Dreams (Big Bands Big Hearts Book 1) Read online

  Dreams

  Big Bands, Big Hearts Series

  Sandra Alex

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  ISBN 978-1-989427-79-8

  ISBN 978-1-989427-80-4

  Copyright © 2022 Sandra Alex

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Jump

  Keep in Touch

  Did You Enjoy This Book?

  Author’s Note

  World turns black and white

  Pictures in an empty room

  Your love starts fallin' down

  Better change your tune

  Yeah, you reach for the golden ring

  Reach for the sky

  Baby, just spread your wings

  And get higher and higher

  Straight up we'll climb

  We'll get higher and higher

  Leave it all behind

  Run, run, run away

  Like a train runnin' off the track

  Got the truth bein' left behind

  Fall between the cracks

  Standin' on broken dreams

  Never losin' sight, ah

  Well, just spread your wings

  We'll get higher and higher

  Straight up we'll climb

  We'll get higher and higher

  Leave it all behind

  So baby, dry your eyes

  Save all the tears you've cried

  Oh, that's what dreams are made of

  'Cause we belong

  In a world that must be strong

  Oh, that's what dreams are made of

  Yeah, we'll get higher and higher

  Straight up we'll climb

  Higher and higher

  Leave it all behind

  Oh, we'll get higher and higher

  Who knows what we'll find

  So baby, dry your eyes

  Save all the tears you've cried

  Oh, that's what dreams are made of

  Oh baby, we belong

  In a world that must be strong

  Oh, that's what dreams are made of

  And in the end

  On dreams we will depend

  'Cause that's what love is made of

  -Dreams by Van Halen

  Source: Musixmatch

  Songwriters: Anthony Michael / Van Halen Edward / Van Halen Alex / Hagar Sammy R

  Dreams lyrics © Wb Music Corp., Mugambi Publishing, Atlas Music Group

  Chapter 1

  Jett

  If this guy clears his throat one more time, I’m going to punch him in the throat. Tom, I think his name is. The dude interviewing us is clearly way out of his element, practically shitting in his pants as he asks us questions that he’s been spoon fed from some network executive. The paper he holds between his legs with questions scrawled on it, is quivering with his nerves, and I want so badly to take him out of his misery and just start spewing shit on camera, but our manager, Dick, told us to take it easy on him. He’s someone’s nephew and as green as he seems.

  The Flock of Seagulls haircut is annoying as hell, too. There’s a pair of clippers in Slick’s room, he’s our lead singer, and I’d love nothing more than to go grab them, pin this shithead down, and shave his locks off. Don’t get me started on the fluorescent shoes. “What made you decide to take part in this music festival?” he asks. Besides the million dollars an hour we’re being paid? Is what I want to say, but I refrain.

  “It’s perfect timing.” Slick says. “We couldn’t say no with us going out on tour in the next few months.”

  I’m bored and dying for a smoke. Crush, our drummer, is exchanging looks with me, like he’s thinking the same thing.

  “Are you singing any of your new songs?” the dipshit asks.

  “We might squeeze in a few, but we’ll save them for the tour.” I interject.

  Slick adds to my thought. “We can’t play too much new stuff on account of the songs not being released yet.”

  “Yeah, if we get any radio play in, even in the next day, we might, but otherwise we’ll stick to the older stuff.” I add.

  We’re here in Oklahoma, getting ready to perform in what has been dubbed one of the biggest concert events of this decade, Rock Jam Nineteen Eighty-Five. What’s more is that our newest album, our third, is scheduled to be released this month, so the timing couldn’t be better. We credit our record company for acting fast on this one, getting a heads-up from concert promoters, and pushing the deadline up for our tracks to be recorded in time to ride the promotional waves. Terry, our producer, and Roy, our engineer, have been pulling all-nighters with us for weeks, getting this album complete.

