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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
She should have kissed her…
The Lady Kings and their singer, Lana Lynch, have been out of the limelight since Lana's partner's sudden death ten years ago. They’re ready for an epic comeback tour, but have to take a young and hip support band with them.
Cleo Palmer and The Other Women are over the moon when they get booked to support their lifelong idols and share the stage with the iconic Lady Kings—especially queer legend Lana Lynch.
But when Lana invites her to sing a sensual duet together every night, Cleo gets way more than she bargained for.
Lana and Cleo's on-stage chemistry is off the charts, but the differences in their age and life experience, not to mention some dramatic band politics, prove difficult to overcome.
Can Lana and Cleo find their way to each other once the spotlights are switched off?
Best-selling lesbian fiction author Harper Bliss brings you an age-gap rock star romance about what happens when the passion of a performance turns into something real…
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CONTENTS
Special Offer from the Author
1. Lana
2. Cleo
3. Lana
4. Cleo
5. Lana
6. Cleo
7. Lana
8. Cleo
9. Lana
10. Cleo
11. Lana
12. Cleo
13. Lana
14. Cleo
15. Lana
16. Cleo
17. Lana
18. Cleo
19. Lana
20. Cleo
21. Lana
22. Cleo
23. Lana
24. Cleo
25. Lana
26. Cleo
27. Lana
28. Cleo
29. Lana
30. Cleo
31. Lana
32. Cleo
33. Lana
34. Cleo
35. Lana
36. Cleo
37. Lana
A Note from Harper
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About the Author
Also by Harper Bliss
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Details can be found at the end of this book.
LANA
To do any of this without Joan by my side is like doing it with a limb cut off, or worse, a torn vocal cord. I only feel like half a person. Like the better part of me is still missing. Our new single is called “The Better Part of Me” for a reason.
“I’m so stoked,” Billie says. “Let’s do this.”
The Lady Kings recruited Billie as Joan’s replacement almost a year ago. I should be used to her by now. I am in some ways, but in many others, she will never be Joan. The best guitarist to ever walk this earth, in my ultra-biased opinion, with the nimblest of fingers—and I should know.
What distance remains between Billie and me will soon be obliterated by the tour we’re about to embark on. A two-month cross-country journey will do that to you. All boundaries are about to be shattered. But first, we’re checking out our support band, The Other Women, and the show they’ll be opening with every night. They’d better bring it. I haven’t come to watch a rehearsal. The Lady Kings are here to experience a proper performance.
Our tour manager, Andy, greets us at the entrance of the Hollywood Bowl. The first concert of The Lady Kings reunion tour—if you want to call it that—will be a home game. I can’t even remember how many times we’ve played this venue. For The Other Women, I think it might be the first. I try to remember my first time on this particular stage, but it’s too long ago. Too many years have passed and too many things have happened since. Like our guitarist dying.
Most of the crew are here. Some have been with us for decades; some I will get better acquainted with soon enough.
We’ve only settled into our seats when there is movement on the stage. They don’t want to keep us waiting. Good. My expectations are high and low at the same time. I wouldn’t have picked The Other Women as our opening act myself, but according to everyone at our record company, it makes perfect sense. Truth be told, I don’t even know why we need an opening act at all. We’re The Lady Kings, for crying out loud. When I come on, the crowd goes from cold to hot in a split second. I’ve always known how to light up an audience. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. But times change and The Lady Kings haven’t toured for over ten years.
So, here we are. Poised for The Other Women. We’re not coming into this cold. We’ve watched their clips on YouTube. We’ve had their songs on repeat on Spotify. We’ve pored over their pictures and bios.
Roy, our manager since we started out in the early nineties, said, “Fact is, you may need them more than they need you.”
“We’ll see about that,” Deb, our drummer, replied.
“I’m feeling my age.” Sam, our bass player, is looking at the stage as The Other Women take their places. “How old are these kids again?”
