K. Linde - Take Me for Granted

McAvoy was shirtless and fully tatted with his hair swinging as he slammed the sticks down on the drums in front of him. Miller’s bass beats were thumping into my body. He looked completely unfazed in his crisp jeans and polo as the heat intensified through the set. Vin’s shirt was a size too small, and somehow he was flexing as he played his shiny black guitar next to me.

We were killing it tonight. Most nights, I’d felt like we were in sync, but nothing could compare to tonight. It was a Saturday night in September, and the dive bar in New York City where Miller had gotten us a show already looked like they were breaking the fire code with how many swaying, drunken bodies were crammed into the small space.

A blonde chick was standing in the front row in the lowest cut shirt I’d ever seen. Her tits were nearly bouncing out, and I could almost see her nipples as she danced and jumped to our music. She hadn’t looked away from me for one second the entire set, and I was sure we’d be fucking in the restroom before I even knew her name.

As I finished off our last song, the light panned across the room, and the crowd cheered to a deafening volume. Performing was an adrenaline rush unlike anything else. I felt perfectly in control and in my element.

“We’re ContraBand. Thanks for coming out,” I called out to the crowd before swinging my guitar onto my back and exiting the stage.

The venue actually had a real backstage, unlike The Ivy League, and the other bands were lounging on couches and chatting with fans. McAvoy immediately made friends with the dudes who had gone on first, and Vin was already fondling a chick near the stage door.

Miller shrugged. “Feels weird, not being bombarded.”

“We would be if we took one step out that door.” I pulled a joint from my pocket and lit it up. I didn’t typically smoke in public, but who the hell is watching now?

“You going for the blonde in the front row?” Miller asked intuitively.

The guy was sharp. He always picked up on the moods of the guys, and he was able to keep us cohesive.

“We’ll see.”

About ten minutes later, the next band started their set, and a wave of girls ran backstage. A crowd was forming for us, and Blondie was at the lead.

“Hey, sexy,” she said, walking right up to me and running her hand down my dog tags.

“Hey, darlin’.”

“I loved your show.” She stuck her chest out, and her tits pressed against me, emphasizing how much she would enjoy an aftershow.

“Thanks, babe. This your first ContraBand show?”

“Mmhmm…I sure hope it’s not my last.”

I smiled down at her in a way that I’d heard melted panties and nodded my head toward the back room. She arched an eyebrow and winked. All the confirmation I needed.

“You made it, Cheyenne,” Vin called out next to me.

My head snapped to the side, my conversation with Blondie completely forgotten. Cheyenne? As in, Aribel’s roommate? Is she here? She might have been pissed with me, but maybe her friends had dragged her along. It was wishful thinking maybe, but I had to know.

“Will you just give me a minute?”

She pouted with her gloss-coated full lips. For a second, I envisioned the mess that would make on my dick, and I shuddered. Blondie had a nice rack, but she needed to take that shit off.

“Come on, baby,” Blondie purred.

“Just one minute.” I held up a finger, pulled myself from her grasp, and walked over to where Vin was standing with a tall, curly-haired ginger.

I looked around, but I didn’t see a short blonde in a cardigan. Maybe she was hidden behind the mass of people who had just come backstage. “Cheyenne,” I said in greeting.

“Oh, Grant, hey,” she said, smiling warily at me.

Not the reaction I was used to. I wondered if Aribel had told her what had happened or if gossip had traveled to her.

“Bro!” Vin said, trying to nudge me out.

He still didn’t realize that I had no interest in the girl in front of me.

“Hey, is Aribel with you tonight?”

“Aribel? Hmm…” Cheyenne glanced back at the two girls standing behind her.

One of them, a nondescript brunette, shook her head, and her eyes bulged slightly. All right, so they are going to play it like this.

“She’s not with us,” the other girl with a blonde pixie cut said so softly.

I barely caught what she had said.

“Oh, she didn’t show?” I couldn’t hide my disappointment. How the hell am I going to get to this girl?

“We tried to get her to come, Grant,” Cheyenne spoke up.

The brunette chick smacked her.

“What, Shelby? We did! Nothing wrong in telling him.”

“She’s not interested in him,” Shelby whispered.

“She’s an idiot for not being—”

“Ladies, it’s fine,” I said, shutting them up.

I didn’t want them to keep bickering, and if they kept talking about her, it was going to bring me down from the high I was on from the show. I liked to hold on to my adrenaline rush for as long as I could.

Blondie was making her way over to me, and she had a scowl on her face that did nothing for her. After just talking about Aribel, the thought of fucking Blondie in the restroom stall didn’t sound that appealing. Who the fuck am I?

“Guys,” Miller said. He had a huge smile plastered on his face. “The scout wants to talk to us!”

“What? Really?” Vin asked.

“Scout?” Cheyenne asked curiously.

“A label scout,” Vin told her. “We’re gonna get fucking signed. We’re gonna be fucking famous!”

“Vin, keep it down,” Miller said, punching him on the arm.

“Sorry, girls,” Vin said. He leaned forward and planted a bold kiss on Cheyenne’s lips. “Next time you see me, I’ll have graduated to rock god.”

Cheyenne laughed and shook her head. Yeah, she wants him.

