Amplifier (Dark Tide #2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  FREE NOVELLA

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  POSTFACE

  MAILING LIST

  ALSO BY MAX

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  THE MUSIC

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AMPLIFIER

  Copyright © 2019 Max Henry

  Published by Max Henry

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover Image: RLS Images

  Cover Model: Cody Criswell of Artifas

  Stop worrying.

  You’re perfect the way you are.

  Everything will work out fine.

  Tomorrow is a new day.

  ONE

  Henley

  “Dreams” – The Cranberries

  Every third step is a skip as I struggle to keep up with the guy who charges ahead of me. He weaves and wends through partially unpacked cases, rigging gear, and collapsed boxes as he makes his way across the sodden ground toward the enormous stage.

  This is it, girl. I’ve found my break. My first big job doing what I love.

  All I have to do is keep it.

  Easier said than done when you’re an over-enthusiastic girl with a knack for being all fingers and thumbs. Or empathetic with flair, I like to say.

  “Every night you’ll check in there,” the guy calls over his shoulder, gesturing to a black motorhome parked to the right of the fenced off stage area. “Event security will be based there all night if you get any trouble. You need to sign in, and sign out.”

  The guy, Jericho, is one huge son of a bitch. I expected somebody tall and broad given how he sounded on the phone, but hell, this guy is cut out for football, not running the crew for a best-selling rock band. His short Mohawk is styled into a neat line across his freshly shaved scalp; a jet-black T-shirt stretches across his muscular shoulders. I swear one of my entire shoes would fit inside his massive military-style boots.

  “You can leave your belongings backstage; you’ll see where.” He glances over his shoulder without breaking stride. “Do you have your own workbox, or are you happy to share our gear?”

  “I guess sharing yours will be best for now.” It’s bound to have all the right equipment, and when Dark Tide’s next show is in less than five hours, I don’t exactly have time to set my tools up today.

  I’d rather put the time to use learning the intricacies of how these guys like everything laid out.

  Jericho bounds up the portable steps two at a time, his long legs coasting him across the black painted stage before I can even struggle my short ass to the edge.

  “Everything is taped so you won’t forget where the guys instinctually move throughout the set.” He points to the four corners of a red square tacked around a pedal board and then huffs when he realizes I’m not beside him yet. “You’ll have to learn to be quick, Henley. When it gets crazy, it gets downright fucking wild. And I’m not talking about during the show, either.” He lifts an eyebrow while I nod, caught up beside him.

  “Once I know my way around, I’ll be quick, I promise.” I didn’t get the nickname Speedy at my last gig for no reason.

  The all-girl band I crewed for said I reminded them of Speedy Gonzales: there one minute, gone in a cloud of dust the next. Bitches gifted me a sombrero on my last day.

  “I’ve got things to run through out back, but can I leave you here to start?” He scrubs a meaty hand over his dark brown goatee. “I changed strings after the last show, so all you need to do today is check tuning.”

  “Point me at the gear, and I’ll get stuck in.” I lift the strap of my satchel over my head and set the leather bag down next to the drum stand.

  “You want me to take that out back with me?” Jericho points to my bag. “Shit goes backstage, remember?”

  I shrug. “If you’d rather it was out of the way, otherwise I can stash it later.”

  “I’ll take it now.” His hands twitch. “I like things in order.”

  I blink a couple of times while I take him in. He’s kitted in the usual black, on black, on black. But now that I do a proper inventory I notice not a thing sits out of place on him: no tears, no stains, no loose threads. I bet the guy orders his socks and underwear by color. Although come to think of it, they’re probably all black too.

  “In that case, thanks.” I pass him the satchel, running a mental inventory of what’s inside. Don’t think I’ll need anything.

  “First,” he announces, slinging my bag over his shoulder, “do Rey’s two guitars.” He points to two cases stacked roughly one on top of the other. “If he’s happy, it makes everything else easier to deal with. You don’t need to rack them in any particular order; he’s not fussy.” He then crosses to where there are three cases set in perfect symmetry. “Next, do Kris’s.” He gestures to the rack to the left of the drum kit. “I don’t expect you to remember their names, so I’ll just tell you to put them in order of left to right; blue, white, and black.”

  “I do know a bit about guitars, so I don’t mind if you use their proper names,” I sass.

  He glances down at me with an amused smile. “No, honey. Not the makes. He has actual names for them.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Not unusual for an artist to name their gear, but what in the hell has Kris christened his equipment if Jericho thinks I won’t be able to remember the names? “Blue, white, and then black.”

  He nods, right as my damn phone begins to ring. It takes him a second to realize that the sound is on him.

