From Bridges to Breakdowns

By Sandra A. Sigfusson

When people say, "You're only as good as your last hit," are they referring to the music or the drugs? From the sidelines, the band's agent, tour manager, and record label have more say about whom they associate with than its members.  And although Sage may have started as a muse travelling with lead singer Dex from the infamous rock band Whilder, her destiny as the future Mrs. Dex Whilder was never guaranteed. Other unexpected players are involved in shaping the lives of the members of Whilder and their entourage.   The King of roadies, BB Ewing, and his prodigal son, Rye, unwittingly mould the future of four men and one young, spirited muse in ways the band's handlers cannot.   And, as Rye's notorious roadie father prepares to pass the reigns of his legacy down to him, one of the biggest upsets in his history as the King of Roadies unfolds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra A. Sigfusson
• Release date: Jun 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781989829103

Sandra A. Sigfusson

Before becoming a romance novelist, Sandra spent four years co-hosting a podcast on the subjects of dating and relationships. This experience was more fun and eye-opening than she ever imagined. Her love of romance novels, music, photography and a good laugh has also played an integral part in penning fictional contemporary romance and erotic romance stories.She is married, has two wonderful adult sons, a rescued Peruvian Inca Orchid Dog and an adopted cat named Mittens. She has lived in beautiful, British Columbia, Canada all of her life.

Book preview

Prologue:

There was no telling how many scars she had or how she got them, but the hurt in her eyes read like an open book on how to break a spirit.

I’ve known a lot of broken people in my time as a roadie for famous rock bands.  The anguish that fills a heart big enough to explode in lyrics and melodies is something everyone can relate to musically.  Lyrics are the colorful woven threads within the melodies' fabric, and we, the fans, call the resulting compositions inspirational.

Yet regardless of being surrounded by these sought-after Gods of rock and roll my entire life, I'm not inspired by any of them, or their songs.  Only she inspires me.

Chapter 1 – Rye

The first time I met Finlay, she introduced herself as Sage Lyric.  She was Dex’s personal traveling groupie and I didn’t have much call to talk with her.  But I did laugh at her at our first introduction.  Is that your real name?  Sage? Are your parents new-age hippies? I asked then smirked.

What the fuck do you know about anything?  Just get out of my face, she said, pushing past me in a huff.  She was a little messed up on something, so I didn’t take her verbal barbs personally.

Moments later, I discovered her real name wasn’t Sage, which shouldn't have surprised me.  I stepped in to help her retrieve the contents of her purse when she dumped it on the stairs of Whilder's tour bus after her snarky barb to me.  I read her given name on her driver’s license before stuffing her ID back in her purse.  This wasn't the first time I’d met a groupie who had a stage name, but I had to give her credit for originality.

A week later, as we were setting up the stage in another town, I needed to get her out of the way so the crew could finish the setup.  Sage got it in her head to climb up on the tower of speakers we were testing for tonight’s show and I had to get up atop the first speaker to secure her before she fell.

Get your hands off me, Rye.  Dex will fuck you up if he sees you touching me, she said. Then she burst out into a random fit of giggles.

Sage.  Fuck me.  You have to get the hell down from here.  You’re too stoned to climb the speakers or anything else.  Go backstage and stay there.  I pulled out my cell and sent a quick text to the security crew.  Sage needs to be handled.  Stage left, near the speaker tower.  Take her back to the dressing trailer or the tour bus and lock her inside.

Within minutes one of our biggest guys from security picked Sage up off the lowest speaker and carried her messed up ass over his shoulder backstage.  She pisses me off more than any one of the girls that hang with the band.  She’s mouthy, constantly stoned, and seemingly always in the way.

I reminded myself to bring this up with BB again since he’s the only one she’ll listen to.  Every minute we’re setting up is tightly scheduled.  No room for errors, mistakes or crazy, high as a kite, beautiful distractions like Sage.

Chapter 2 - Rye

I’ve been doing the roadie thing for twelve years now.  I started under the wing of my dad, who is as renowned in the business of rock and roll as the bands themselves.  BB Ewing is a name every tour manager and major rock band knows well.  He is the king of roadies, hence the nickname BB, after dad’s favorite blues master BB King. 

