was melting, there was no way the non-green thing was in good shape.

Not like any of them would be dumb enough to eat it.

“There’s a problem?” The mousy man who led Charlie, the band’s tour manager, into the dressing room had seven strands of hair left at the front of his head. They’d been pulled back into a ponytail and they made the guy instantly memorable.

Charlie peeked over Mitchell’s shoulder. “Whoa. That’s some bad vibes.” He turned to the mousy guy. “That a key lime pie?”

Mousy guy nodded. “My wife made it. She said she read in a magazine that you guys like key lime pies.”

From across the room, Eric could hear Mitchell breathing. Hard. He closed his eyes and hoped the guy wasn’t about to explode.

“Take it out of here,” Mitchell said. It wasn’t a request.

“But my wife…”

“Take it!”

“What’ll I tell her?” The guy’s eyes were darting everywhere, like he was about to panic.

Mitchell picked up the pie and pressed it firmly into the guy’s chest. “Tell her you hope it doesn’t stain. And tell her she needs to be more careful about what she reads because we fucking hate key lime pie.”

He let go. Half the pie fell to the floor. The other half stuck to the guy’s shirt.

“Oh,” the guy said in such a small voice, it was almost a squeak.

Eric stood up. “Look,” he said, “thank your wife for the pie, but explain to her that she read an article written by a reporter who has a problem with us ever since Trevor puked on him after eating a key lime pie that some fan had made.”

“But my wife…”

Daniel put a hand on the guy’s shoulder, looking with distaste at the custard smeared on his shirt, “Was wrong, and you got off light. We’re the band. This pie was a violation of our concert rider and we could pull even more of a prima donna routine and make you very unhappy. You got off light. Hell, Charlie, give the guy a free t-shirt to wear and then call JR. We don’t do shows with this joker anymore.”

The mousy guy paled. “But…”

Mitchell started to laugh. “You’re the promoter and you fucked up this royally? Dude, you’re done. Go fucking sell real estate or something.” He jerked his head toward the door and Charlie sprang into action, escorting the mousy promoter dude out of the dressing room.

Trevor and Daniel laughed. Even Mitchell relaxed enough to smile.

“The best laid plans…” Eric said and decided that pie or no, he needed to return to the bathroom.

Ahh, yes. Sometimes, it sucks to be in a band. If you’re new to ShapeShifter, or if you want to read more, click on the cast of characters tab at the top of the page. You’ll find links with each character sketch. I know. There are a lot of them.

If you need me for anything, I’ll be back in a few days. The Tour Manager will hold the fort down while I’m gone.

It all began the day Mitchell bought the pedals for his guitar.

“You plug it in, right?” he asked Trevor, who looked up from an inspection of the match he’d just used to light a joint.

Trevor shrugged.

Mitchell stuck the plug into the hole on his guitar. The power cord went into
the outlet. “That’s all, right?”

Trevor shrugged.

Mitchell tried a note. Nothing. He stepped on the pedals. Nothing.

“What the fuck?”

Trevor took a drag off the joint and gave Mitchell one of those raised-eyebrow looks that meant he was echoing the question. “Ask Gus,” the bass player said once he’d exhaled. “He sold you the fucking thing. He shoulda showed you how to make it work.”

Mitchell pulled his head into his shoulders. “I told him I’d read the manual if I needed help.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Gus kept it. He told me to figure it out on my own.”

Trevor nodded slowly. It reminded Mitchell of those wise men in those bad movies Trevor always liked to watch. “So go figure and leave me the fuck alone already.”

Mitchell shook his head and turned back to the new pedal. Gus was right. The best way to master something like this was to fart around with it until you understood it.

Still… it had to have a power switch or something.

Didn’t it?

Ahh, my boys. If you’re new to Trevor and Mitchell, click on their names to learn more about them and to maybe even read a few other outtakes they star in. You know you want to.

If you’re not new to Trevor and Mitchell, why not poke around some anyway? Refresh your memory, find something new. There’s plenty in my archives, you know.

Every now and then, Trevor and I play by the rules. This week’s Thursday Thirteen asked us to Choose a letter of the alphabet and write thirteen words that describe you that begin with that letter. Be creative and have fun! Trevor trembled at the thought.

T is for Trevor. Trevor Fucking Wolff, thankyouverymuch. T is for Holy Terror. T is for terrible. T is for Touring. T is for Tremendous. T is for tortured. T is for Ten inches. T is for trouble. T is for tenacious. T is for Tight. T is for tragic T is for Trail Blazer T is for Total Package. More Ts… teetotaller, terrible, terminal, thread, thirty, three, twenty-some, trusting, travel, thorn, trustworthy, thrash metal, thunder, thing, thundering, threesome, tired, tumultuous, thoughtful, trait, thoughtless, tasteless, timely, talkative, turtle, tundra, the, tissue, than, trouble, tithe, Thursday, thirteen, three, Tuesday, tape, why, the, fuck, are, you, still, reading, go, leave, a, comment, already!

Mitchell stopped at the top of the steps and sniffed, then inhaled as deeply — and as quietly — as he could. “Something smells,” he said, wrinkling his nose and pretending the reek was bad. He even waved his hand in front of his face as he leaned forward so he could see Amy and Beth on the family room couch — and so they could see him.

“That’s why you’re supposed to say excuse me when you fart, Pipsqueak!”

“Oh. Sorry,” Mitchell said and shut his bedroom door behind him. He didn’t have to hear Amy’s laugh to know it was following him. She thought she was so funny.

“When’s the cookie raid?” Trevor asked.

