No Quarter (NOLA's Own #2) (22 page)

“I guess we should head back,” he said with a sigh.

“Yeah, Siggie might think we ditched her or something.”

“I just want to go home and do this,” he told me, kissing my brow.

“You, mister, have got to get your ass up on stage and make those guys’ dream come true.”

Devil’s Advocate was ready to go when we returned to the VIP section. Siggie was sitting alone at a table between the railing and the bar. Relief flooded her features when she spotted us. I gave her a smile, and she returned it with a knowing smirk. Phil got us beers as I took the seat next to her. When Phil came up, she handed him a list of the Space Monkeys names, the instruments each one played, their phone numbers and addresses, and their manager’s business card.

“Very nice,” praised Phil, looking it all over.

From a booth in the corner, Space Monkeys watched anxiously.

“You mind puttin’ this in your bag?” he asked me.

“Sure.” I took the info and stowed it away.

Phil chugged his beer when the lights went down and ripped a monster of a belch. “Right. Well, I’d better go down then. Don’t want Andy to panic or anythin’.”

Siggie nodded her head. “I think he was when you guys didn’t show up here.”

“I was nervous,” he said with a complete air of innocence. “Had to have a breather and find my balls before I could go up there.”

Unfortunately, I’d just taken a swig of beer, and instead of spraying it all over the table by laughing, I sucked it down the wrong pipe and ended up choking. The idea of Phil nervous before going on stage was absurd.

Siggie thwacked me hard on the back.

“Shit—” said Phil, alarmed.

“Just—go!” I gasped. “Fine!”

He rolled his eyes and rubbed my back until I was only wheezing.

“You all right?” he asked gently.

I nodded, not trusting to open my mouth.

“All right.” He kissed my brow before heading down.

Devil’s Advocate had just finished their first song.

Siggie and I watched the next two, singing along with Andy. They really were a great live band. The crowd was wild, and a mosh pit formed. The band had accumulated a decent die-hard following just by playing the New Orleans circuits and a few gigs in the surrounding towns. I had a feeling that they’d made it this far all because of the woman sitting here with me.

Although they did play some cover songs, most of what they played was their own stuff. Andy’s voice was in no way near as deep as Phil’s, but he had the gritty quality needed to sing “Broken Deviant,” and I wouldn’t mind hearing Andy have a go at it. I supposed the backing vocals were a good range for him though as his voice was similar to Jason’s, who usually sang that part.

“Broken Deviant” was the off their second album,
Moniker Mayhem
, and was a heavy, dark anthem of socioeconomic apathy. It was a little odd, considering how extremely wealthy they all were now. Maybe when it was written—no, Phil had grown up with wealth even though his personality didn’t scream privileged upbringing.

“Holy shit, you guys, do we have a surprise for you tonight!” cried Andy into the mic, his excitement rubbing off on the crowd.

Siggie and I stood up to lean against the railing for a better view.

This was what I loved—the energy swelling, the vibe rising to the rafters.

Will kicked off the beat for “Broken Deviant,” followed by Mojave’s pounding bass line and Thom’s wailing guitar.

“What a sad motherfucker,” came the fathomless dark voice of Phil fucking Deveraux through the PA system.

The crowd went fucking
apeshit
! Every voice in the place was screaming.

Phil walked out from backstage on the left side, microphone held up to his mouth, his presence commanding the attention of every single pair of eyes. He was fucking
huge
. His persona on stage was flat-out godlike.

“You pitiful piece of shit/

Got more money than you know what to do with/

None of it can get you what you truly need/

You got the whole world at your feet/

But you choose to snort and shoot and fuck your way through it/

All this vice and pussy, as far as the eye can see/

Ain’t gonna change a thing, motherfucker!/

You loser, you miserable creep/

Keep lookin’ for it, you ain’t gonna find shit/

What you want is priceless, but you’ve turned yourself cheap.”

For the first time ever, I realized this
wasn’t
about socioeconomic apathy. This had nothing to do with the self-absorbed, vain wealthy class taking for granted all the things the rest of the world worked themselves to death for. This was about
him
. This was what Phil had felt about himself when he wrote these lyrics. My heart now ached for the young man who had hated himself this much.
Damn it, Phil.

He rubbed the heel of his palm over his heart.

Does he feel it, too?

Phil opened his mouth to belt out the chorus, Andy joining in.

“You think you can hide behind this?/

You think you can fool me?/

Motherfucker, you’re a special kind of idiot/

Just another rich shit, pussy-ass bitch/

Snort it! Shoot it! FUCK IT!/

I see nothing but shiny garbage, you pissant/

You fuckin’ broken deviant.”

Revelation aside, I was in complete awe of Phil, like I was every time I saw him on stage. Although the band sounded fantastic, I thought that, even if Devil’s Advocate played like shit, no one would give a crap because Phil carried the whole damn thing.

“Here you are, bitchin’ and whinin’/

Knowin’ you got everythin’/

You don’t deserve shit!/

You fouled yourself up on your own terms/

Tryin’ to make yourself forget/

And you’d trade it all, wouldn’t you?/

For an ounce of fuckin’ respect/

You filth, you trash, you ain’t worth it!/

Such a pathetic little man—yeah, you can see!/

Ain’t no amount of cash can give you what you NEED!”

That last bit he roared into the mic, torn from his chest, his throat, his mouth. The pain behind that one word hit deep inside the soul, and I was struck with another revelation. It was about me, too. This song—
fucking hell
—was about him not deserving what I could’ve given him back then. All his money had bought him the drugs and possibly sex, so he could try to forget about those few hours we had shared. But all it had done was make him hate himself and feel disgusting, and no matter what he did, no matter that he could afford whatever the hell he wanted, the one thing he couldn’t have then…was me.

