THE REPLACEMENT WAR
© 2020 Lisa Suzanne
* * * * *
“It’s weird sitting here without Kane.”
Brody voices the thought that’s running
through all our minds.
We’ve sat around this same table for band
meetings hundreds of times, and just about every one of them included five of
us.
But now there’s only four.
It’s our first band meeting since our bassist
left, an emergency one since we’re technically still on hiatus for another five
months. But even though we’re on hiatus, there’s an important business matter
at hand.
We need a new bassist.
This isn’t the ideal time to start our
search. There were several pretty important reasons we took this break in the
first place, one being the newborn sleeping upstairs.
But when something as big as your bassist
leaving happens while you’re on a break, you get your ass back to work pretty
damn fast.
“It feels like someone died,” Adam says, and
we all nod or grunt in agreement.
I chug down a few sips of Miller Lite.
It does feel like we’re mourning some
loss, and that’s because we are. But that’s part of being a band. There are
highs, and there are lows, and we deal with it like the brothers we’ve become.
Even when one of those brothers chooses to
walk away.
“I still don’t get why he left,” Brody
mutters. “Why the fuck would you want to start from scratch again? Why would
you just...” He pauses and shrugs. “Give up at the height of everything?”
None of us get it, really, but as I think
about the newborn upstairs again—someone who’s only been here on this earth for
the last fourteen days yet who runs through my mind pretty much every second of
every day—I realize that love in all its forms can make us do things other people
might not understand.
“He fell in love,” I say, and that’s pretty
much the long and short of it. “Enough about why he left. We’ve got
limited time and Rascal needs to get back to LA for a gig tonight. Do any of
you have anybody that immediately springs to mind? Or will we need to reach out
to people we know for ideas?”
“Ethan mentioned he knows of a few guys,”
Brody says, naming his future brother-in-law and the drummer of the
multi-platinum sensation Vail. “I could get in touch with him and see who he
recommends.”
I nod. “Obviously anyone recommended by
someone in Vail will be a contender. Anyone else?” I stand and grab another
beer from the fridge.
“Emily and I saw a cover band a few weeks ago
and we both commented on how talented their bassist was,” Adam says. He twists
in his chair to look at me. “Hey, grab me one, too.”
I grab two cans and toss one to him on my way
back to my chair. I crack open the cold one. “You have his contact info?”
He shakes his head. “No, but it probably
wouldn’t be hard to get it.”
“Get on that. Anyone else?” I ask.
“Maybe we could just get Kane back,” Brody
suggests.
Rascal chokes on a laugh. “Not likely, dude.”
Of all of us, he’d know. He and Kane were both contracted to fill in
temporarily while another of our record label’s bands searched for a permanent
bassist and lead guitarist. Rascal is still playing with them through the end
of September, and that’s where Kane is now permanently residing.
“I figured it was a long shot,” Brody says.
I nod. “Get me names by Monday and I’ll get
in touch with Mark.”
We’re a big enough band now that we bypass
the channels and go straight to the CEO at the top, the same guy who happens to
be the lead singer of Vail, the co-producer of the reality show we developed
together, and someone who has grown into a good friend of mine over the last
couple years.
To say he’s a busy guy is an understatement,
but he cares about the success of every band signed to his label, and I already
know he’ll want to be involved in the decision-making when it comes time to
choose our new bassist.
And we’re not small potatoes anymore. We top
the charts. We sell out stadiums. We may be taking a short break from practice,
touring, and recording, but we’re not going anywhere.
We’re not going fucking anywhere.
“Kylie’s already itching to get back to work,
and she’ll be skyping next week with Keith to map out a late summer and fall
tour next year. Is everyone still on board for that?”
My question is met with various grunts and
nods of agreement.
“Of course she is,” Rascal says.
I glare in his direction. “What’s that
supposed to mean?”
He chuckles good naturedly. “She just had
your kid two weeks ago and she’s already skyping Keith to plan a tour. Only
Kylie.”
I laugh, too. He has a point. As my wife and
the mother of my child, Kylie’s obviously rooting for MFB. But as our band’s
manager, she’s more than invested in our continued success.
“Speaking of Kylie, she had an idea about
filling our open spot,” I say.
Rascal rolls his eyes. “Here we go again...”
I glare at him again before I glance at Adam
and Brody, who both look interested. “I already ran it by Mark, and he thinks
it’s an incredible idea, too.”
