I woke up in a better mood than I had in years. I was already looking forward to the evening, my first day at my new job. Sure, it actually did pay a little less than my previous gig, but I was a roadie for my favorite band of all time, and I could not have cared less. Razor Whip played exactly my kind of music, kicked ass in a truly unbelievable manner at every show, and it didn't hurt that all five members were female and downright gorgeous. Erika von Wolfe had been my main reason for learning the guitar, and I had the calluses to prove it, the sight of my fingertips coaxing out a little smile as I stretched before getting out of bed.
It was fairly unusual for me to be this enthusiastic about service-oriented work- in fact, I had been fired from at least one restaurant job for what one could charitably call friction with the management. That said, for this group, I would work to hell and back with a smile on my face. For the love of metal, and, sure, some reasons that were a touch more hormonal than musical, I was more than able to live with it.
The first show of the tour was scheduled for the coming evening, so I had to be at the venue fairly early. Even so, I had more than enough time for a meal that was a bit more lunch than it was breakfast, grinning like an idiot every time I remembered what I was doing that night. Naturally, I played nothing but Whip for the entire 40-minute drive to the concert hall, most likely destroying my eardrums in the process. I caught myself playing air guitar at at least one red light, slightly rolling my eyes but in far too much of a good mood to mind the silliness.
Stepping out of the car, I took a long breath. The first time with anything was always a slight cause for anxiety, and I knew my heart was beating faster than it really should. I hunched and released my shoulders, doing my best to keep my excitement positive. Cocking my head to one side for a moment, I started walking, peripherally aware that I was more or less constantly fiddling with my new ID card, which was functionally an all-access backstage pass: the highlight of the job.
I was excited enough that the next half hour or so passed in a blur, checking in with the perpetually sunglasses-wearing man who had hired me, an oddly commanding presence despite his small stature and lack of any particular mass. Then again, I had little time to dwell on the man's appearance, since there was plenty of work to do and things to carry. Losing track of time in the constant activity was very easy to do.
Some amount of time later, I was finally able to catch a breath. This work was a lot more, well, work than I had necessarily expected, but physical labor always seemed to be a certain sort of satisfying after it was done, and this was no exception. There would be more to come, but I had some time to sit on an empty monitor case, and even wound up having a fairly good conversation with a few of my coworkers, and a guy who turned out to be the bassist for one of the support groups.
After a bit of talking, I was more than convinced that I had a fun job. However, in the satisfaction of the moment, I had somehow lost immediate awareness of the main reason I was there. Unsurprisingly, seeing one of those reasons up close and in person was a very convincing jolt back to reality.
In terms of sheer physical attraction, Ariel Steele, Razor Whip's lead singer, was probably the standout. Her walking around a corner about five paces away from me both cemented that opinion and left me utterly speechless. I had seen the group live several times, but there was a difference between seeing her on stage and this more real setting.
The band were known for genuinely unsubtle costumes, and this one was no exception. The practicality of giving an active performance in heels like hers was just an afterthought. Matching knee boots and elbow gloves with rows of small spikes around the wrists and ankles created an effect more like a bracelet than anything else, and a similar choker completed the impression. With the addition of an aggressively laced corset and gratuitously tight pants, the all-black ensemble was nothing if not overkill. Regardless, I would be lying if I said that that thought so much as crossed my mind in the moment.
The woman simply radiated power. I had simply never seen this kind of confidence before- if the wall had opened up to allow her to get to her destination faster, I would barely have been surprised. She stopped, took a sip from a mostly full bottle of water, and looked straight at me.
"You. New boy. Water bottle. Now."
She must have seen me hesitate in confusion at the fact that she was clearly taken care of on that matter, judging by the near-lethal sneer that she leveled at me. That was more than enough to send me straight to the nearest cooler to retrieve a fresh bottle as quickly as I possibly could, if not a little more so. I hadn't really expected a heartfelt thanks, and I was right.
"Good."
There was an unmistakable note of contempt in her one-syllable response, but it somehow felt valuable anyway. Yes, I was a bit offended, but in the context, I was busier marveling at the fact that I had, even though it was for a split second and through a glove, made physical contact with the person whom I considered, with no qualifiers, to be the most attractive woman on the planet.