“Twenty-something,” Billie says. “With an enormous fan base.”
“Evening,” the lead singer says into the mic, only to be met with an ear-piercing wave of reverb. She steps back and waits until she gets a thumbs-up from one of the sound techs. “Let’s try that again.” If she’s intimidated by having all current members of The Lady Kings and their entourage staring at her from the front row of an otherwise empty Hollywood Bowl, she hides it well. “It’s an honor to play for such rock royalty tonight. Thank you for taking us on tour with you. We promise not to let you down.”
“Polite as well,” Sam mumbles in my ear. “I didn’t know they still made young people like that.”
“Certainly politer than we were at their age,” Deb says.
I let them talk and keep my gaze trained on Cleo Palmer, lead singer of The Other Women. We look nothing alike, yet she reminds me of myself many moons ago, when The Lady Kings took the music world by storm. When audiences couldn’t get enough of us. When security guards had to form a human shield around us after every show so we could get from the stage door onto the tour bus without being grabbed by delirious fans. Long bygone days.
Our fans have aged with us and, so I’ve been told, these days, meet and greets with the band are official add-ons when you buy a ticket for the show. I’ll be curious to see how that goes once the tour starts.
“You may know this first song,” Cleo says. “It’s called ‘Like No One Else.’”
“No fucking way,” Sam says.
“The nerve of these kids,” Deb adds.
“They reel you in with their seemingly polite ways,” Billie says.
I have to laugh at their brazenness. “Like No One Else” is only The Lady Kings’ most iconic song. Our biggest hit. And our support act are starting their set with a cover version. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended.
“This better be good,” someone from the crew shouts.
The Other Women respond by playing the first chords of our song.
“Are they even all women?” I hear someone say behind me. “That bass player doesn’t look like a woman to me. Come to think of it, that drummer…”
A female voice shushes them—even when you’re in an all-female band, the men around you still need to be told to shut up sometimes.
I barely notice the bassist or the drummer, or The Other Women’s guitarist, who lays down a mean riff Joan would have approved of. My eyes are glued exactly where they’re supposed to be. I’m getting confirmation of what I’ve known since I was introduced to The Other Women. Cleo Palmer was born for the stage. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. Her presence, the way she uses her voice, how her body writhes against the microphone stand, the dramatically held high note at the end of the chorus. It’s all there and it commands all my attention.
There’s no denying it. Cleo Palmer is a star. Maybe Roy was right. Maybe we’re the lucky ones getting to tour with them and not the other way around.
By the time the song ends, they’ve already won over every person in tonight’s small audience.
“Fuck. They’re good,” Billie says.
“They are,” I confirm, as an idea sprouts in my head. If we’re going to be touring with The Other Women, with someone like Cleo Palmer, we might as well make good use of them.
CLEO
Opening our show with The Lady Kings’ biggest hit was a bold move. But I didn’t get into this business to be a good girl and only do what is expected of me. On the contrary. And boy, was it a thrill to look into Lana Lynch’s face as I sang the hell out of that song. I’ve had years of practice. When we formed our band, it was the first song we taught ourselves to play—although this is the first time we’ve played it in front of an audience. I hope Lana was impressed.
I cast her one last glance as I let the final note of our set die in my throat. We’re no longer used to playing for such a tiny audience, but they make up for it by giving us a massive applause. Lana holds her hands above her head as she claps for us. Did she just give me a nod of approval? I’m about to find out.
“Thank you. It was such a pleasure. Can’t wait to play here again in a few days.” I tap two fingers to my forehead in a salute and head off the stage.
Backstage, I’m joined by my bandmates.
“That was so tight,” Daphne says. “You smashed it.” I exchange a high-five with our guitarist. Tim and Jess follow hot on her heels.
“Do you think we impressed them?” Judging by the smirk on Tim’s face, it’s not a question.
“Fuck, yeah.”
“Cleo?” I turn around. “Lana would like a word,” Roy, The Lady Kings’ manager, says. “Whenever you have a minute.”