“Give it an hour,” Mitchell said and reached for his guitar. “Don’t want to strike too soon or they’ll just eat what’s left of the dough again and we won’t get shit.”

“We’ll get to lick the bowl.”

“Not last time, we didn’t. Trust me, Trev. We lay low, we get the goods.”

Trevor stood up and was out of the room before Mitchell could stop him.

“Bring me three!” Mitchell called after him, chuckling. He’d gotten them all that time.

This post is R-rated!! Come back later if you’re under 18, please!

So we’re there in my bed, me and Trevor Wolff, and he sniffs the back of my knee. I die; it’s like being touched with that feather he likes so much.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, sitting back on his heels and giving me this look like I’ve totally let him down or something. It’s almost enough to ruin the whole moment or something.

I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at him. I have no idea what’s wrong.

“You girls are supposed to go all weak at the knees,” he says. He’s pouting and it’s cute.

“Oh, I am,” I tell him. I can barely get the words out, in fact.

“Yeah, well, you smell like flowers back there. What the fuck’s that about?”

I shrug. Come on. The guy’s got to know about perfumes and body sprays. It’s not like I’m the first girl he’s ever met.

“You really think it’s a turn-on?” he asks.

“It turns me on,” I tell him, shimmying a bit so the girls shake. My leg, still propped up on his shoulder, does too. It rubs against his ear and he shakes his head like it’s annoyed him.

He gets annoyed way too easy.

“And what turns you on should turn me on?” he asks and turns away, holding my leg as he lets it down. I’m bummed; this probably means the end of it, but he lights up and turns back. “I hate to break it to you girls, but us guys like you girls to smell like you. Yeah, that natural smell you’re always trying to cover up. Now that, that is a turn-on.” He nods like it’s all settled and I’ve learned my lesson and won’t ever put perfume behind my knees again.

“It’s a horrid smell,” I tell him, and he grins.

And I’m not going to tell you what happened next, but it was proof that he didn’t mind the perfume so much.

As for wearing it next time… well, catching up with him tonight wasn’t exactly planned, and I’m not dumb enough to change the way I live my life for him.

For Mitchell, maybe I would, yeah. But not for Trevor.

This weekend’s Weekend Wordsmith prompt was the unneeded puzzle piece. This seemed to fit — at least in my little brain.

Want more of Pam? Forgotten who she is? Click on this link and it’ll take you to her bio page and links to other, older posts.

No Sunday Best this week. Sorry for that; I was too busy with the family. And the agent hunting. And the writing. And the…

Another one inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith prompt, and posted in time for the Poetry Train. As always, if you’re new here and need some background about who is who, click on the names the first time they appear and you’ll be magically transported to a bio page. Just don’t forget to come back!

Mitchell was whistling when he got home after his guitar lesson; whistling was better than dancing, even though that’s more what he felt like. Since he’d graduated from lessons with Randy, things had been a million times better. Now when he and Trevor hung out down by the river and dreamed of making it big, he believed they’d get there, all right.

He stopped in the kitchen, snagged the bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed upstairs.

Ma called after him, “Get your homework done!”

“That’s where I’m going!” He put his back to the door, tenderly put the bag of potato chips under his arm, and shoved against the broken latch.

He turned around, stopped whistling, and dropped both his guitar and the potato chips.

Trevor was sitting at Mitchell’s desk. Well, it was supposed to be their desk now that they shared the room, but Trevor refused to use it. Something about being too cool for desks and homework and if the jackasses at school didn’t agree, they could throw him out already and save them all the daily hassle of chasing him out of the john when he needed a smoke.

“What’d Ma bribe you with?” Mitchell asked, lunging for his guitar. It didn’t matter that he had it in a hard case, it still might have been damaged.

“Nothing,” Trevor said and held up Mitchell’s civics notebook. The page was covered in what looked like chicken scratch.

Mitchell set the guitar gently down on his bed and went for a closer look at Trevor’s masterpiece. It looked even more like chicken scratch. He told Trevor so.

“Good.”

“Good?” Mitchell handed the notebook back and turned to his guitar, determined he’d actually look it over this time. No more distractions.

“Yes, good,” Trevor said with that sniff Mitchell knew all too well. “Have you seen one single rock star with an autograph you can make out?”

Mitchell didn’t bother to answer. No more distractions, he reminded himself.

“Of course you haven’t,” Trevor half-yelled, jumping to his feet and tipping the chair over backwards. “There aren’t any! And I’ll be damned if I’ll be the first.”

“Why not? After all,” Mitchell added with a sniff that mocked the ones Trevor handed out so freely, “you’re Trevor Fucking Wolff. You can’t be like everyone else.”

“Well, this time, I can be.” Trevor hugged the notebook to his chest. “Do you know how long it took me to write this messy? Fucking hours.”

Mitchell looked up from the guitar. “Shoulda spent that on your bass. You might actually get good.”

Trevor sneered and fixed the chair. “Here, golden boy,” he said. “Maybe I’ll go work on that.” He stalked out of the room, trying to slam it shut as he went. Between the broken latch and the fix Mitchell’s dad had put on it, the door just bounced back open.

In the hallway, Trevor kicked the wall. Ma yelled at him for it.

Whatever, Mitchell figured, so long as he had the desk back so he could get his homework done — once he was sure the guitar was okay. Trevor might not get any better on bass, so it was up to him to carry them both.

Maybe later, Trevor would show him ways to change his own autograph. Make it cooler. Which meant harder to read.

Chicken scratch, the handwriting of the rock star.

Mitchell grinned. That had a good ring to it.

Eeek. This is major rough draft. But it’s an outtake and that’s the idea. One day, I’ll clean these puppies up and let you take them home and sleep with them. Just don’t call them George.

