CH 5

I shove the microphone back into the stand and jog offstage, colliding shoulders with José. He shoves me away hard and I nearly trip over a tangle of chords. If I fell, no one would possibly know. The entire club is pitch dark and the audience is chanting encore so loud that I could fall into the drum set and not even be heard. I keep a mental note to piss in his coffee pot.

As you may begin to notice, I'm not liked too well by the other members of 'my' band. Blake can put up with me, but the whole 'friendly' thing we have onstage is all an act. José would much rather beat the living shit out of me than have to spend an hour with me conscious instead. The drummer, Bee, (short for Beethoven), has expressed a great disinterest in me, and the rhythm guitar player, Malcolm, claims to hate me for my bitchy-ness as well, despite the fact that he's even more feminine than me, so much that he couldn't play tonight because of a 'fever'.

We all feel our way around a corner until we see the floor illuminated by rope lights. The manager is standing there, his arms folded. He congratulates his nephew and even goes as far as to kiss him on the forehead, beads of sweat and all. I look away, stifling a gag. He gives José a nod of approval and pats Blake lovingly on the back. When he gets to me, he seizes my bicep and yanks me toward him.

"Nice fucking show." He yells sarcastically, over the crowd. "But I'm currently screwed. The owner's pissed because you threw that water bottle into the audience."

I blink, half expecting him to be fucking with me. "I could've got some warning that it's a frickin kid's club! And besides, they asked for it! They loved it!" I argue. My voice can still penetrate over the crowd perfectly, even though I've been singing nonstop for over an hour.

He drags me farther backstage, until we're in full light and the crowd is behind several brick walls.

"I think the prick has got a problem with the band, but I'm not the one apologizing this time. Get the fuck to his office, it's up the stairs." He spits, gesturing randomly towards a hallway, a metal stairway at the end. "You have to knock, and he'll probably be busy."

"Fuck that." I growl, shoving away from him. Do I really look like I need to go grovel at some half-naked obese slob with a few dozen whores around his neck? No.

"Jesse." My manager warns in that impatient father-like voice. I keep walking, and so he grabs a handful of my hair and pulls me back towards him, nearly yanking it out of my scalp and making my neck snap. I don't make a sound…too used to pain to really acknowledge it anymore. He seems moderately surprised by this when I turn back toward him, nonchalantly.

"I really, honestly, do not think it's going to accomplish anything. The guy probably wants something from me, which I won't give. The whole water-bottle thing is obviously the worst excuse I've ever heard for a blow job."

Kale glares at me, not amused. "You'll do it, or you won't be sleeping in a comfortable bed this evening. And you'll be missing the after party."

My nose scrunches, weighing the options. Since physical pain doesn't faze me, he usually punishes me by taking away things he knows I enjoy, without actually do my body any real harm. I've been forced to sleep in the closet twice before, and I certainly didn't sleep. It's a tiny storeroom next to the bathroom that is big enough for maybe someone to sit or stand, but certainly not lay. A bodyguard has to sit against the door all night so I can't get out. I almost cry those nights, but of course, my eyes never let forth any tears.

I glare at him, long and hard, hoping he'll let this one off. He just smiles back at me, covering up his impatience. The one man that has somehow managed to control me.

I sigh loudly and spin around, walking towards the stairs. I scale the steps, two at a time, day-dreaming about accidentally falling and tearing my face open on the metal grating. But I still have the encore in five minutes, and with a crowd this size it would be disastrous if my manager had to tell them there would be none.

The door reads Manager in stick-on metal letters. I have a sudden bitter taste in my mouth as I imagine the word rolling off my lips. So far, every manager I've met wants to use me and has bad taste in just about everything.

I knock on the door, simultaneously hoisting my jeans up. Kale didn't specify if he'd be busy with men or women, so better safe than sorry. This guy isn't getting anything from me.

When the door opens, it's a greasy, obese man like I imagined, but he is alone. And by the way he looks at me, it was a safe call with my pants. He's not angry or even upset. He looks…satisfied, which make me very uncomfortable.

"Ah, I'm glad you came. Come in." He says, his voice laced with the affects of two or three packs of cigarettes a day. The room's smell gave that away long before his voice did though.

"I don't wanna hang out with you. I'm just here to say my sorry and get the hell done with it." I say loudly, as if he was mentally challenged.

"Oh…I thought you might be interested to see this." He says, flashing me a picture.

My eyes spark with indignation, and I fix him with a glare. "Trust me, I've seen enough of that from the audien…" My voice trails off as my eyes focus on my deceased best friend in the center of the picture, taken on the day he died…only…at night.

"What the fuck is this?" I scream, tearing the picture out of his hands. I cup it in my hands, feeling tears prick my eyes for the first time in nearly three years.

Was Sadin alive?

♪♫♪♫

ME: I'm kinda 'eugh' with this chapter, partly because I don't think people know Jesse enough to understand the attachment he must have once had to Sadin, who will be explained in the next few chapters, obviously. The next few chapters are the reason I've taken such a long time to update this, despite their small chapter size. After that I think things will be easier. Here comes the plot…:

Oh, and thanks for the reviews.