“The King wants to see you,” Daphne says. “Best not keep her waiting.”
“Argh,” Jess groans. She’s had a crush on Lana Lynch forever.
“Come with me,” I offer.
Jess huffs out some air. “We’re going on tour with them. I’m sure I’ll get my moment with Lana.”
“Go,” Tim says. “You must have dazzled the fuck out of her.”
I follow Roy to the front stage where Lana is surrounded by the other members of her band. This won’t be a solo audience then.
“Way to go,” The Lady Kings’ new guitarist, Billie, says, and gives me a thumbs-up.
“Can I steal you for a minute?” Even when she speaks, Lana’s voice is low and gravelly.
“Of course.”
“How daring.” We walk up a few steps. “To kick off with ‘Like No One Else.’”
“It’s a tribute, of course.” When I’m talking to Lana Lynch, I don’t care if I sound like the ultimate fangirl—all of us in the band would cite The Lady Kings as one of our defining influences.
“You did it justice, and it gave me an idea.” Lana leans against a bench.
“Thanks.” It’s still surreal that we’ll be touring with our idols. We were gearing up for a headline tour with our own support act, but we happily gave up on that for a chance to tour with the Kings. All four of us, unanimously, in a heartbeat.
“You might have heard of this duet I’ve done with Isabel Adler,” Lana says.
“Your long-awaited comeback single.” I’m trying to keep my cool. I’ve only had ‘I Should Have Kissed You’ on repeat since it was released—not something I would ever have expected of a song featuring Isabel Adler. “I love it.”
“Yeah, so… on the tour, how about you and I sing it together?” Lana fixes her dark gaze on me.
“For real?”
“Yeah.” She bats her lashes once.
“Sure, I mean, if you think that I’m up to that.” There’s not a lot left of my earlier bravado.
“Good.” She plunges her hands into her pockets. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think you were up to it.”
“Okay. Thanks. Yes, let’s do it.”
“We should get some serious rehearsal time in. The tour kicks off in three days. I need to talk to the band, but I was thinking we could add it as the last encore. Send people home with some good vibes.”
Some good lesbian vibes, I almost say, but catch myself. Although I don’t know why. Surely, I could say something like that to Lana. But I don’t know her all that well—yet.
“Sure,” I say, instead of all the things I’m thinking. I can hardly blame myself for this starstruck moment. Lana Lynch and The Lady Kings are rock legends and my band are not only going to be opening the show for them; I’m actually going to be on stage with Lana.
“Can you come to my house tomorrow?” If Lana’s excited by this at all, she’s not letting on. Then again, she’s known for being cool as a cucumber under the hottest circumstances. “We’ll do a few run-throughs without the band first. See how our voices match.” Sounds as though Lana’s got this all figured out without talking to the other members of The Lady Kings.
“Of course. Just let me know when and I’ll be there.” Never mind that I have a million little things to take care of before we leave town for two months. I’ll just do them in less time. Even if I didn’t want to get off on the best possible foot with Lana, I’d still cancel everything for a chance to spend a few hours singing with her.
“Roy will give you all the details. Thanks, kid.”
Kid. Jesus. So much for me beginning to think of us as equals.
“You’ve got the right stuff. Any fool can see that.”
Oh, fuck. There’s the blush. Damn you, pale Irish skin. The last thing I wanted was to blush in front of Lana Lynch. Luckily, it’s completely dark, and where we’re standing is not well lit.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Lana just nods, then walks off.
Even though I take a few deep breaths, I’m still beside myself when I join my bandmates. I tell them what Lana asked.
“No freaking way,” Jess says. “Why can’t I sing like you, darn it.” Jess has always refused to swear with us.
“Fuck. You’re going to be on stage with them.” Tim is practically jumping up and down.
“It’s not a done deal yet,” I say. “Going over to Lana’s tomorrow is more like an audition than anything else.”