Trevor barely waited for the garage door to finish going down before he was in Susan’s chair, swirling four fingers over the touchpad.

Mitchell stuck his head in Susan’s office. “Trev, the fuck you doing?”

“Having fun.” Trevor nodded firmly. “When the cat’s away and all that.”

“Trev,” Mitchell said slowly, “if you fuck up Susan’s blog, she’ll rewrite the end of the book so you wind up dead. Hear me? Dead. D. E. Fucking A. D. Dead.”

Trevor glanced at Mitchell, then at the screen. “She would, wouldn’t she?”

“Yep.”

With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, Trevor turned off Susan’s monitor. “You people are no fun. Hear me? No fucking fun at all.”

Mitchell shrugged. “I hear Susan’s already come up with two new outtake ideas. Sounds to me like we’ll have plenty of fun when she gets back.”

“And between now and then?”

Mitchell grinned. “We make music.”

What? You thought I could leave town and not say a proper goodbye? Keep an eye on me here. And have a safe, healthy and happy New Year! I’ll be back around the fifth or so; don’t forget about me while I’m gone. Mitchell’s right; there’ll be plenty of fun when I get back.

It’s been a hectic Wednesday in Chez Susan. That has me longing for some quiet, unassigned moments. Trevor thought he’d pipe up and share some suggestions with me.

Thirteen Ways in Which Trevor Whiles Away the Time Thanks to Casa Sosegad for the awesome header! 1. in strip joints like Moon Shadows 2. reading catalogs from Lyric‘s competitors and deciding what to bug her into ordering for him 3. practicing with Daniel. It’s easier without Mitchell‘s fancy-assed rhythms and attitude. 4. getting stoned, usually with Eric. It’s one of the few times they get along. 5. picking his nose — or so he says, but the pasttime is probably more along the lines of irritating others. 6. tinkering with his Vincent. 7. picking on Mitchell. 8. eating: at Harry’s Hoagies, Roach’s, or conning Val or Sonya Voss into cooking for him. 9. checking out girls and picking them up and bring them to … their homes (for quicker getaways) 10. dreaming of how big ShapeShifter will be 11. crusing town on his Vincent, looking for trouble. 12. Check out the competition playing around town 13. When all else fails, take a nap.

Uhh, I think I’ll only take him up on that last one, although heaven knows I’m itching to hear some live music.

As always, to learn more about a character, click on their name when it’s orange and you’ll be zipped to a cool bio page with links to other outtakes. Or scroll on down for this week’s offerings: Beached Whales and Letter G. Happy reading and may all our days quiet down a bit.

“R,” Trevor said.

Mitchell looked up from his guitar. “The fuck?”

“R.”

Mitchell growled.

Trevor gave an exaggerated sigh. “The prompt this week at that Writer’s Island place Susan likes to hang out on. It’s,” he took a deep breath and waved his fingers near his face. “The Letter,” he said in a voice that was supposed to be spooky.

“Oh,” Mitchell said. He looked down again, then gave Trevor one of those looks that would have been through his bangs if the guy was dumb enough to have any. “I like G,” he said, and strummed the chord.

Trevor considered. Gs were good. G marked the spot. G wasn’t a grade. Yeah, there was lots to like about G. And it wasn’t like he was attached to R in any way, shape, form, or sound. In fact, R was usually Mitchell’s sound. The one he made when he growled.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “G’s good.”

Mitchell smirked and Trevor realized what he’d said. Good. It fucking started with … G. So did almost every other phrase Trevor could think of. Go figure. Goddamn. Geez. Girl. Give me. Guitars.

Trevor turned his back on Mitchell and reached for a cigarette. Count on the asshole there to come up with a better letter than he could. Maybe that’s what made them such a … successful team. M took Trevor’s ideas and ran with them.

Trevor tried to tell himself that meant his ideas didn’t suck.

Gigantically.

Yep, a bonus excerpt this week! What can I say, I was inspired. In fact, I wrote a few more outtakes over the weekend and now my file of stuff for this here blog is about to burst. Stay tuned for all of it…

Warning: today’s outtake was brought to us by the letter B and involves abuse of clothing. And ShapeShifter’s Mitchell Voss — but that’s not new..

It wasn’t unusual for the bus to pull up to the hotel, for Charlie to go inside and get everyone’s room keys, and then wake the band up and send them to their rooms to finish their night’s rest. Usually, it was hard to get to sleep in a bed that wasn’t rolling down some freeway. After all, they’d spent how many hours in a bed that’d been doing exactly that?

Trevor liked to break up the time between bus and bed with a third — better — word that started with the letter B: breakfast. Especially now that they were staying in places that would lay out these huge buffets and clear the plates while he went fucking nuts and crammed as much down his gullet as he could. Sleeping on a gut full of free food was paradise. Even your dreams were better when your belly was stuffed. And Trevor Wolff had good dreams in the first place.

Sure enough, this place had the free breakfast thing going. “One hour left,” Charlie told him in that solemn, Charlie way.

Problem was, he didn’t want to go alone. Eating by yourself was … stupid. So Trevor stretched, lit a cigarette, and waited for the daily soap opera that was better known as Waking Mitchell.

At last, the big idiot came out from the bunks, yawning, stretching, and scratching his chest. He wasn’t fully awake yet, which was a good thing, as far as Trevor was concerned. Conversation would be kept to a minimum, which meant they’d be able to eat more food in less time. Time which was ticking away; less than an hour before the free buffet ended.

“Gimme the room key,” Mitchell mumbled, holding out a hand, his eyes barely open.

Charlie grabbed his hand and shoved it aside. “Put some clothes on.”

