So Galen gave me the option to talk about anything I wanted to on her blog. Muhhaaa-haa-haa-haa! Let’s just call this Confession Time then, Galen. You might want to have a seat. This post should probably be preceded by the warning to never do any of the stupid things I’ve done. God looks out for toddlers, teenagers, and morons like myself, so don’t try this at home.
My new book, TRAPPED UNDER ICE, is about a rock star. Rock stars bring out the crazy in me. I’m usually more the rule following type. I always adhere to the drop off instructions at my kids’ school in the morning, for example. I always count to make sure that I have twenty or less items in the express lane. If a clerk forgets to charge me for something, I’ll drive back to the mall to get the error corrected. And, of course, I never, ever tear mattress tags off. Despite this fact, when it comes to getting back stage at a rock concert, for some reason, all bets are off.
I really don’t know what comes over me when I’m at a concert. I just know that I’d have a great time with the boys in the band, and, of course, they’d love me and want to become my best friend. (I know, I’m delusional.) So Miss Rules Follower turns into Miss Wild Child. Most of the time I’m with my best friend, who is generally the one to lead us head on into trouble, but she takes a back seat at concerts and follows my lawless lead. We switch places and the one that most often offers a cautionary word is the one getting us escorted out of one venue or another by a platoon of security people, while my cohort follows along loyally, as meek as a lamb.
At one of our first concerts, Maroon 5, I tried to convince a security officer that Adam Levine had asked for school cafeteria sloppy joes (I’m a lunch lady) and he wasn’t going to be happy if she didn’t let me through. Apparently others have offered sloppy joe meat, too, because she turned me down flat.
The next time “our” intended target (read “my” intended target) was Nickelback. I tried to walk into a roped off backstage area on the heels of a group of guys with passes, but the guard stopped me. I tried to bribe him with talk of the access I have, as a lunch lady, to government meat and pizza made with cheese substitute, but even this sweet talk couldn’t woo him. FYI, security guards, as a rule, have no sense of humor. Probably because they have to deal with idiots like me. Not to be stymied by his rejection, I acted like I was leaving and doubled back to sneak under a tarp just outside the roped off area. We were back in the seats of the auditorium, directly behind the stage. The tarps went all the way around the back, making a sort of room. I peeked between the seam created where two tarps met. I spied one security woman, who was focused, understandably, on the front. I still can’t believe it, but we crept in past her, tip toeing like Barney Rubble and Fred Flintstone. We got to another tarped, empty room that had the opening bands names written on pieces of paper taped to the “walls.” I figured there must have been a meet-and-greet there and started getting excited. We found a metal staircase that wound down to a tunnel where roadies were shuttling equipment out to the trucks. We were spotted. We claimed to have been at a backstage party and that we got lost on the way to the bathrooms. The roadie immediately saw through our little lost girls act and threw us out.
Now for the worst one. I want to emphasize now that you should not try to sneak backstage at concerts. It’s probably illegal and definitely stupid. This time Nickelback was playing at an outdoor venue. It was raining. I climbed a twenty foot high fence in the rain in my rock and roll boots. As I perched on the top of the fence with one leg on one side and one on the other I could look down and see a dozen or so security people at the end of the fence with their backs to me gazing out over the parking lot. Had one turned around and looked, I was a dead duck, but my luck held. I shimmied down the other side of the fence, but had a pretty good drop onto my high heels at the end. I was backstage, walking in between the tour busses. Before I could get very far a security guard accosted me and asked if I had a pass. Since I am usually that law abiding citizen my first instinct was to be honest, so I told him no. He asked me how I got in and I pointed over my shoulder to the fence. He raised an eyebrow in begrudging admiration and then kicked me out.
Nickelback concert number four. We scurried onto a freight elevator and again got to the bus area. Even said hi to the guy who played acoustic guitar for the band before he boarded the bus and no doubt phoned security. Within minutes we were escorted out. You may be asking yourself right now, does Nickelback have a restraining order out against this kook? Answer is, probably. The moral of the story is, don’t try to sneak backstage because you’ll only get bounced and you’ll never get to hang with the boys in the band and be invited to sing with them on stage. Life’s unfair!