“Give yourself a break, Cleo,” Daphne says. “Lana knows what you can do with your voice. You must have impressed her tonight. That’s why she asked you. Besides, they’d be crazy not to put that song on their set list. It’s been at the top of the charts for months. It’s probably the reason they’re touring again.”
“We’ll see.” Heat glows within me. I can’t wait for tomorrow. “Drinks are on me tonight. Come on.”
We head to our favorite Silver Lake hangout spot, where I try to calm my nerves with way too many shots.
LANA
“I’m only fifty-four,” I say to Roy on the phone. “I’m only halfway through my second act.” With the life I’ve lived, and the knowledge of how fleeting it can be after Joan’s sudden death, I’m exaggerating, but that’s what you have to do when you want to get a point across to your manager.
“Even so,” Roy replies. In the distance, the doorbell chimes. “Music biopics are all the rage these days. And Faye Fleming has expressed interest in playing you. It could be amazing.”
“I really don’t think the time is right for this.”
“I’m sending you the script regardless. It’s fantastic, Lana. I wouldn’t be trying to persuade you if it was crap.”
There’s a knock at the door. “Yes,” I say.
“Great,” Roy says in my ear.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Roy. Someone’s here. I have to go.”
The door opens, and my assistant, Logan, appears. I hold up a finger to signal that my phone conversation will be over in a minute.
“Take the script on tour with you. Read it to relax before you go to bed.”
“I prefer to read fiction.” My life is not fiction to me, nor will reading some Hollywood version of it calm me down after a show.
“We’ll talk later.” Without further ado, Roy ends the call.
“Cleo Palmer’s here.” Logan’s voice is much more high-pitched than usual.
“Great.” I wave them in. A bit of singing will set me right—will take my mind off this movie, which is the quintessential Hollywood way of capitalizing on my grief. But I won’t let anyone turn Joan’s death into a spectacle, into just another way to make a buck. All the Faye Flemings in the world won’t be able to change my mind about that—although, admittedly, the thought of someone like Faye playing me is rather flattering.
“Hey.” Cleo gives me a shy wave. “Thank you so much for inviting me into your lovely home.”
Is this the same woman who rocked the stage so hard last night, every person watching was bowled over?
“Are you all right, Cleo?” I examine her face. Her eyes are a little red with dark half-moons underneath them—a look I know well from my reflection in the mirror throughout the nineties. “Rough night?”
“We went on an unexpected bender last night, but I’m perfectly fine.”
“Logan,” I say to my assistant, who is still lingering, “Can you get us a large quantity of water, please?”
“Coming right up.”
“To say Logan’s a fan of The Other Women would be an understatement.” I shoot Cleo a smile as he hurries away. “Thanks for coming, by the way. I appreciate it can be a little intimidating to turn up at my house alone.”
“And try to sing that song with you.” Cleo giggles like a nervous schoolgirl. If she’s anything like me, her nerves will melt like ice under the sun as soon as she has a microphone in her hands.
“Shall we get to it then?” The tour starts in two days. There’s not much time left for fooling about. “I’m not expecting perfection, okay? Not by a long shot. We’ll get better as the tour progresses.” Isabel Adler’s part in the song is not a vocal tour de force—she can no longer sing like she used to. It’s all about the intention, the tone, and the breath. The pure musicality of less is more. The way she doesn’t strain to match the power of my voice. The contrast between the two of us. If anything, Cleo’s going to have to tone it down considerably.
“I was surprised you asked me. My voice is nothing like Isabel Adler’s.”
“Hm.” I nod. Joan would have been perfect to sing Isabel’s part. But Joan’s not here. “Don’t even try to sound like her. You’re right. Your voice is different from hers. But it’s also very different from mine, which is why I think this might work beautifully.” I walk her to the corner of the room where a bunch of instruments are set up, although we won’t be needing those today.