Trevor snickered. It’d have been more fun if Charlie hadn’t interfered, but then again, he liked Charlie well enough. Letting Mitchell wander into a hotel in nothing but those gross boxer-things Rusty made him wear would probably mean a new tour manager for ShapeShifter. Not in Trevor’s best interests.

Mitchell shuffled back to the bunks, presumably for some jeans. Maybe even shoes, Trevor thought with a giggle he could barely keep in.

When Mitchell came back, his shirt was slung over his shoulder, his eyes were a little more open, and his jeans were buttoned and zipped, but his shoes weren’t tied. And he had Rusty with him, too.

That was almost enough to make Trevor lose his appetite.

“Hungry?” he asked the lovebirds as innocently as he could.

Mitchell nodded, zombie-like. Rusty just stood there, looking confused, like she usually did. She probably thought he was up to something but really, all he wanted was breakfast. Bagels, bacon, maybe even a banana.

He led the way into the hotel lobby, ignoring the stares. He was used to them: a bunch of long-hairs trekking through a pretty okay joint. It scared the respectable folk. Made them think the world was going bad, that they had to scramble to a hotel higher up the snob rating in order to be safe. Little did they know that ShapeShifter was planning on being right there with them.

Either Charlie had scared the fans away or else the band had shown up at the hotel before they were expected, because while the guests curled their upper lips at them, no one rushed over for an autograph or to just say hello. Sadly, there weren’t any girls who could convince Trevor to skip breakfast. Or better yet, come along as his guest and then help him get properly good and sleepy afterward.

Mitchell didn’t seem to care. “Which way?” he asked, squinting at the signs. Trevor sighed. Next thing you knew, the big idiot would show up with glasses, and how un-rock-and-roll was that?

“Over here,” he said with a sigh, wondering why Rusty didn’t take charge. She usually could be counted on to do that sort of crap. Maybe she was still expecting a prank.

It was almost a shame to disappoint.

Count on Mitchell to come through, though. As they walked into the hotel restaurant, the fine odor of bacon reaching Trevor’s twitching nose, the hostess stopped them. “Umm, sir?” she said, looking up at Mitchell like she knew he could morph into a dragon at any second.

“Problem?” he asked, puffing up his chest and slipping into Rock Star mode.

“When we say that shirts are required in the dining room, we generally mean that they need to be worn, not tossed over your shoulder.”

“Huh?” Mitchell asked as Trevor dissolved into laughter, losing it all the more when he realized that Rusty had been waiting for exactly this. Shit, she was good at setting M up. Better than he was, sad to say.

Rusty was the one who picked up Mitchell’s shirt and held it out. “Don’t gross out the guests before lunch, okay?”

“Why didn’t someone say something?” Mitchell asked. Trevor stared in fascination as the idiot actually blushed. So bad, it spread to his chest.

No wonder people wanted those parts covered, Trevor thought.

“Why didn’t you just get dressed?” Trevor asked him. “You put everything else on.”

“No, not everything,” Rusty said and pulled at the leg of Mitchell’s jeans.

Sure enough, the big idiot had skipped the socks.

Want more of Trevor and Mitchell?
Brotherly Love

Buying Chicken
Flags

And if you’re not entirely certain who’s who after all that, click on their names in any of the entries to read their bios. That should bring you up to speed.

So I’m just sitting down to eat lunch at the mall today and OmiGod, there’s Trevor Wolff. He’s strutting through with some lady who looked like she’s his mom, and she’s carrying all the bags, just like you’d expect, but she doesn’t look all harried or impressed or pissed or … well, anything. Maybe she’s not even with him. I don’t know.

I do know, though, that he walks up to me and says, “I’ve seen you around. Don’t think I haven’t.”

I about choke on my Coke.

And then he picks up my hot dog and gives me a big smile. We both know what he’s thinking. About hot dogs and my eating that one and how it all relates to him.

I don’t remember him asking for my phone number. I think I just somehow knew. I pull out my pen and write it on my napkin. And then I blot my lipstick on the napkin, too, before I hand it over. Just because you’re supposed to and all.

“You want to be home in an hour,” he tells me as he stuffs the napkin into the pocket of his leather jacket. Like it’s not a hot day out there, for Riverview, and he’s in leather? Made me feel better about being at the mall and eating a hot dog when I could, should, have been home having something healthy. What with certification coming up next week and all.

All of a sudden, I can’t think much about certification coming up next week, although it’s all I’ve been thinking about for weeks now. I can’t care about the new aerobic shoes I need, which is why I’m in the mall in the first place. I just nod like a ditz and watch him strut away, all full of himself, like he knows I’ll be waiting when he calls, like he owns the mall and being there in the middle of the day is completely natural. Maybe for him, it is. Maybe it’s just Mitchell who won’t move before noon. Or so goes the gossip about him, anyway.

I finish my hot dog and rush home. Just in case Trevor can’t tell time real well.

Which he can’t.

Any ideas on what to wear tonight?

For the background on Pam, go here:
Thursday Thirteen: Meet Pam Derbish

Meet Pam

Pam Gets Attention

And once you’ve done that, be sure to head over to Rhian‘s for more Poetry Train goodness. Let me tell you, there are some darn good people making up the Train. Come join in!

I told Rhian last week that I’d post some high school antics for her in today’s Poetry Train. Come on and jump on the train — and don’t forget the Hidden Treasures Contest! We’re starting to wind down, so get your reviews in soon.

It was 3AM, right on the nose, when Patterson pulled into the driveway. He was so tired, he felt like he had to use his whole body to get the gear shifter, mounted to the steering column, up and into park. He hated these late-night calls, always had. He hated having to leave Sonya’s side, hated having to sneak in and out of his own house so he didn’t wake the kids.