Dad has been talking about retiring from the scene, and I’m supposed to replace this legend, but I’m sure my connection to the business will never match his.  I’m a new generation of roadie.  I’m not a good old boy like my dad, who’s worked the rock scene since he was sixteen years old.  This year marks forty years of him being on the road, drinking hard, working hard, and I swear there isn’t a town in the entire country that dad hasn’t at some point been to with a band.

Since I’m the son of the most famous roadie in recent history, I’m famous enough in this realm by osmosis.  I’ve learned from the best and lived this life from the day I was born. 

My mother ran off with a guitarist from a now-dead band when I was ten.  Not defunct, but actually dead.  She’s lucky she’s not also deceased since the plane she was supposed to be on crashed and killed everyone on board.  The fight she had with her lover, lead guitarist, Gardy Haddaway, resulted in her storming off the private jet just minutes before takeoff from the tarmac. 

I don’t call my mother mom.  She’s Bianca to me and everyone else.  The term I often hear when people speak of her is feisty beauty because of her Sicilian heritage and her notorious hot temper.  I look more like her than I care to admit, and I can be hot headed at times too.  I met my grandparents once when I was ten after Bianca and BB had another one of their infamous fights.  She took me on a road trip back to New York from Boston to visit my Nonna and Nonno, but we only spent one night in their home because she fought with them as well.  I have no idea what they argued about since it was all just flailing hands, exaggerated gestures, and loud words in Italian.  After that, I assumed all grandparents were like this, but I soon learned otherwise.

A few days later, one of my babysitters put on an old movie called Lady Liberty starring Sophia Loren and made me watch it with her.  All I could think about was how much the actress looked and behaved like my mom. 

Within a week, I was back in the full care of BB.  I can say with all honesty that the only lasting gifts Bianca gave me were my thick, dark hair and my perma-tanned skin tone.  BB, on the other hand is a direct import from Ireland.  He followed a band across the pond to New York, got dumped as the band's manager within the first week, started his new life as a roadie, and married Bianca eight years later after a whirlwind ten-day long affair.  Bianca pops in and out of my life randomly, depending on which band she’s following, or dare I admit it, fucking.  We keep tabs on her through the network of roadies in the circuit because everyone knows she’s BB’s wife.

Neither Bianca nor BB filed for divorce or for legal custody of me, but it doesn’t matter.  BB knew she’d never come back, and that was fine by him.  Me, on the other hand, hates that I didn’t get to see my mother very often as I grew up.  She was great when she was sober, and I wished things had turned out differently for all of us.  But you can’t pick your parents or how they evolve as guardians of your life.  I’m just thankful BB had his shit together and that I didn’t end up in the foster care system like so many of the groupies had. 

When Bianca left BB, he carried on without so much as a glance back past his shoulder, and I traveled to wherever the bands and BB went.  My school was the back of a tour bus, getting my education in more ways than a standard ten year old would or should.  The technical term was homeschooling, but I don’t think my life as a roadie’s son was what the instructors envisioned when my homeschooling system was put in place. 

By the age of eleven, I knew how to spot someone overdosing and knew where the emergency kit was and who to call when it happened.  Usually it was a groupie, but sometimes it was a band member.  Officially I’ve saved seven people’s lives, and I get a lot of respect from everyone because of it.

We’re currently touring with a band called Whilder, and the arena they’re playing tonight is smaller than most of the venues on the tour, so we’re having to be a bit more creative than usual in ensuring the stage setup fits the width of the arena’s floor space.  We have alternate stage layouts for these situations, but the measurements on file were incorrect for Blue River, leaving us scrambling to set up the stage in time for rehearsals. 

Whilder is playing two shows here because Hawk, the bassist, has family here and he wants to stay long enough to include a visit.  I love it when bands do two shows in one town because I get a twenty-four-hour break from building and breaking down the tour stage.

After a brief meeting with the lead singer Dex, and the other roadie crew, we decide to shrink the stage by ten feet on each side.  This change will set back the stage prep by two hours.  I’ve seen worse situations.  Thankfully Dex isn’t too drunk on his favorite brand of Kentucky Whiskey yet to be his argumentative self, so the conversation and decision on how to arrange the stage to his satisfaction was easy.