“What is it?” Brody asks.
“A competition, filmed for Rock on the
Road. We’ve already given people two seasons of our reality show, so why
not a third that shows the process of finding someone to fill an open spot in
MFB?”
Brody’s eyes light up. His father—who he no
longer speaks with—used to be involved in television entertainment, and I think
it runs in his blood, too. But that’s about the only thing he shares with his
dad. “What kind of competition?”
“We’re in charge, so it can be whatever we
want it to be. But Kylie’s pitch to Mark was basically that we’d gather ten of
the best bassists we can find, put them in a house together where they’ll be
filmed twenty-four-seven, and choose one of them to fill Kane’s spot.”
“Who’s paying for that?” Adam asks.
“Ashmark will pay for the house and food, and
MFB will kick in some money to pay the contestants. We need to get this off the
ground ASAP to fill this spot, so it’ll be a quick turnaround as long as
everyone is on board.” I look at each guy in my band, and they’re all nodding.
A dart of relief runs through me.
Adam holds up his beer bottle in a toast.
“Let’s do it.”
I hold mine up, too, but I don’t say anything
since it’s my proposal.
“I’m in,” Brody says.
Rascal nods. “As long as it doesn’t interfere
with my schedule playing with Ruby, I’m down for it.”
We touch our bottles together and chug.
“Good. So when we’re off hiatus in December,
I need you ready to play and record new music with our new bassist. I need you
writing now. I need you practicing your shit and creating new sounds. We have a
shitload of banked songs we’ve cut from other albums, but there’s a reason they
were cut. I want a fresh, new sound that matches the new dynamic we’ll have and
I want it to fucking blow everything we’ve ever recorded before out of the
water.”
I see the fire I’m lighting in these guys.
We all share the same ambition to keep MFB at
the top, but there’s a new underlying, unspoken reason we all want our next
album to catapult to success.
It’s our first one without Kane.
And we need to prove that the four of us are
just as strong—maybe even stronger—without him.
None of us believe we could be stronger
without any of the individuals making up My Favorite Band when we were jamming
together for over a decade. But he fucking left us, and that hurts.
And so we’re coming back with something to
prove.
Success, after all, is the best revenge.
I sing the back-up chords to “Don’t Go Away
Mad” while I pluck the strings on my bass, thinking I sort of wish these women
screaming in front of me would listen to the lyrics as Ray sings them.
They’re in their sixties.
I’m...not.
And I do sort of wish they’d just go away
rather than pretend like I’m actually going to take one of them into the break
room so they could have their way with me.
That pretty blonde in the back of the group
with the tits coming out of her dress who, from a distance, looks a little
closer to my age...maybe.
But I’m not much of a cougar hunter.
“Woohoo!” they yell and scream. “Vegas,
baby!”
What happens in Vegas, dear seniors, will
most definitely follow you home.
Just ask Janine, my aunt’s friend. She
cougared up, somehow got a male dancer to join her back at her hotel room, then
headed home with the herp.
More information than I wanted from my aunt,
but she thought it was hilarious.
Besides, even though on stage I look like
Nikki Sixx, I’m definitely not him, and in my normal, everyday life, I don’t
really look all that much like him.
I’m just an impersonator in a Motley Crue
cover band who wishes these women were singing along to songs I wrote...not
songs someone else wrote.
I got tired of wearing a wig on stage, so I
grew out my hair. On stage, I look the part of an eighties rocker in his prime,
especially when I apply that black eyeliner my ex carefully showed me how to
use.
The women who show up at our gigs fucking love
it. Each guy in this band plays his part and plays it well. From the
audience, Mikey looks like the drummer of the band we love so much. Ray looks
like the singer. Vince looks like the guitarist. I look like the bassist.
But all we’ll ever be is a cover band.
All we’ll ever do is jam to the old hits that
we all love.
All we’ll ever be is men playing dress up.
But I don’t just love those songs. I’m
inspired by them. They’ve prompted me to write my own shit, music I’d love to
show the world someday...but I won’t.
How can I when I’m just a run of the mill
impersonator?
I work a day job dealing blackjack. I pull my
hair back out of my face and no one knows I’m the same guy who takes the stage
six nights a week at the lounge upstairs with a capacity of a thousand guests.
Between my hourly wage and tips, I make
enough to split rent at a small apartment within walking distance to work. My
roommate, Kelly, is a back-up dancer in the show that runs just before ours. We
met in the break room when she first started, became fast friends, and started
our nice deal as fuck friends once we moved in together.