Mitchell, at least, slept through anything. Short of pouring water over his head, that boy was near impossible to wake. An annoyance most days, on nights like this, it was a blessing.

With Amy at college, that should have been one less closed bedroom door to creep past. But she’d come home for a few days, needing to get away from the ruckus in the dormitory in order to study for one of her pre-med exams. He’d be sneaking for sure; she needed her rest.

Amy should have known better than to come home seeking peaceful surroundings, Patterson thought as he gathered up his briefcase and swung the door open. Since Trevor had moved in, the house wasn’t silent anymore. Even when the boy wasn’t home, it still crackled with his energy, as though he had somehow bewitched it.

That boy… Patterson sighed and heaved himself out of the front seat. Sonya had always wanted two boys to compliment her two girls, but Patterson didn’t think she’d envisioned a son like Trevor. He’d come to live with them as the result of another late-night call and while no one regretted it, it certainly hadn’t turned out as expected. The brightest point in a world made brighter by having Trevor in it full-time was that Mitchell was actually getting into less trouble these days. It seemed that having his partner in crime become a permanent fixture was making the novelty of their antics wear off. It was only a matter of time now before Mitchell straightened out the rest of the way. Nothing at all to worry about.

Patterson paused by the door, halted by what sounded like a cat in heat in the back yard. Since Mrs. Bretton’s prize Persian had been impregnated by the Wilsons’ tom, and since the coyotes had grabbed three cats from further up the street, the neighbors had been militant about keeping their pets inside, especially at night. It was doubtful that there was a cat, particularly a cat in heat, in the back yard.

What was back there — or more appropriately, who — didn’t surprise Patterson in the least. Trevor perched a good ten feet up in a tree, one of the boys’ guitars on his lap. Thankfully, given the hour, not even Trevor had been able to electrify it that high up.

Obstacles, however, didn’t stop Trevor. Patterson groaned as the young man, seemingly oblivious to his company — although with Trevor, one was never certain of anything except that frustration was imminent — began to sing.

“Son, come on down now,” Patterson called up to him.

“Finally home, huh? Did you catch the bad guys?”

“Nevermind that. Come on down before you fall and land on that guitar of yours.”

“Not gonna happen, powerful legal guardian. I’m busy serenading the neighborhood. Wrote the song myself. Like it?”

Patterson wiped a hand over his face. “Trevor, son, it’s late and we should both be in bed. You have school in the morning and I have work. Come down.”

“Actually, it’s early. And school’s a waste of time.”

“Regardless, you and I made a deal and I expect you to uphold it.”

“I want to see who else I can wake up.”

“So far, you would seem to have woken absolutely no one.”

Trevor shrugged. “So I’m starting small. But mark my words, one day, when I’m famous and the whole fucking world respects me, these treeside serenades will be what people all up and down the street remember. And every single one of these losers who’s too busy sleeping to appreciate my bad music will suddenly be my best friend.” He cocked his head. “Sort of like how until you Vosses came along, all the people who pretended to be my friend would bug out every single time I showed up with a new black eye. Only in reverse.” Trevor gave one of his satisfied nods, the ones that Patterson had learned meant he was hurting. “You watch. Every single person on this street will be able to tell you what songs I sang up here. Their memories will be so good, in fact, that they’ll fucking fight about them.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Patterson told him. This wasn’t the first late-night escapade Trevor had pulled, and it wouldn’t be the last, Patterson was sure of it. They tended to occur when the boy had nightmares and feared a return to sleep. This was probably the only part of the Trevor experience that he felt ill-equipped to handle; the boy’s scars ran deeper than anyone had anticipated.

“Well,” he said as Trevor began plucking away at the guitar again. “I am going to bed. These late nights may not be hard for you, but they are for an old man like me. I expect to see you at breakfast, ready for school.”

“I told you. I’m not going to school.”

“Then you will have to find yourself a new place to live.” He stepped back a few paces so he could see Trevor better. “That was our deal, and I know you’re not a deal breaker.” He paused to let that sink in. The boy’s pride would get the better of him; it always did. “Come inside with me and let’s go to bed.”

Trevor laughed, a brittle sound that carried farther and struck Patterson more deeply than his singing had. “Yeah, like I’ve even got a bed in this place. All you people gave me was a sleeping bag on blondie’s floor.”

“I seem to recall you being quite grateful for that sleeping bag. So grateful, in fact, that you refused our offer of a more permanent sleeping situation.”

Trevor stroked his chin and pretended to think that over. “Know what I’m thinking?”

“Trevor, your thoughts are entirely your own.”

“And that’s a good thing. Remember that.” Trevor pointed at Patterson like he was issuing an order. “Maybe I ought to go show some gratitude for that sleeping bag of mine.”

“Wise choice, son.”

Trevor monkeyed halfway down the tree, handed over his bass, and jumped, landing neatly beside his guardian. “But I mean it. One day, when the band’s the biggest of the big, all the losers on this street will remember this night.”

“Trevor, of that I have no doubt.”

The views expressed here belong to the fictional character of Trevor Wolff, not of the blog owner. For the most part.

I’m sitting here
Candle burned down to a stub
No feather quill or other romantic-assed writing thing.
Just a pen.
That skips.
Cheap-assed thing.

I’m a poet.
I call on my angst.

Now wait a minute.
Who made that rule about poets and angst?
Did anyone ever stop to think about angst?
That it’s for losers.
Jerks who’re afraid to get over themselves and live life.
Who have to hide in their pretend misery
Or else they’re not cool.
And God help ’em if they smile.
But of course, they can’t believe in God.