Logan returns with five bottles of water. “This should do the trick. If you need anything else, let me know. I’m here for you,” he says to Cleo.
Cleo grins at him, already showing more of her stage persona than a few minutes before. “Thanks, Logan. I appreciate it.”
“I think we’re good.” With a wink, I send Logan away. “I have the lyrics printed here.” I hand her a sheet of paper and a bottle of water.
“I know them by heart, but it’s always good to have a reminder.”
Cleo’s wearing a pair of denim dungarees that I could swear went out of fashion decades ago. It must be one of those things that came back in style without me noticing. Underneath, she’s wearing a light pink top that, oddly, doesn’t clash with the color of her hair, which is somewhere between blond and ginger. Head tilted back, throat exposed, she drinks greedily from the bottle of water, and she couldn’t look less like a rock star—more like one of those pop starlets whose image and music is completely manufactured by a record company hoping to score big by combining the right kind of person with a catchy, over-produced tune.
“You were great last night. I look forward to going on the road with your band.” I perch on a stool next to one of the microphone stands.
“Thank you. That means so much coming from you.” Cleo’s cheeks flush the tiniest bit, as though her blush is contained to a small circle just beneath her cheekbones. It gives her that wholesome look again. Maybe that’s how rock bands portray themselves these days, full of virtue and good vibes. Times sure are different than in our heyday. Audiences value different things these days.
“Are you okay with doing a few a cappella run throughs? Just to get each other’s vibe a little?”
“Anything you want.” There it is. The glint in her eyes piercing through the shy-girl facade. Another glimpse of the woman on stage last night. Cleo’s also here without her band, without her back-up. “Can I ask you something?” She slants her head.
“Of course.”
“Were you nervous about recording this song with Isabel Adler?”
“Nervous?” I blurt out. “No.” When it comes to singing, to performing, nerves have never been a part of it for me. I’ve encountered many a performer sick with anxiety before a gig, but I’m not one of them. “Not about the singing bit, anyway,” I correct myself. “I was apprehensive about meeting her, though. With all she’s been through.”
“You’ve been through a lot as well.”
Way to pierce through my armor of cool. I glance away at the opposite wall, where Joan’s favorite guitar—a Gibson Les Paul—hangs like the most valuable piece of art in a museum, unsure how to answer her.
“You can hear it in your voice, especially in this song,” Cleo continues. “Maybe that’s because it’s a duet.”
“Maybe.” A grin on my lips, I look at Cleo, who has made herself comfortable on the stool next to me. I quite like her. Maybe I can be her mentor or something like that, not that she needs one. “I take it you know the melody?”
“I know this song as if I wrote it myself.” Ostentatiously, Cleo lets the sheet of paper with the lyrics flutter to the floor. “Shall we?” She turns to me and looks deep into my eyes.
For the first time in a long while, I feel my own cheeks flush with unexpected heat.
CLEO
I’m singing the hell out of this song, and I know it. It’s the one thing I do best and it’s the most delicious treat to do so with Lana Lynch by my side. I can’t believe I was so nervous before coming here. Thousands of people pay good money to see me do exactly this. But in this room, it’s just Lana and me. And Lana knows a thing or two about singing as well. Her voice is so sultry and low, like a melodious bass note that hits you in the right spot over and over again—a sound I became addicted to a long time ago.
“Maybe we should sing it a cappella on tour as well,” I blurt out after we’ve sung “I Should Have Kissed You” a couple of times and we’ve already found an unmistakable groove—as though we were meant for nothing else but to sing this song together.
“I’m not sure about that,” Lana says, taking what I just said very seriously. “I was thinking about making it the final song of the night and I’m not sure I should do that without the band.”
“Oh no, of course not. I was just babbling. Speaking without thinking. I do that sometimes.”
“I value your input. And you’re right. It sounds good without musical accompaniment, but we should at least try it with the band as well, because we’re definitely doing this. If you’re up for it. You can’t go off partying with your bandmates as soon as your set ends.”