This little post may have convinced you that you never want to read anything by this delinquent, but in case you still do…
Beth Donovan meets her rock star in a more legal, but also more violent manner. She is attacked backstage and Chad Evans, lead singer of Trapped Under Ice, comes to her rescue.
Rock star Chad Evans’s tortured past hides just beneath the surface. Even fans screaming out his name in ecstasy can’t drown out the screams of his childhood. He can usually keep it under control, but not always. Tonight the alcohol doesn’t seem to soothe.
Part of the crowd, Beth Donovan smiles, really enjoying herself for a change. But her smile isn’t usually this bright. It is the kind of smile that masks sorrow. Three years just isn’t long enough to get over losing Paul.
When a vicious attack behind stage brings this unlikely pair together, something changes inside of them both. But can a jet-setting superstar and a Midwestern lunch lady ever manage a real relationship? And even if they can, will the person sending Chad death threats take it all away? Or is it their fate to remain forever trapped under ice?
For the first time, the pair was alone with no ready subject for conversation. They both took a sip of their drinks to stall for time.
“Your drink all right?”
“Good, good.” She nodded.
“Good,” he repeated, seeming at a loss as to where to go next. He exhaled with a laugh. “You know, I don’t know anything about you, other than your name is Beth, you have a daughter named Cassie, and you’re one hell of a singer.”
“Ah…well…” Again she was unnerved by the praise.
“You’re staying at this hotel, so you’re not from here. Where do you live?”
“Bloomington, Illinois.” When he stared at her blankly, she added, “It’s about halfway between here and Chicago.”
He nodded. “What’s it like?”
“Well…it’s a college town. In fact, we have the little known distinction of being the only city with a university at either end of the same street,” she threw in, remembering seeing that in a paper Cassie did for social studies.
“I see,” he replied, bemused. “And what do you do in this fair city? I mean,” he back-pedaled, “do you work outside of the home?”
“Ah, so politically correct. Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m a lunch lady.”
The singer looked for a minute like he was going to spit out his drink, but he swallowed hurriedly and laughed.
“What?” Beth retorted, pretending to be hurt. “You’ve got something against lunch ladies, I suppose?”
“No, no,” he insisted. “It’s just…you don’t look like any lunch lady I ever had.”
She took a long drink and considered his words. Was there a compliment in there somewhere?
“So how did you land this lunch lady gig?”
Now it was Beth’s turn to laugh at his choice of the word “gig.” “Well, in truth it wasn’t all that difficult. I just showed up for the interview, they told me what the hours were, how much it paid, and what it entailed, then asked me if I wanted the job. So, hearing what glamorous duties I was to have and what a fabulous paycheck I would be bringing home, I, of course, took it.” He laughed. “No, really, I love my job. I love working with kids. I can come home and take a nap every afternoon before Cas gets home from school. What’s not to like?”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
“Not to mention, sometimes I get to bring home leftover sloppy joe meat.”
“It gets better and better. Sign me up.”
“Oh yeah. ‘Cause this whole rock star thing can’t compare to the wonderful benefits I just described. Tell me the truth, it was the sloppy joe meat that really sold you, wasn’t it?”
I was born in the heart of Tornado Alley, and I’ve been a bit mixed up ever since. Not really, but I’ve always wanted to use that line. The medical community has established no solid connection between the place of my birth and my off-beat personality.
I grew up in St. Louis and graduated from the University of Missouri-Columbia with a degree in English education. I left the workforce, however, when my kids were born. Unbelievably I now have an eighteen year old and sixteen-year-old triplets! Yes, I write to escape teenagerdom. Although I love them dearly. When not participating in the described sketchy behavior, I also escape via rock concerts and karaoke. My first book, TAKEN BY STORM, was published by Crimson Romance last fall, and my next book, the second in the ROCKING ROMANCE COLLECTION, titled ABANDON ALL HOPE will be coming soon!
You can find me at:
Thanks for joining me! Now, confession is good for the soul, so they say. What stupid things have you done in the name of rock and roll, or for that matter, for any cause? Come. Unburden yourself.