I don’t, either.
Don’t, not can’t.
See the difference?

That doesn’t stop me from taking in
What Eric says is God’s making.
There’s a lot of fun in living
— even more fun in loving.
Smart people know this.

I’m smart.

Even though I’m writing a fucking poem
Like some wuss, a romantic with styled long hair
And those poofy sleeves that catch on fire whenever you reach over the candle’s flame
’cause you like things hot.
Playing with fire’s one thing.
It’s good.
Catching on fire’s another.
It’s bad.
I don’t have to try that one to know the truth of it, thankyouverymuch.

I’m writing a fucking poem
Like some over-eager kid in an English class.
Which I’m not.
English class was boring as hell
And the teacher always buttoned her sweaters to her chin.
I bet they’d have been fun to unbutton.
And teach her how to live.

I’m Trevor Fucking Wolff.
My band rules the Earth
And I can write a poem when I’ve got to.

No angst allowed.
No losers allowed, either.
But willing English teachers?
C’mon in.

More from RP, our Roadie Poet, in the next few weeks. Happy Canada Day (a day late) to our friends in Canada and upcoming Fourth to my fellow Americans! I hope you guys are all finding books for the Summer’s Hidden Treasures contest; it’s a doozy.

Trevor took a deep drag on his cigarette and motioned at Mitchell with it. “C’mon. Quit being a wuss.” It was more a command than a request, but of course, Mitchell wouldn’t see it that way. You could command the idiot to eat an entire chocolate cake and he’d quit after two bites and say he was saving it for later.

“I’m not being a wuss, dickhead. I don’t want an earring.”

“How can you be a respectable rock star without a pierced ear? Name me one single fucking star out there who doesn’t have at least one hole in his ear.”

Trevor could tell from Mitchell’s face that the guy didn’t even realize most stars had ears, let alone shit dangling from them. Too, he could tell that the idiot didn’t think that image meant a single fucking thing.

Waiting Mitchell out was useless, so Trevor filled the space with his cigarette. When it was all but gone, Trevor sighed. Smoke that hadn’t escaped his lungs chose right then to come out his nose; he decided he understood how dragons felt.

“Look,” he told Mitchell, “it’s no big deal.”

“Tell that to Ma. She’ll kill me if I let you do this. And then she’ll kill you for doing it!”

“No, she won’t. Not if you’re serious about this band thing.”

“I am, Trev, and you know it. You fucking know I am!” Mitchell crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. “But I gotta draw the line somewhere, and I’m drawing it at earrings!”

“No one’s gonna think your ass is gay,” Trevor drawled. “Despite what Amy did over the end-of-day announcements that one time. No one bought it then and no one’ll buy it now.” He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray Mitchell’s mother had given then when she’d given up the battle to keep her precious baby boy from smoking.

“That’s not the problem.”

“Yeah, and I’m already a fucking rock star.” Trevor eyed Mitchell, convinced he knew what the guy was about to whine: it’ll hurt, Trev.

“Dad,” Mitchell said instead. “He meant it when he said he’d kick me out of the house if I do it.”

Trevor sighed as loudly as he could. How stupid was Mitchell? “That’s why you grew your hair out, asshole.”

“I thought it was to get girls.”

“Well, since it didn’t work for you, let this be the reason you did it.”

“Amy’ll tell.”

“I’ll handle Amy,” he said easily, knowing it was true. His usual methods may not have worked with the wanna-be doc, but Trevor Wolff did not have only one way to get through to a girl. Besides, he had plenty on Amy if it got that far. Which it wouldn’t.

Mitchell chewed on his thumbnail, eyeing Trevor, who wanted to jump up and down with glee. The guy was teetering on the edge. All he needed now was one little push and he’d do most of the jumping himself.

“It’s a chick magnet.”

“Just one,” Mitchell said. “One hole, one ear.”

Giggling, Trevor ran for an ice cube. When he got back, Mitchell was sitting on the edge of his bed, hair pushed back behind his left ear, hands braced on his knees. “Make it fast.”

“The ice’s gotta have time to work. You don’t want to feel it, do you?”

Mitchell swallowed hard and Trevor handed him the ice. “Hold it on your ear until you think your ear’ll fall off.” He pulled out his lighter and produced a pin from a pocket.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I did Jeremy and Eliza’s after HJ did mine,” he said. “Wait. I gotta find the… Put the ice back on!”

It was in his denim jacket pocket. The earring they’d leave in while the hole healed. The same one he’d used, the same one he’d let Jeremy borrow, and the same one he’d stolen right out of Jeremy’s head when the dumbshit wasn’t looking.

Trevor held its post and the needle in the lighter’s flame. Mitchell turned paler than he normally was.

“Okay,” Trev said when the ice had melted away and Mitchell was swearing about how his hand felt. The wuss had been impressive in the way he’d held onto that frozen water; if it was a test of manlihood like HJ had insisted, the blonde idiot in front of him had passed with flying colors. “Can you feel this?” he asked, poking at the air beside Mitchell’s head.

“Nope.”

“Good,” Trev said and jammed the pin through Mitchell’s ear.

Mitchell swallowed a scream that still managed to get halfway out — and then passed out. Trevor caught him and laid him gently on his right side, left ear facing out.

“Easier this way,” he said to no one in particular since he doubted Mitchell was up for listening and engaging in conversation.

The first hole went so easily that Trevor dug two more starter earrings out of his jacket and gave Mitchell a grand total of three.

He crossed his arms and nodded, satisfied with his work. So what if Patterson and Sonya didn’t like it? They’d never throw their precious baby out of their house. Not them. No way, no how.