  The sunglasses hide the bags under my eyes, and I have bandages on every one of my fingers from strumming my axe so much. But I love it. I want to die playing my guitar. If I get a choice, that is. I’m sitting in this trailer, which is kind of like one of them portables we had in high school, all lined up at the back parking lot, to handle overflow. This place smells of mildew, like a cheap motel that I’ve grown to be so accustomed to over the years. The chairs are those school grade ones with a wooden seat and a metal frame, and the backdrop is the wooden panelling that you see in my parent’s basement.

  “Jett, you care to comment on the headline in the paper about you and the groupie?” shithead asks, and he looks twice, as if he can’t believe he asked that, and if he could, he’d take it back. His look is apologetic, and I decide to let him off the hook.

  “Alleged groupie, I believe it said.” I correct. “And it was a rag, not a paper, so no, I don’t care to comment.”

  The article said I’d been caught fucking some groupie in the backseat of a limousine while attending a private screening of some dumb shit movie that Dick made us go to because they used a piece of one of our hit songs off our first album in it. The movie sucked. The chick I was with sucked pretty good, though, but I didn’t get caught doing anything. There wasn’t even incriminating evidence in the picture. They used a still from earlier in the evening. It was someone with a big mouth and nothing better to rag about. It could have even been the chick who blew me for all I know. Chicks do shit like that.

  Dipshit looks at his notes, and I feel like he’s starting to get comfortable in his shoes, because the paper isn’t trembling anymore. “You got tickets?” I ask, gesturing at him with my chin.

  “Err…no, sir.” He says, shaking his head.

  “You mean you don’t get free ones for doing this interview?” Zane asks, teasing.

  Dipshit smiles. “No, sir.”

  “Dick, give the man tickets.” I say to our manager. “Jesus, the poor kid should at least get that.”

  Dipshit seems to calm more. “Jett, how many hours a day do you practice?” he asks, without even looking at his paper.

  I frown. “Mmm…it’s more like how many hours don’t I practice, man.”

  “Yeah, Jett’s got his guitar on him all the time. The only reason why he hasn’t got one on him right now is because he couldn’t talk your camera guy into putting the chairs further apart. He’d have me holding his guitar for him if he had his way about it.” Zane is thumbing at me as he sits next to me.

  “The man sleeps with his guitar. When he sleeps.” Crush adds.

  “And what about you, Slick?” Dipshit asks. “How many hours a day do you practice singing?”

  “Singing or writing songs, man…I’m always doing one or the other.” Slick answers honestly.

  “And what do you do in your spare time for fun?”

  “Music is our fun, man.” I answer honestly. “If it was like work, we wouldn’t do it.”

  Dipshit seems genuinely impressed. I’m starting to like him. “What sort of feel would you say that this new album has? Is it the same good-time party vibe as the others, or is it a little bit different?” Nice. I tilt my head, impressed. Dipshit may have class after all.

  “I heard someone give a perfect description of our music the other day. I wish like hell that I could think of who it was, but I can’t.” I say. “The dude said that when he listens to our music, it’s like a dog hanging his head out the car window wearing sunglasses. It’s just…cool.”

  “Yeah, the kind you raise a thumb for when you hear the guy in the car next to you listening to the same tune, man.” Slick adds.

  I lift my hand, giving Slick credit. “Exactly.”

  Dipshit smiles. He’s starting to loosen up and have some fun. I haven’t heard him clear his throat in the last five minutes.

  “Are you guys nervous at all? Are you used to performing with so many other artists?”

  “Naw, man, we get along great with everybody.” I lie. Well, we try to get along, but let’s face it, God created assholes, and most of them are in the music industry. Like the band that we first toured with. The lead singer is some hotshot with a dick bigger than his brain. I was carrying my prized amp that I don’t let any other motherfucker carry, into the venue we were performing at. The motherfucker was ahead of me and I asked him if he could hold the door open for me. He turned around to glance at me. Here I’m
thinking that he’ll hold it open, no problem. The door slams in my fucking face five seconds later, so I almost drop my fucking amp on my goddamn foot. I get inside the place and ask what the fuck is up his ass. You know what he says to me? “You open for me, you hold the fucking door for me, asshole.” You see what I’m saying?