“And miss even a minute of your show? Not a chance.” Lana probably doesn’t have a clue how much her band means to me. Clearly, she’s not one for chitchat, what with the way she shoved a mic into my hands when I’d barely walked in the door. She behaves like a woman who is quickly running out of time. Hm, that sounds like a good song lyric, but I can hardly write it down now. Not when I’m bantering with Lana Lynch.
“It’s pretty much the same show every night.”
“But still.” I flash her a stage smile.
“We’ll talk again in a few weeks.”
“Seriously, Lana, it’s such an honor for me to sing with you. I’ve been a fan of The Lady Kings for as long as I’ve been aware that music exists. I’ve been listening to your songs for as long as I can remember. The Lady Kings are one of the main reasons The Other Women even exist. The Lady Kings are what we aspire to be when we grow up, if you know what I mean.” I don’t add that we could have gone on our own headline tour instead of reducing our status to their opening act. It doesn’t matter. As far as dreams go, it doesn’t get much bigger than to open for The Lady Kings.
“Thank you.” Lana barely smiles—even at her age, she’s still too cool for that. “That’s sweet of you to say.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Given the amount of bullshit spouted in this business, I appreciate it,” Lana says.
“We’re looking forward to the tour so much.”
“So are we, even though we’re a bit rusty. It’s been a while and two months is a long time to be away from home.”
“That’s not how I think about it. This tour is one big gift for us. But I get that it’s different for you.”
“Hm.” Lana seems to have had enough of the small talk already.
“Is it okay if we snap a quick pic for Insta? Our manager insisted.” And Jess will go crazy, although she might also be jealous. But she’ll get plenty of chances for selfies with Lana Lynch—in that respect, two months is a long time.
“It’s part of the deal these days, I guess,” Lana says on a sigh. “Billie’s into all that social media stuff. Someone at the record company manages my accounts.” She gives a dismissive wave of the hand. “Personally, I fail to see the point.”
I barely stop myself from saying, “You’re not that old.” I know Lana’s fifty-four. My mother, who turned sixty recently, is all over social media. Then again, my mother isn’t an iconic rock star with millions of followers.
I pull my phone from my back pocket. “Ready?”
Lana nods.
I huddle close to her. She’s a little taller than me. So far, we’ve used two microphones to sing our duet, but as I hold up my phone to snap the picture, maybe, for the last chorus, when things get a little heated in the song, we should share the mic.
I inspect the picture I’ve just taken. “You look amazing,” I say. “Me, much less so. Can we do another?”
“Show me.” Lana holds out her hand and, with a meekness quite foreign to me, I give it to her. “What are you talking about? You look fabulous. What do you think is wrong with you in this picture?”
“Um, my eyes are only half open. I have a wisp of hair in front of my cheek.” And, maybe, compared to Lana, I’m just not as photogenic. Maybe, with her glossy dark hair and blistering brown eyes, the camera just loves her more.
“Nonsense.” She gives me back my phone. “If it’s that important to you, we can take another. But just for the record, I think you look wonderful.” She follows up with a warm smile.
“Maybe for this one, we can pretend to be singing into the same microphone,” I suggest.
“Whatever you say.” She grins indulgently at me as though she’s only going to do me a silly courtesy like this once.
“This tour is going to be all over socials. You do know that?”
“Sure.” Lana looks as though she couldn’t care less about what lengths new bands will go to in order to maximize visibility these days. She doesn’t have to. She already has a mansion in Laurel Canyon. She’s had numerous number one records. The Lady Kings’ fanbase might have decreased while they were on hiatus, but many fans have remained loyal to their idols, because The Lady Kings aren’t just any old band.
Even though I was only a toddler when they made it big, I realize how hard it was for an all-female band to be taken seriously in the nineties. The Lady Kings paved the way for bands like The Other Women. They put up with a lot of shit that would be inconceivable these days.