  “I’ll just …” I reach for the s
atchel.

  He passes it over and stands back with folded arms while I pull my phone free to check the display. Dad. “One second. Sorry.” I smile at Jericho as I hit Answer. “I’m at work. Can I call you back?”

  “Why do I have a charge on your card for two hundred and fifty dollars at Hades? Are you partying again?”

  “They make shoes,” I explain, catching Jericho’s stern eye. “I’ll call you later. I’m with my new boss.”

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars, Henley. You said you wanted independence now you’re not at home.”

  “Later, Dad. Love you.” I smack End before he has a chance to catch a breath and then smile tightly at Jericho.

  I do want independence, but a girl also needs epic shoes when her new job consists of working for Dark Tide. I mean, hello.

  “No phones on stage. Even during set up.” Jericho sighs. “If there’s an emergency, we’ve got a number you can give your family or loved ones to call.”

  “That would be awesome.” I stuff the damn thing back in my bag. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Especially since Dad will more than likely place a hold on my credit card after this.

  Putting him in charge of my finances was equally as stupid as it was smart. When my income comes in scraps, having somebody to check my add-to-cart-happy habits made sense.

  Jericho takes my satchel, gaze lifting over my head as he does. “Fuck.” His top lips curls in a sneer.

  I turn to see what’s grabbed his attention—or rather who—and damn near have a heart attack on the spot. They’re here. Dark Tide is here already. Oh my fucking God.

  “They’re early,” Jericho grumbles. “You remember what I said?”

  I forcibly peel my gaze from the four gods striding across the grass and point toward Rey’s gear. “No particular order.” And then Kris’s. “Blue, white, and then black. Left to right.”

  “Perfect.” He nods once. “Emery usually tunes his—some calming ritual thing—so don’t worry about his equipment pre-show. I’ll introduce you to his tech, Jimmy, later. Holler if you need help.”

  I wave him away with a wide smile. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ll be fine.”

  He seems unconvinced; lips pulled into a firm line as he takes two steps backward before turning for the side of the stage. He has reason to be cautious. The largest gig I’ve prepped was for less than four hundred people. This is way, way, out of my league.

  Yep. I’ll be fine. I guess if I tell myself that enough times, then it should come true.

  The drift of conversation on the afternoon breeze reaches me as the band nears the stage. I keep focused on the job at hand while I cross to Rey’s cases, side-stepping a tech who sprints from the far side, and past me, with an arm full of cables. The guy looks seasoned, and it leaves me wondering how long he’s worked for these types of shows.

  Jericho made a point of telling me people don’t often leave once they get a position with his crew, as though that was supposed to make me feel better about taking the job after their previous guitar tech went MIA two days ago. The whole thing struck me as weird, especially since I would have given the guy my left foot to get on this tour.

  I may have exaggerated a few things on my resume. So sue me.

  My skin prickles when I recognize the voice that’s been with me in some of my deepest hours the past few years: Rey Thomas.

  “Have I got time for a fucking smoke before we start?”

  He breezes past me as though I don’t exist, shedding his black denim jacket before he then tosses it over one of the cases to my right.

  I want to look. I want to pinch myself, as well. But both things are as likely to make me squeal as the other. You don’t pursue a job in this industry without some sort of unhealthy love for music, and when it comes to these guys, well, they’re right up there on my “Most Played” list on Spotify.

  I zero in on unpacking Rey’s guitar, praying I don’t fuck anything up as I snap the locks open.

  “If nicotine will keep you from ripping our goddamn heads off, then sure, have a smoke.”

  I glance to my left to see Rey’s brother, Toby, head for his drums. His trademark multi-colored Mohawk is un-styled, the ends hanging messily in his face. Even so, his scowl is evident when he drops a large bottle of energy drink next to his stool.

  “Fuck off, asshole.”

  I reach to shift Rey’s jacket off the case at the same time as he does. “Sorry.”

  He doesn’t say a thing, simply stares at me as though he can’t figure out where the hell I came from. Unlike his brother, not a hair sits out of place. It’s as though he’s literally walked out of one of their promo shots. I swear I have an image saved to my Pinterest board with the same T-shirt, jeans, and boots he wears today.

  “Let’s go.” The mumbled words come from Kris as he taps Rey on the shoulder. “I’ll join you since you owe me a few.”

  I step back as Rey pulls his pack out, shifting my gaze to Kris. He nods tightly, as though to apologize before jerking the hood of his sweatshirt up.

  I’m fucking dead, and in heaven, I’m sure of it. Somebody goddamn pinch me.