We’re just friends, though.
Well, friends who fuck.
She wants more.
I don’t.
There are a lot of different reasons why, but
topping the list is the fact that I just don’t see myself staying in Vegas
forever.
She does.
I don’t see myself imitating someone else for
the rest of my life.
She’s happy back-up dancing. She’s been a
dancer her whole life, so she’s doing what she’s always wanted.
I suppose I am, too...and yet I find myself
wanting something else. Something more out of both my career and my life in
general.
I think I’m just stuck in a rut.
But no matter how stuck in that rut I may find
myself, fucking a cougar just isn’t on my bucket list.
As soon as I step down from the stage and
into the crowd, one of the older ladies who was standing up front the entire
time practically knocks me over.
“You look just like Nikki!” she
screams at me. She tosses her arms around me, which is probably a mistake since
I’m covered in sweat after playing the fuck out of my bass for the last couple
hours under the bright, hot as fuck lights.
And even if she wasn’t three or four decades
older than me, I’d still feel a little sad at her words. She doesn’t care about
me.
She didn’t comment on my musical talent.
She didn’t comment on my good looks, not that
I’d say there’s much to comment on there even if Kelly would wholeheartedly
disagree.
She said I look like Nikki.
That’s all she cares about...a night with a
rock star. She can pretend I’m someone else just like I pretend I’m someone
else.
Because in this equation, Gage Hoffman
doesn’t matter. The outside looks enough like a famous bassist, and I play that
famous bassist’s chords. That is what matters to this woman.
“Thanks,” I say to her, because even though
she knocked down the adrenaline that was coursing through me as I left the
stage, my manners still win.
She squeezes my ass, and I hate that she’s
making me feel like a piece of meat. I give her a look that clearly says that
was inappropriate, and she just smiles at me with a gleam in her eye.
I note the ring on the third finger of her
left hand and can’t help but wonder if her old man would appreciate the fact
that she’s hitting on some young dude in Vegas during her little girls’ trip.
Doubt it.
Another of her friends sidles up to me. “Hey
there, handsome,” she says. “I just loved your rendition of ‘Home Sweet Home.’”
I press my lips together in a tight smile.
“Thanks.” I give her a side hug. “I need to get to the merch booth, but thank
you both for coming tonight.” I untangle myself and beeline for the booth where
we’re forced to stand for a half hour post-show to pose for pictures and
autograph posters.
It’s the same thing every night—every night
except Monday, when the lounge is closed and the shows are dark.
God forbid one of us gets sick or can’t
perform. The hotel has a bank of back-ups just in case, but never once have I
had to use one.
The other guys in my band can’t say the same.
After I pose for what feels like hundreds of
photos, the ushers finally announce last call to get people moving out into the
casino, and once we smile for the last picture and throw up our devil horns,
I’m finally released from my duties for the night.
I head to the break room bathroom first,
where I wash off the eyeliner and rinse the sweat off my face, and then I pull
my hair back with a black hair elastic.
When I walk back into the break room, I hear
a few of the female dealers gossiping around a small table. Their backs are to
me, but I’m by the lockers anyway, out of their line of sight.
“I heard it’s huge,” one of them says.
“I heard he knows how to use it,” another
says.
“God, he’s so hot. Sometimes I watch him when
he’s shuffling, and that bone structure...”
I can’t help but wonder who they’re talking
about. I mentally run through the male dealers I know, and none of them fit the
bill of having good bone structure or looking like they have a huge dick they
know how to use.
“Kelly said that rhythm he has on stage isn’t
just for the stage.”
Kelly? As in the girl I live with and
sometimes fuck?
The other chick giggles. “She told me that,
too. She said living with him is basically like living in a fantasy world. He
walks around without a shirt all day. God, I’d get nothing done because I’d be
staring at him all day.”
I walk around without a shirt on all day.
Well, I did up until today.
I’ll think twice about that now.
I debate for all of a second what to do, and
then because I’m me and I’m not subtle, I walk out from the lockers, head held
high.
They look at me and then each other with wide
eyes. “Have a great night, ladies. I’ll just be heading home to walk around
without a shirt and get into a rhythm with my huge appendage.”
I walk out the back door toward the parking
lot, embarrassed laughter following me all the way.
* * * * *
Coming August 10, 2020 exclusively to Amazon!
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