This is part of Rhian‘s Poetry Train; jump on aboard. As you can see, you don’t have to post poetry. (Wink to Karen)

Also, I hope you’re looking for some Hidden Treasures to spend the summer with. The contest begins whenever you want to read; remember to post your reviews online starting July 15. Scroll down for more info; sticky post or something similar coming soon.

You guys are really into this bean dip… Hope what follows doesn’t disappoint, as the bean dip is mostly absent. Mostly.

If you’re a bit lost, this is the earlier post, setting up this lovely scene.

Erica knew how to stock a backstage dressing room, that was for sure. Daniel asked Mitchell to remember to include some of the things she thought of — ice cream sandwiches for after the show, and gummy candies beforehand — whenever ShapeShifter got big enough to have a catering rider.

“Shit, I’ll ask for the ice cream from now on,” Mitchell laughed. It had been a stroke of genius on Erica’s part; nice and cool after the hot set. They’d all gotten headaches and nasty head rushes, but fuck if it hadn’t been worth it.

Back at Erica’s flat, Mitchell got friendly with a six-pack and crashed. The other three stayed up with their hostess, met her boyfriend — a hulking biker type, apparently — and talked the night away. Mitchell had trouble believing they’d stayed up and talked without getting drunk or stoned; it took awhile in the morning before anyone would admit to both.

They were in pretty good moods as Mitchell pulled the Bronco out of the narrow city street that Erica lived on and followed her directions to the Northbound freeway. After its brief cleaning, the truck smelled better, the weather was good for driving — not raining, not too bright; just perfect — and so Daniel and Mitchell fell into a discussion of how many t-shirts they had left and how many more copies of their small-label release they’d need to have shipped out when it started.

Eric farted.

Not to be outdone, Trevor burped. Then farted.

“Oh, shit, here we go,” Daniel muttered.

Mitchell tried not to smile. “She did feed us Mexican food last night.”

“Knowing fully well we’d be stuck together in a small space when it kicked in,” Daniel pointed out.

Eric groaned with pleasure as he farted again.

Mitchell could practically feel Trevor’s brain working, trying to find another way to top him.

“Trev,” he said in his most serious voice, “give me your lighter.”

“Ooh!” Mitchell envisioned Trevor’s eyes lighting up as he understood what Mitchell was trying to prevent. “Nope, I think I need a smoke.”

“Four guys who smoke, stuck in a truck the morning after a midnight Mexican feast,” Daniel said, then farted noisily. “This is not going to be pretty.”

“Let’s get the windows open,” Eric said, waving a hand in front of his face. “It’s already nasty back here.”

“So open the fucking windows,” Mitchell snarled, reaching for the map.

“Don’t do it, man,” Daniel said softly. “Going back without a plan’s never a good idea.”

Mitchell glared at him. The tooting in the back continued, accompanied by a burping contest.

“We’ll get our revenge on her,” Daniel said with a definitive nod.

“How?”

“Beats the shit out of me, but I’m sure we can find something. We’re ShapeShifter. No one fucks with us like this.”

Mitchell had to sigh as he opened his window and let go of the tight hold he’d had on himself. “I think, Dans, that she did.”

And because the voting’s not closed yet…
And if you’ve missed it somehow, Just a reminder… go vote for me!

Yes, I’m totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you’ve already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You’ll get to vote again that way!

Some fiction again this week for Rhian‘s Poetry Train. I don’t think you need any run-up to this; it’s the early days, the fledgling band‘s put together a small tour on a shoestring budget. On these tours, you rely on the goodness of locals — or you sleep in your truck.

By the way, you can blame this — and its conclusion, which I’ll run tomorrow — on Erica at Writing Aspirations. It’s all her fault.

“Hey, M,” Trevor said, coming up behind Mitchell, who was half-in, half-out of the Bronco, trying to clean it out a bit. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was starting to smell. Four guys on the road would do that, he knew. But damn, it had happened fast.

“Whatcha-doin’?” Trev sing-songed.

Mitchell bombed an empty can of Mountain Dew at him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Why the fuck not? It’s fun.” Mitchell tossed another one, again without looking. Who cared where it landed, so long as it was out of the truck.

Trevor smacked his lips. A bag rustled; Mitchell guessed he had talked someone into coughing up some chips. Until they got paid for this show, they had about five cents between the four of them. Unless, of course, Trevor was hoarding cash again and had used that to buy the stupid chips.

“Because I’m not alone,” Trevor sing-songed.

Mitchell groaned and buried his head in the seat of the Bronco. He should have known.

“You want to come meet Erica.”

Before he raised his head, Mitchell let himself growl. Getting it out would be the only way he could smile at this girl. He didn’t want to be social; he wanted to clean the damn truck out before he had to think about the show. He had about ten minutes, tops.

What he saw when he turned around surprised him. First of all, this girl was holding a can of bean dip, and she and Trevor had almost abandoned the chips for it. Mitchell half-expected Trevor to pick the can out of her hand and lick it clean.

The last time he’d done that, he’d turned it into foreplay.

“Who’re you?” Mitchell asked. She was tall for a girl, almost taller than Trevor, and she wore ratty denim shorts over fishnet hose and fourteen-eye black Doc Martens. A push-up bra and a ripped black Soulbender t-shirt; she looked more goth than metal except her hair wasn’t dyed black and she didn’t have makeup on. In the absence of those, Mitchell decided she was … normal.

“Erica,” she said and stuck her finger in the can of bean dip. She licked it off before saying, “The Sleeve wanted me to connect with you guys. I’ll be doing your dressing room tonight, so if you want anything special in there, holler. Also, if you need a place to crash tonight, I’ve got room.”