I nodded at the girls and didn’t even glance at Blondie before turning and following my brothers to where we would meet with the label scout. Anticipation buzzed through every inch of my body, and by the time we made it to a private back room, I was practically bouncing from the shot of adrenaline. This was my future right here, my boys’ future. Our moment for fame was dangling before us on a string, and all we had to do was walk into this room and take it.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” a guy in a black suit said.

With greasy short hair, a fake smile, and beady, observant eyes, he looked exactly how I’d pictured label scouts.

“Please, sit. You want beers or water or something?”

We all shook our heads.

McAvoy was last into the room. He shut the door and took a seat.

“Great. We’re all here. I’m Frank Boseley with BankHead Records. I’m glad that I was able to come out and hear you guys live. Look, I’ll just cut to the chase. I’m not sure you’re exactly what our label is looking for right now.”

My stomach plummeted. Shit! The boys deflated around me. I knew that this was just the first of many rejections we would likely see in this industry, but we had killed it tonight. If a label didn’t want us off of that performance, when would they want us?

“Thanks for inviting me out. I wish you luck in your future.”

Miller, always the best of us, walked up and shook Frank’s hand. Miller handled the business side of the band, so he’d had the most contact with Frank. It must have hit him the hardest even though it was clear we all felt like someone had punched us in the gut.

“Thank you for the opportunity,” Miller said and then he turned back to us. “Come on, guys.”

I stood in dismay and started to leave with my friends. I couldn’t believe what had just gone down. My high was diminishing quickly, and I was going to need a drink and at least a blow job to get over this.

“Grant,” Frank called, stopping me in my tracks. “My man, do you mind staying after for a minute?”

What the fuck did he want? Miller, McAvoy, and Vin looked like they wanted to know the same damn thing. I was too curious not to stay though even if the man gave me the creeps.

“Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“Just close that door for a minute.”

I nodded at the guys reassuringly before shutting the door. “What’s up?”

Frank crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “I know I said that the label isn’t interested in ContraBand, Grant, but that’s only partially true.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

“They’re not interested in ContraBand. They’re interested in you.”

Oh. Motherfucker thought I was a sellout?

“The reason I’m here today is because of you. We’re looking for a front man. Solo acts are selling right now, Grant, and I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime to sign with BankHead Records.”

“What about the other guys?”

“Fuck the other guys. You don’t need them. You carry that band. You’re the it factor, and you’re the person fans come to watch. The screaming crowd was for you, my man. People were cramming into this bar for you. You’re filling a dive bar, and we’ll fill arenas together.”

I laughed and scratched the back of my head. Arenas. Shit.

“So, what do you say, Grant? You with us?”

“What do I say?” I said. I looked straight into that fucker’s beady eyes and told him exactly what I thought, “No. I’m going to have to say no.”

“No?” he asked in shock. “You have no idea what you’re missing out on.”

“You’re a fucking piece of shit if you think I’ll ditch my brothers for you. I’m not a sellout. I’m not a fucking dick you can jack off with the delusional promise of sold-out arenas. If I’m fucking selling out arenas, then it’s happening with my boys behind me. Without them, this business isn’t worth the headache of dealing with pieces of shit like yourself.”

I stormed out of that room like someone had lit a fire under my ass. I pushed past the guys and ignored their questions. They could see the murderous look on my face, but I didn’t have it in me to tell them the audacity that prick had.

Blondie was waiting for me as well, but I wasn’t in the mood for that bullshit tonight. I’d barely been in the mood for it before Frank Boseley had fucked up my entire night.

Now, I was only in the mood for one thing.

“Where do you live?” I asked Cheyenne as soon as I reached her.

I was not sulking just because my roommates had all gone to the ContraBand show in the city and left me behind. I hadn’t wanted to go, and I certainly hadn’t wanted to see Grant McDermott.

But I couldn’t concentrate on my homework, and for the first time in forever, I felt a bit silly for doing homework on a Saturday night. My shoulders ached from hunching over my desk all day. I rolled them back a few times and closed my book. I might as well try to get some sleep.

As I was about to change into something more comfortable, a knock on the door stopped me short. Who the hell is at my door? I hoped it wasn’t my drug dealer neighbors. The last time they had stopped by, they had asked if they could stash their weed in our house until the cops passed through, and then they’d had the nerve to be angry when I’d refused.

I looked through the peephole in my door to see who it was, and my eyes widened in shock. Grant McDermott was standing on my front porch. I flattened myself against the door and took a few heaving breaths. I didn’t care that I had been thinking about him all night—or all day, for that matter. I couldn’t answer the door.

“Aribel!” Grant called, banging on the door again. “I know you’re in there. Cheyenne said you would be home.”

Cheyenne! That traitor!

“Aribel! Are you there?”

I sighed heavily. Well, what should I do now? He looked like he might stand out there all night. Not that it would really bother me, but I did want to get some sleep tonight. Just as he started attacking my door again, I pulled it open with a scowl.

I smoothed my blonde hair back and then tried to stop fidgeting. “What do you want, Grant?”

“Can I come in?”

“To my house?” I asked incredulously.

“Where the fuck else would I come, babe?” He arched an eyebrow, and the first hint of a smirk crossed his face.

Is everything sexual with him?

Yes.

“No, you can’t come in. Aren’t you supposed to be in New York?”