I pull the microphone stand close and we take up our positions. Instead of pretending, Lana sings the chorus of “I Should Have Kissed You” and I sing along. The resulting picture is perfect, even if I say so myself.
We look great together and I can’t wait to get on the stage with her to perform it at the end of the show. Me and Lana on stage together at the very moment when the crowd is at fever pitch, singing this particular song. It’s slow and sensual and full of innuendo. It will drive quite a few people in the audience crazy—both our bands have quite the queer following. It will be the perfect concert ending, Lana’s right about that. It will also bring some attention back to the opening act, which is a win-win for The Other Women.
“Are you free tomorrow morning to practice this with the band?” Lana asks.
Not really, but I can hardly say no to her. “Sure.”
“It’s going to be dynamite, you know,” she says, a tinge of excitement in her voice. “You’re good, kid. Very good.”
Bursting with pride, I belt out a few more run-throughs.
LANA
On the first night of the tour, I’m more nervous than I expected. When I look at Billie, it’s easy enough to understand why. Billie is a wonderful woman and a kick-ass guitarist, but she’s not Joan.
Because I’m the singer, I’ve always been considered the cool front lady of our band, but if I’m cool, then Joan was made of the coldest polar ice. Nothing seemed to faze her. If I got worked up about something, all I had to do was look at her. She’d return my glance with the utmost calm, and I knew everything would be okay. It worked like a charm until the day she collapsed on the floor and never got up again. Just like that, Joan Miller’s physical body ceased to function. She was gone in less than a minute.
Billie is the opposite of Joan. She’s the opposite of calm. While I get it because this is her first big gig with The Lady Kings, it also makes me jump out of my skin.
From our dressing room backstage, we can hear The Other Women’s show. I wonder how Cleo’s feeling. Earlier, their drummer, Jess, couldn’t stop staring at me. As though she was looking to me to find some calm, the way I did with Joan.
“I’m going to see how they’re doing,” I announce to my bandmates. “I’m curious.”
“I’m coming,” Sam says, and follows me. “How are you feeling?” She bumps her shoulder lightly into mine. “Coming back after all these years, without Joan, is no small thing. We’re all aware of that.”
“Tonight, we play for her.” I don’t mean to sound as dramatic as I do.
Sam holds out her fist and I bump mine against it. As we approach the side of the stage we fall silent, the music too loud for us to comfortably exchange any more words.
Immediately, my gaze is drawn to Cleo. The song they’re playing is reaching its climax. Cleo is completely lost in the music and seems to hold on to her microphone stand for dear life. When their drummer ends the song with a couple of cymbal crashes, Cleo snaps out of it instantly. I can barely see her face from the side, but I know she’s sporting a huge smile.
“You guys are amazing,” she shouts to the audience.
She’s right. The crowd is hot tonight. The Other Women are hardly still an up-and-coming band. When I scan the first few rows of the audience, I think it’s a safe bet that quite a few of those people came here to see The Other Women rather than The Lady Kings. Our fans aren’t as young and wild any longer. It reminds me of the good old days when it amazed me every single night what rock music could do to people, the frenzy it could get them into. The things fans are willing to offer. I’m sure someone with Cleo’s charisma gets lots of offers—decent as well as indecent.
“It’s such an honor to play here, for you and for the one and only Kings,” Cleo shouts. She turns toward the wings and winks at me. Wow. She’s in the zone, that’s for sure. She’s riding the upper crest of a performance-induced peak of self-esteem—a feeling I know all too well. I wink back because I won’t be responsible for pulling a performer out of their flow. Cleo Palmer is the real deal, that much I know.
“Fuck me,” Sam says. “That Cleo is something else.”
“Hm.” It’s my standard reply to many an obvious statement.