  “You guys do seem pretty cool.” Dipshit laughs, and I swear to God I hear his voice crack with pubescence. I bet he can’t even grow a beard yet, but he’s cool, so I like him.

  “Thanks, man. You’re pretty cool, too. You got a girl, man?” I ask, nodding, holding an unlit cigarette in my mouth, hoping to hell someone will light it for me. And then I see the crooked ‘no smoking’ sign on the wall and take the cancer stick out of my fucking mouth, rolling my eyes.

  “No. Not yet.” He chuckles shyly. Smart kid. Stay away from the chicks, unless it’s for a blow job or something. They’re nothing but fucking trouble, unless they’re fans, of course. I had me a girl or two back at home, but they either give you a fucking ultimatum, you know? Like it’s them or my music, or else they’re after you for your money. I have yet to meet a straight up girl, and don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking, either.

  “Want me to fix you up, dude?” Slick teases.

  Dipshit just chuckles again. I’m starting to like him. We can hear the soundchecks going on from the field next to us, where the stage is. It’s this huge football field where they have an outdoor stadium. Even bigger than the biggest venue that we’ve played in. Performances start tonight. We go on about halfway through, and then we’re on again tomorrow during the day, and on the third day, too, but at night again. We did our soundchecks just before this interview, so I’m guessing that the band doing their soundchecks is doing their interview next.

  “Will you play ‘Fuss’?” he asks. And then I get it. He’s a fan. How cool is that?

  “Sure, we’ll play it.” Slick says with enthusiasm. We already know that we’ll have to change our set list after each performance, to keep it fresh, but ‘Fuss’ gets the most radio play, so we want to play that. Plus, it’s the tune that has the freshest sound because of this wicked lick that I use during my solo. There is zero overdubbing in the recording of that tune, so it sounds live the same way it sounds on the record. Fans love it that way, so we try for that each time.

  Dipshit is about to ask us another question, when we hear some scuffle going on outside. Some chick is screaming at the top of her lungs for somebody to help her.

  “Yo, dude, cut the tape, man.” I say, rising.

  The cameraman lifts his head from behind the lens, and the little red light goes off.

  “What the fuck’s going on out there?” I ask, and Zane is poking his face out the tiny trailer window. Next thing we know this chick comes barrelling into the room, screaming bloody murder, with Chris, one of our security dudes trying to grab her.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Lady! What the hell are you doing!” Chris shouts, finally getting her arm.

  She’s tall and lank, with a baggy white t-shirt that has ‘Relax’ in bold pink letters on the front and pink leggings to match. Her neon pink hair sash is gauze and loosened, so it sits even more askew than intended. “Some shithead attacked me outside!” she squeals.

  “There’s nobody outside, freak!” Chris scoffs.

  “How the hell did she get in here, man?” Zane asks.

  “I was radioed by the stage crew. Got distracted. She barrelled in here like a bat out of hell. She must have hopped the fence or something, or she fucking blew one of the other security guys, so he’d let her in.”

  She pulls her arm free from him, giving him a look like he’s manhandled her, which he kind of has. “I’m your biggest fan, you guys. I love ‘Fuss’. I play it so often I’ve nearly worn my record out.” She says.

  “Let’s go, freak.” Chris says, taking her arm again.

  I lift my hand. “Hey, dude. Let her stay. If it meant that much to her to come meet us, why not?”

  “Are you fucking out of your mind, Jett? The woman’s a lunatic!” Chris argues.

  “She’s just a fan, man. Just let her stay for a minute.”

  “Yeah, man. We’ll get her a picture and an autograph. It’ll be fine.” Slick says.