When he looked up at me from his place on stage, I knew it was true, that what I sensed was exactly what this song was really about.

“You think you can hide behind this?” he and Andy bellowed together.

“You think you can fool me?/

Motherfucker, you’re a special kind of idiot/

Just another rich shit, pussy-ass bitch/

Snort it! Shoot it! FUCK IT!/

I see nothin’ but shiny fuckin’ garbage, pissant/

A fuckin’ broken deviant.”

The song ended abruptly, and Andy jumped up, pumping his fist in the air. “Phil fuckin’ Deveraux!” he roared, his face split in a huge smile.

Phil laughed. “Thanks for havin’ me, guys.” He walked up and clapped Andy on the back, waved to the crowd, and then did his now signature Namaste. “You all have a great evenin’, yeah?”

When he rejoined Siggie and me, I had a cold beer waiting for him, which he chugged until empty.

“That was fun,” he said with a hint of a Lady Killer.

“That was fan-fuckin’-
tastic
!” crowed Siggie. “They’re going to be talking about this for weeks, I’m telling you. You’ve created a monster!” She laughed.

Phil looked at me, his eyes twinkling. “We should get out of here before they finish. That crowd’s gone brutal now.”

“All right.” Turning to Siggie, I smiled warmly. “We’ll definitely be in touch.”

She stood with us and threw her arms around me, hugging me tight. “It was awesome to meet you, Kenna.”

“Likewise,” I told my new friend.

“So, when were you planning on telling me that you
own
Bougainvillea?” I asked Phil as he unlocked the door to his half.

He looked down at me and scowled. “Who told you? Travis?”

“Who’s Travis?”

“The fuckin’ bartender you had a winkfest with.”

“Yes. Travis Winkfest told me when I tried to pay for the beer.”

“Tried to pay for the fuckin’ beer,” he huffed under his breath. Wrenching the door open, he ushered me inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. “Kenna…we need to have a serious fuckin’ talk.”

“Yeah, all right,” I replied. I opened the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. “You want?”

“Fine. Then, sit your ass down afterward.”

I took my time, getting the glasses and filling them with crushed ice from the freezer door. “Lime wedge?” I asked sweetly.

“No!” he snapped.

It’s cool
. I really didn’t feel like cutting one up anyway.

Phil was sitting at the island, glaring at me, as I placed his tea in front of him.

“Okay,” I said as I sat down. “What’s up?”

As he attempted to control his twitchy eyelid, he had me biting my lip to quell the urge to bust out laughing. He took a deep breath.

“Quit tryin’ to pay for shit,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.

“But I make money! A very good salary. I am a doctor after all—”

He jabbed his forefinger at me. “Shut it, woman. I’m dead fuckin’ serious about this. When you and I are out, when we’re together, I’m the one who fuckin’ pays!”

“What if
I’m
not okay with that?”

“This is one instance where I don’t give a fuck, Kenna. Do you have any clue as to what it is that I’m worth?”

“No, and I don’t need to! Your money means nothing to me!”

“That is why I
want
to spend it on you! I’ve got more money than I could possibly spend in this lifetime! Probably several lifetimes! I have so much fuckin’ money I donate millions of it to charities quarterly!”

“
Millions
?” I gasped.

“
Millions
! I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I could probably
buy
Louisiana. What’s sittin’ in my bank account alone is staggerin’ to my own head, so quit fuckin’ tryin’ to pay for shit!” he yelled. “This is one thing I will never, ever back down on. Ever. So, this is it, end of discussion. And if I bust you sneakin’ off and payin’ for shit that I have no problem payin’ for, I swear to your fuckin’ gods, I will hold you over my knee and spank the shit out of you.”

The look I gave him was very blasé because I might just do that to get spanked. And by the way his eyes went all dark, he was thinking the same thing.

“Don’t fuckin’ test me, woman,” he snarled.

I gave him a really sweet smile. “Will you spank me anyway?”

Sucking in a sharp breath, he tried to glare at me, but I saw something dancing in those depths. “Do we have an understandin’ here?”

“Yes.”

“Good. So, yeah…I bought Bougainvillea.”

“Why?”

“I wanted it.”

“Obviously,” I retorted.

“It meant somethin’ to me, all right?”

“I kept the ticket stub from that night,” I told him, grinning. “Mine was only fifteen bucks. How much was yours?”

“More than it was worth and worth every cent.” He grinned back. “Since I bought it, it has made me a shitload of money.”

“I guess you’ve been rich your whole life then?”

He nodded. “Old money on my dad’s side, but he’s some sort of wizard with investment and marketing, and he made even more with it. It’s not like I was handed a life of luxury. We lived well. Don’t get me wrong. We never went without anything we needed, but Danielle and I were taught the value of what we had. When we were old enough to work, we had to find jobs to buy ourselves what we wanted. Dad never just gave it to us. It had to be earned.”

It didn’t surprise me. As wealthy as Phil might be, he didn’t act like it. No one would be able to tell he could buy Louisiana.

“When my mom died, she had a ten-million-dollar insurance policy that went to Danielle and me when we turned eighteen. Dad told me that if I didn’t go to college, I could take half of it and use it for the band, and I’d have to let him invest the other half. So, that’s what I did. I could never imagine myself doin’ anythin’ else but music. I was able to pay for good equipment, a sleeper van for us to travel in, and studio time to lay down some tracks.”