The drummer kicks off the next song and even though our set will start soon and I should begin my pre-show ritual, I’m glued to the spot. I’m entranced by Cleo and her band. Fuck me, indeed, because they will be a damn hard act to follow. But one thing I will not allow, no matter how talented and phenomenal The Other Women are, is for The Lady Kings to be outplayed by our opening act. Especially on our very first night back. If anything, though, The Other Women being so outstanding spurs me on to match them, to continue the night with the amazing energy they’ve created for us. I also get the feeling the audience will be delighted when I bring Cleo back on stage at the end of the show.
I take a few deep breaths and conjure up the image of Joan when she played the intro to “Like No One Else”, all bravado and rock-goddess swagger.
“Come on,” I say to Sam. “Time for a pre-show pep talk.”
* * *
I needn’t have worried. Billie’s playing like the spirit of Joan has settled somewhere deep within her. Sam’s bass is as percussively seductive as ever. And Deb’s drums thump as though in sync with my own heart. And me, I do what I’ve always done. I let myself be carried by the warmth of the audience, by the way they scream my name as though I’m much more than just a woman who can rock the hell out of a pair of leather pants while belting out a tune. I sing my heart out while I strut across the stage as though it was a catwalk constructed only for me. I play the crowd like puppets on a string. I give them all I have, and they give me back so much more.
By the time we get to “Like No One Else”, I’m confident not many people in the audience remember The Other Women’s version. I also wonder why we stopped playing live for such a long time. Although I’ll be reminded of that soon enough, when I go home to an empty house. Losing Joan so abruptly wasn’t only a shock to our systems. Her sudden absence changed our lives and our perspective on everything. It floored us as people and as a band. For me, personally, it killed my love of music for years. It muted everything, as though life was suddenly in black and white instead of all the colors of the rainbow. I didn’t lose my voice, but, for the longest time, I felt like I no longer had any right to use it—not the way I had before, with Joan always by my side. Like Isabel Adler, I had to find my voice all over again. In that way, it’s fitting that the duet we recorded meant the comeback of The Lady Kings without Joan.
After the raucous applause for our biggest hit has subsided, I pause. I stand still and look at the crowd. I let my gaze sweep over all those people who’ve come to see us play tonight.
“The next song is called “The Better Part of Me”.” My voice does something it never does on stage. It trembles. “And it’s for Joan Miller.” I don’t like this trembling one little bit, so I cover it up the only way I know how. I add some theatrics. I hold up two fingers, kiss the tips, and blow the kiss toward the sky—as though Joan is up there watching us. If I’ve learned one thing in my long music career, it’s that the audience loves a big, emotional gesture. They respond with a loud but surprisingly serene round of applause.
“We miss you, Joan,” someone screams from the crowd.
You and me both, I think.
Deb counts us down and despite the supreme flow of our gig so far, despite the enthusiasm of the crowd, despite my bandmates playing as though their life depends on it, as I start the first verse, everything suddenly feels off-kilter. Not quite right. Billie sidles up to me and I play along, but I don’t feel it. I know I can’t hold it against her that she’s not Joan, and I don’t, but it’s not the same without her. Joan and I knew each other so well, I could anticipate every last one of her moves.
I try to do better because I’m singing this song for her, but it reminds me too much of that place in my heart that was hers and that will forever be cold without her.
When I look away, my glance skittering to the side, I spot Cleo and her bandmates. Cleo’s smile is accompanied by the slightest of nods, as though we have some secret understanding between us. Instead of letting it tick me off, I let it fill me with a little warmth. Just like, after years without the band and without making music, I knew that, if I wanted to have the life that Joan would have wished for me, I had to let it all back in. I did, and now here I am. My rendition of this song for Joan is far from perfect, but it will get better as time passes—just like the pain of losing her has gotten softer around the edges.
After the song ends, we are rewarded with the biggest round of applause of the night so far, and it’s as though I can feel every single clap of the audience’s hands reverberate deep in my soul.
CLEO
All I can think when I see how Lana plays the crowd, how she effortlessly delivers an unforgettable show, is that I’m witnessing the one and only master giving a master class.