  Chris is pissed off. “Fine. But I’m not leaving her in here with you alone, and then she’s getting escorted out.”

  “Take it easy.” Zane scoffs. “Look, we didn’t get here from turning fans away, man. She’s not going to hurt us.”

  The girl is smiling brightly. “You guys are the best. And I’m sorry for lying, but you…you have no idea.” She starts to sob. “Your music…it touches me.” Slick puts his arm around her. “That’s what we do, man. We reach out and touch people. You saying that just means that we’re doing a good job.”

  “You’re doing a fabulous job. I’ve had the worst year of my life, and if it hadn’t been for your music, I don’t know where I’d be. I just…I wanted you to know that.”

  “Well, we appreciate that, kid.” I say. “Hey, you got a camera on you?”

  “No, because I know that they’ll confiscate it at the gate.”

  “Did you get tickets?” Crush asks.

  “Not yet. I’m not proud of how I got in here.” she admits.

  Crush looks up at Chris, who is none too pleased. “Hey, man, call up and put her name on the V.I.P. list.”

  “What’s your name, seniorita?” Slick asks.

  “Taylor. Taylor Crane.”

  Chris smirks snidely but he calls in the request. When he’s finished, he points at us. “You guys get attacked, it’s your ass.”

  “We pay you to protect us, not to judge our fans, man.” I say.

  “What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do, asshole? You think I was fucking knitting out there?” he points outside. If he weren’t related to my favorite roadie, Jim, I’d fire his ass right now. He’s so angry that spittle is flying out of his mouth as he shouts. He’s got the perfect temperament for what he does, I’ll give him that.

  “Never mind him.” Slick says to Taylor. “You got something we can sign for you, babe?”

  She looks down at her shirt. “Can you all sign this?”

  “Sure.” Slick shrugs.

  There is a cup full of pens on a small metal table by the door. Slick fishes out one of them fancy permanent marker deals, and we all take turns signing her shirt. We even nickname her ‘jailbreak’, since she would technically be arrested for breaking and entering if it were under any other circumstance. There are ‘private property’ and ‘no trespassing’ signs all over the place here.

  “Okay, lady, let’s get you out of here.” Chris says, wasting no time, the moment that we’re done signing her shirt, front and back.

  “Take it easy on her, okay, man?” I say to him. We give her a hug each, and she’s so overcome with emotion, that she’s crying.

  “I love you guys.” She sobs.

  “We love you, too.” I say.

  “Yeah, man. Thanks for busting in on us.” Slick teases. “That was fun.”

  “I’m so sorry for the interruption.” She says to Tom, who is taking it all in.

  “Come on.” Chris says. “Looks like we’ve got company.” He radios in while taking Taylor out. She waves, blowing us all kisses. We wave back.

  “Should I continue?” Tom asks.

  “I think we’re done, man.” Slick says. “We should get outta here.”

  “Not so fast.” I say, watching an exchange outside. Taylor is being escorted out of the stadium by another security guard, while Chris appears to be fighting with someone that none of us recognizes. Chris’s arms start to flail about, and we stand there, wondering if we should intervene, but decide against it. I look at Tom, who looks worried and forlorn, instead of dying to get outside to get the story. I doubt he’s going to get very far in his line of work, but then again, what do I know. “Never a dull fucking moment in our world, man.” I say, clapping him on the back.

  We watch Chris leave the guy outside and stomp into the trailer.

  “Yo, what the fuck’s going on?” Slick says.

  “We’ve got problems, man. The chick and dudes from ‘Buying Time’ are going on after you, and they’re bitching about our set up.”

  “What the fuck’s the problem?” Slick asks casually, but with a ‘v’ between his brows.

  “There’s clearly a pecking order to this whole shindig, and they feel like they’ve been given the shitty end of the stick as far as room, man. They don’t want our drum kit so close behind theirs, for one. And the list goes on and on, man.”