Trevor moved a step closer to her and started examining her mouth. “I want something special,” he said.

“Forget it,” she told him coolly. “I’m taken.”

“M here can fix that for you,” Trevor said, giving Mitchell a wide smile like he was asking for a punch.

“Not gonna happen,” Mitchell said before Erica could react. She was cool enough, she worked for Steve the Sleeve, and if she was offering them a place to crash, he was all over it. Anything to keep from driving most of the night. He’d pull over for an hour or two when he had to, but sleeping in the truck was old. If he never had to do it again, he’d be happy.

Trevor turned and started rummaging through the back seat of the Bronco.

“Think you want that place to crash?” Erica asked, peering past Trevor into the truck.

“If it’s no big deal,” Mitchell said, wondering how many other times she’d made this same offer. She didn’t have that over-eager bunny attitude; this was old hat for her.

Trevor emerged with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “One left,” he said, pulling it out. It wasn’t very straight.

It didn’t seem to matter how banged up the cigarette was because suddenly, Mitchell wanted it for himself.

“I’ll make dinner for you after we get back to my place after the show,” Erica offered. “I make a mean Mexican spread.”

Mitchell narrowed his eyes and looked her over. This was bordering on ritual. “You’re Steve the Sleeve’s girl?” he asked, his opinion of the local promoter plummeting. Everyone knew you didn’t use your girl for dressing room detail.

Erica snorted. “I wouldn’t do that sleazeball if you gave me a million bucks and underwrote my own promotions biz. But he pays me good,” she shrugged. “So what if I have to kick him in the balls every now and then to keep his hands off me? It’s nothing compared to how hard he’ll get it when I spin out and start doing my own shows.”

“You’re on for that place to crash tonight,” Mitchell told her. There was something honest about her, something he could relate to. He wasn’t so sure about the Mexican food, but he’d deal with that when he had to. The last time they’d had Mexican food, they’d all gotten sicker than dogs and had to stop at every single rest stop along the drive.

Maybe the homemade effect would make the difference.

And because the voting’s not closed yet…
And if you’ve missed it somehow, Just a reminder… go vote for me!

Yes, I’m totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you’ve already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You’ll get to vote again that way!

Despite his weed-induced mellow and years of personal experience, Trevor was still proud of the destruction they’d just wreaked on the dressing room. Beer bottles on every surface. Foil wrappers wherever they’d been tossed. Towels draped over the beer bottles, under the bottles, in one case even wrapped around the base of a bottle, anchoring it upright. Potato chip crumbs — among other things — ground into the carpet. Food everywhere. The couch washed down with shaken-up soda and beer, and people still dumb enough to try to sit on it. Garbage cans overturned; at one point, Mitchell had been wearing it instead of a lampshade, the wanker.

One rather enthused and satisfied girl had taken the squeeze mustard and written ShapeShifter on the wall behind the disaster that the catering table had become. All the food had either been knocked over, pushed aside, rescued by a frantic local roadie or two — Trevor hadn’t bothered to watch — or relocated; it didn’t matter. It wasn’t the lovely little display of tempting usualness it’d been when they’d arrived.

Two girls had decided to see if sliced salami would stick to the wall if they threw it just right. Intriguingly, a couple actually had. A bunch had made contact but then slid down the wall, leaving a lovely grease trail in their wake. The rest made a path — like stepping stones, Trev thought with a snicker — across the room. One or two had been trampled on; a brunette had slipped and fallen on her ass, then limped out. She’d looked more in pain than upset that her party with ShapeShifter had ended so soon.

Trevor didn’t doubt that he’d been the only one who’d noticed her leaving. He also didn’t doubt that he’d laughed the hardest at her fall. Her arms had flailed, her eyes had gone huge, but she’d let out this kittenish, barely audible scream. It hadn’t fit the picture. Pretty fucking cool.

“Come on,” Charlie, their tour manager said, tugging on Trevor’s arm as if he was the one who’d be able to get everyone to leave. “Party’s over. We need to get out of here.”

Trevor pulled his arm free. The guy wasn’t entirely sober, himself. Settlement must not have taken long — although who the hell knew what would happen once the disaster of the dressing room was noticed.

Charlie burped a beery-reeking gasball, giving Trev the feeling that he was the only sober one in the room. For a change. If it weren’t for weed this good, he’d have hated the fact that he was afraid to drink.

“The party’s not over,” he told Charlie.

“The party’s not over?”

Trevor gave him a blessedly stoned, placid look. He stopped himself from folding his hands over his belly. “The party can’t be over until the fat lady sings and if you look around, all the fatties showed sense and left already. No fat girl sings, no party ends.” He nodded. It really was pretty simple.

“We’ve got to clear out,” the tour manager whined.

Trevor curled his lip at the guy. “So clear the fuck out. But in the meantime, we have a party to finish up.” He nodded at the rest of the band. “They’re still standing. There’s still a few girls here. Party’s not over.”

“Move it back to the hotel,” Charlie called, raising his voice to be heard over the drunken slurring that passed for chatter. Even if most of it was directions about what felt good and the slurping of deep kisses.

When no one gave any sign of hearing, he turned the radio off. “Move it back to the hotel,” Charlie repeated.

The guys looked around their girls at each other and shrugged. One spot was as good as another. So long as there was beer, they’d be happy. Besides, there were beds in hotels. That meant less complaints about sore knees and backs and other body parts.

Maybe.

Trevor wondered if there’d be any fat chicks at the hotel they could pick up. And if there were, what would it take to get them to sing?