Moderately annoyed with myself as I was for not being angrier, I shrugged, mentally noted that I still had a faint smile on my face, and responded to another, less memorable call to some sort of action. Busy as I was for the rest of the night, her voice never entirely left my mind. Speaking, she had an entirely different energy than the vocal weapon she usually fired through the microphone, just as powerful, but with a great deal of refinement and subtlety. It was familiar, in a way, from her more elegant pure singing, but still, more intimate, simply because it was spoken and intended for me, positively or not.
By the time the last encore had ended, I was thoroughly tired. I breathed out hard when I was assigned to go attend to the band in the dressing room, grimacing a little as my instincts prodded me with the likelihood that Steele would be even more demanding after the night's business had been concluded. I swallowed a bit as I opened the door, openly sighing with relief when I saw that she was elsewhere. The woman was an idol in my mind, and seeing her again would obviously have been a very welcome development, tired as I was, but this was on occasion on which ease was just as welcome.
Instead, I found myself making direct eye contact with Erika von Wolfe, the inspiration behind five years of attempted guitar self-education.
"You're the one Thompson sent in?"
She was surprisingly mild, contemplatively leaning forward and sitting on a battered minifridge, head tilted up to point an icy pair of eyes straight at me. She was a strong presence, in a less imposing way than her bandmate, as if she had no need to make a show of herself. Her words were soft, and she seemed very grounded. The overall effect was very reassuring, and I felt myself relax a bit.
"Yes, that's me. What did you need?"
"What's your name?"
"Louis. Louis Westen. And, while I'm at it, it really is a huge honor to be working for Whip. You're the reason I learned the guitar- I, that is- thank you. Seriously."
I grimaced for a second, feeling the numerous stumbles that, really, were inevitable with my sheer level of excitement. She still seemed very distant, but raised an eyebrow in a nonthreatening way, and I might have seen the suggestion of a smile too.
"Hmm. Not the first time I've heard that, but thank you. You've been playing for a long time, then?"
Her interest was obviously not huge, but I appreciated the effort. I opened my mouth to respond, but another voice beat me to the punch.
"You. About time."
Turning around would have been superfluous. I knew who it was. I thought I might have detected a tiny measure of amusement on von Wolfe's face as I winced, looking back and seeing Steele, uncomfortably intense green eyes staring at me from underneath graceful but intimidating eyebrows.
"Much better. Lazy shits... well, you're here now, might as well make the best of it."
Her upper lip curled in a manner that made me want to look away, melt into the floor, or maybe even both.
"Sorry. I came as quickly as I could, I promise. What did you need?"
"For fuck's sake, manners. Call me Miss, or Miss Steele. No Ma'am, either, I'm no old woman."
"Alright- I'm sorry, Miss. What can I do for you?"
She shrugged a little, sneered a little more, and arranged herself in a fairly large chair that was clearly there on her orders.
"I don't really feel like taking off my own boots tonight. No need for me to do that kind of work when I have willing hands around anyway... right?"
Her arched eyebrow made it glaringly obvious that she wanted a very specific answer. Breathing carefully and looking back at her, I took a tiny moment to make sure I had the right response.
"Of course not, Miss. So, you want me to do that?"
If not for the contrastingly pleasant encounter with von Wolfe, I would be questioning whether the job was worth the trouble after all, but I was more or less willing to tolerate it, things being what they were. The words felt less than ideal coming out, but any work had its downsides.
She seemed, if not satisfied, less actively displeased than she had been, and wordlessly extended a leg. This, of course, was not just any leg. Like the rest of her, distractingly beautiful, and perfectly dressed. It would be wrong to think that at any point in her presence I had not been aware of just how exciting it was to be this close. She was absolutely, beyond any shade of doubt, gorgeous, and that fact was amplified spectacularly by the fact that she was, in my mind, one of the most impressive musicians to be found anywhere. In that context, her arrogance seemed almost reasonable, even if keeping up was difficult. Trying to ignore my apprehension and even feeling more or less comfortable as I digested the situation, I broke eye contact and gingerly started undoing the laces, gradually becoming content enough to start vibrating with energy all over again, realizing that I was, in fact, touching the leg of Ariel Steele. I was not having such a bad night after all.
She was more or less silent for a little while, seeming to focus her energies on lazily adjusting her gloves. It occurred to me that von Wolfe had already changed into casual clothes, an interesting contrast with the labor-intensive process that, presumably, was left to me.
"New guy. You put a lot of time into exercise, don't you?"
