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But the festival.
One bigger than anything As Above has done yet.Complete with a tattoo convention going on from the moment the gates open till they close again four days later.
The most grueling of shows, hellbent on testing the fanbases of each artist and band with hot temperatures, long lines for port-a-potties, and expensive-as-hell beer. It is also trying for the artists who like to attend these kinds of things—most often flying in the night before, living out of an RV parked in the back of the stadium turned fortified stage, and rocking out with some of the greats beside some of the up-and-comers.
Which is actually not all that bad for us when I think about it that way.
And happens to be my favorite part of touring.
Just stickier. Trickier. Louder. And a helluva lot more fucking fun wrapped in four way-too-short days.
Lounging back in the mesh metal chair with spread legs and an iced coffee keeping me company in this heat when I’d rather have the steaming shit, I look out over the terrace at the mingling patrons of the local café and spot the As Above tees from several feet away.
The girls who wear them can’t be much older than eighteen—if at all—and have been sneaking giggling glances my way for the last half hour. Or at least long enough for most of the ice to melt in my cup and make me wish it was a regular cup of Joe.
Continuing my scan of the crowded patio, I catch sight of the distinct flash of orange hair that lets me know my bodyguard is in fact near, but keeps to himself like he has the majority of the time he’s spent with me as his detail.
Which is fine with me, considering he sticks out like a sore thumb unless he can be mistaken as a member of the road crew backstage with the rest of ‘em. Y’know, with all the ink, the metal in his face, and the highlighter orange hair that earned him the nickname he’s had for so long, I forget what his real fucking name is—Peach.
And right now, I’m trying to blend in and enjoy the few moments of peace before the gates of hell break open.
It’s not every day a guitar veteran—award and all—like myself can walk out in public without being bum-rushed for autographs or pics.
Or followed for miles by desperate paparazzo like Rex has been since the wedding announcement went viral.
Blending into the crowd has been my game since joining As Above and I continue to test it every chance I get. Like right now, my bodyguard perches at the entrance to the café with his sketchbook in his lap and his eyes scanning like mine.
I’m in my white short-sleeve button-down and light jeans—the exact opposite of what I wear on stage, and in videos, around the fans, and at the after parties. Add in the backwards hat and I am the opposite of all those scenes in the movies where the ‘hide in plain sight’ character thinks that a black tee and a dark blue hat pulled low around the eyes is a great disguise.
Pfft.
Truly testing the theory, I let my gaze swing back over to the table with the girls donning shirts from my own damn band and make eye contact with the one that looks like she might be the ringleader. She jerks her gaze from me to her friend, her face flushing and her loose hair flying in the wind, then stands the fuck up and makes me regret testing the universe.
Her friend stands with her and they shuffle in cut-offs and Chucks over to my table with sheepish grins and tight grips on their tiny purses.
“Hey,” the ringleader says, and I let my gaze flicker past them to see my bodyguard stand from his station and stretch his arms high above his head. “Are you, um …” She wrings her hands in front of her as her nervous eyes flit over my chest and finally meet my eyes when her friend nudges her with an elbow. “Are you George Clooney’s brother?”
I balk. Like eyes nearly fall out of my skull and roll around on the mesh metal table separating me from the way-too-young girls in front of me.
“You just, um, look likehim.” The friend steps forward when all I do is stare and hammers me again.
“Just notlikelike him.”
Expectant eyes settle on mine, waiting for an answer I shouldn’thave to give.
“Ladies.” I clear my throat in an awkward chuckle and lean forward to rest my tatted forearms on the table. “How old are you?”
“Um…” The ringleader looks to her friend, then swings her gaze back at me when I lift a brow. “Nineteen.”
I make a buzzer sound in the back of my throat, making the friend jump. “Try again.”
“Ohhh kayyyy.” Ringleader rolls her eyes and drags out the syllables. “We’re sixteen.”
“Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to talk to strangers?” I flash my forearms to show both covered in ink. “Especially tattooed ones?”
“Well, duh.” Ringleader rolls her eyes. “It’s just that Nanny loves your brother’s movies, and we just wanted an autograph.”
“Nanny? What kind of name is that?”