  I told my best guy pal that I’d have a job working for Dark Tide before I was thirty and he laughed in my face. Well, look who’s laughing now. Two months shy of my twenty-eighth birthday and I’m taking the jacket Rey shoves at me and setting it aside so I can lift the lid on his guitar.

  “They’re hiring women now?” Rey remarks as he walks away with Kris, tossing a thumb over his shoulder and in my general direction. “You don’t see that often.”

  Kris shrugs, looking back to steal a furtive glance from beneath his hood, the same as I do him. I can’t pick if Rey wanted to be an asshole with that comment, or if he merely makes an observation. Both seem equally as pointless.

  “You can take that backstage.”

  I look to my left to find Toby pointing to Rey’s jacket, discarded on the stage. “Sure. Do you want me to do that right now?”

  Don’t fuck things up. Don’t fuck things up. Don’t fuck things up….

  “No. Just when you head down there next.” He hesitates, narrowing his gaze on me. “Just in case you weren’t sure what to do with it.” His sleeveless tee displays muscular arms, honed from hours behind the kit.

  I lift my gaze to find his head cocked slightly to one side, his bottom lip between his teeth as though he tries to work out the puzzle before him.

  Seconds stretch like hours before my body finally decides to co-operate and allows me to continue unpacking Rey’s gear.

  “How long have you been doing this?” Toby folds his arms over his chest and widens his stance.

  I swallow, fingertip brushing the stainless lock on the case. Shoot. Please don’t let me be sprung before I get a full day in. Twenty-four hours. At least give me twenty-four hours of the fantasy before reality hits.

  “My dad got me into music when I was young, so I’ve been at this a while.” It’s not a complete lie. But I’m pretty sure he’s assuming something more than Dad, and I seated cross-legged on our living room floor listening to records with incense burning all around.

  Hippies. Impossible for them to break habits.

  He nods, giving a slight grunt of acknowledgement. I busy myself unpacking Rey’s SRS so that Toby can’t see the hesitation in my eyes.

  “Well, hopefully, you do a better job than the last idiot they hired.” He rolls his eyes and turns away. “Guy had no fucking idea what he was doing.”

  No pressure. How hard can it be to learn the ropes in a few hours? Nothing like a little stress to put the heat on, huh?

  I suck in a deep breath while Toby repositions himself behind his kit, squaring my shoulders before I reach out and take the instrument before me in hand. You’ve got this, Hen. By the time Kris returns with Rey after what has to be the longest smoke break in history, I have both Rey’s guitars tuned and racked, and Kris’s blue and white ones ready to roll. But the black one gives me hell after I discov
er its strap won’t connect. I hold the instrument by the neck in my left hand, doing my damnedest to hitch the leather strip to the top end, yet the freaking thing won’t stay attached.

  Kill me now. First day, Henley. First day.

  “Pass it over.”

  I come way too close to dropping the instrument for my liking. Get yourself together. Come on, girl. Kris stands beside me, hand outstretched for his baby.

  I pass it off, fire flaming my cheeks while I step back to let him take over. His slender fingers wrap around the guitar’s neck while he watches me with one eyebrow cocked, the other slashed in an angry scowl. I’ve totally screwed this up. Gone and got myself shafted before they even play a set.

  I can make sure their instruments sound right, but I can’t get a frickin’ strap on. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “You have to hold your tongue right with this one.”

  He’s so damn soft-spoken, yet his words are clear and precise as he frowns at the neck of the instrument. I watch while he twists the strap a certain way to get the leather to stay on, and then holds the guitar out for me.

  My heart leaps to take it from him; eager to attach to the man I’ve known intimately in 2D until now. These guys … they have no idea what it’s like to be in awe of them, I’m sure.

  “I’ll have to get you to show me how to do that, so I don’t lose my job before it’s started.” I laugh awkwardly as I reach for the guitar.

  He pulls the instrument back before I can take hold, flicking the strap off again with a twist of his wrist. “Here. Watch.”

  I take a tentative step toward him, super aware as Emery walks on stage behind me while Rey and Toby argue again. Kris’s scent hits me first, the mix of smoke with his cologne a heady combination. I leave a safe space between us and crane my neck to see what he does. My focus drops to the flash of skin at his collarbones, the collar of his hooded sweatshirt low cut beneath his open leather jacket.

  Kris turns his head to look at me briefly and then steps close enough that his arm rests against the length of mine. Tell me he can’t feel me shaking. I swear to God I’m nervous enough to be sick.

  This job means so much more than bragging rights. If I can’t nail this, then why am I on this tour? I took this challenge with the belief that I could excel at it—I need to remember that.