A half-hour later, I hear BB hollering orders across the arena floor from stage right.  He’s a task master, a lion tamer, the guy who gets shit done when nobody else will touch it.  I laugh to myself when I hear his voice clear across the arena floor.  He should have been a singer.  His heavy voice can project better than anyone I’ve known, without the aid of a microphone attached to a twenty-foot-high tower of concert speakers.  The standard reply when BB speaks is a loud chorus of, Yes, boss, from pretty much everyone on the floor.

Chapter 3 – Sage

Jesus fucking Christ!  Are you trying to kill me? My voice is shrill as I wince from the pain emanating from my ankle. The tattooing needle zaps my tender skin over and over again.  I have no tolerance for pain, but I made a bet and lost.  Now I’m getting the one thing I swore I’d never get—ink.  Ow!  Isn’t there a way to make this less painful? I ask while trying not to cry like a baby.

No.  Sit still.  I’m almost done, Rasmus says.  His face is so close to my ankle where he’s tattooing that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.  The local anesthetic wore off sooner than I thought it would, Sage.  Give me two more minutes without fucking whining, will you? he huffs.

I wince again and squeeze my eyes shut.  I’m never making another bet with Britney again.  Serves me right for being so wasted when she thought it would be funny to wager which of the band members cock’s was longer.  The loser had to get a tattoo of a dildo on their ankle.  Never in my wildest dreams did I think I was going to lose that bet.  It turns out the newest member of the band, Zeke, holds that title, and I never thought in a million years he’d have a bigger dick than Dex’s. 

Once Britney sees I’ve gotten the tattoo, I’ll have to come back for more of this insane pain and have the dildo transformed into a cactus.  Had I not told her earlier that night the story about my best friend in elementary school calling me a dildo in front of her older sister, none of this bullshit would have happened.  I really need to keep my mouth shut and remember to never bet anyone anything ever again.  Seriously?  A fucking dildo tattooed on my foot.  Definitely not my finest moment.

I feel the dab of Rasmus’ cloth one last time before he applies a gauze cover over the fresh ink.  He rolls back on his stool to his cabinet and pulls the drawer open.  Grabbing a white bottle with a red label on it out of the drawer, he closes it and rolls back to where I’m sitting.  Here, take these, he says while opening the bottle to hand me two pills.

What are they? I ask.

Rasmus smirks.  What do you care?  I’ve never seen you turn down any pill somebody hands you, which is totally fucked up by the way, he adds shaking his head.

So, what are these? I ask again being more stern.

Extra strength ibuprofen, Sage.  Pain killers for your wimpy ass.  I don’t have anything stronger.  Don’t take the bandage off for at least an hour, then wash it with soap and water and redress it. You can moisturize it with something unscented like Vitamin E cream after 24 hours.  It should be fine after that.  I nod in understanding while Rasmus takes off his latex gloves and rolls back toward the cabinet to toss them into his garbage can.  I grab my water bottle beside me and pop the pills in my mouth.  I can chase these with a few tokes from the joint in my purse for extra pain relief. 

Can I get you to fix it as soon as possible? I ask as sweetly as I can. 

Sure, he says still smirking at me.  I’ll be only too happy to turn your dildo into a cactus next week, Sage.  He shakes his head at me again and attempts to stifle a laugh.  Of all the things to lose a bet to, a dildo tattoo tops the list as the funniest, Sage.  But I will give you extra credit for following through.  If nothing else, I have respect for that.

I’ll never bet anyone anything again, I say, then sigh.  I lay myself back down on the dentist-style chair and close my eyes.  I can only imagine what Dex is going to say to me when he sees it.  Maybe I’ll keep the gauze on it until the ink can be rectified.  I laugh at my last thought and rise from the chair.  Time to face the music and show that bitch Britney I followed through.

Out of curiosity, I ask as I leave Rasmus to clean up his equipment, Is there anything you won’t tattoo on somebody?

"Yes.  Lots of things.  I don’t tattoo on dicks or pussies.  I don’t tattoo swastikas or other negative political shit.  And to be honest, the only reason I agreed to tattoo your dildo was because I know we’re changing it into something else afterward," he says.  Rasmus’ eyes narrow at me as if to gauge my thoughts on his comment.

I nod and grin.  You’re a good guy, Rasmus.  I owe you one.  Rasmus has always treated me like I was his kid sister since the day I arrived, drunk and stoned, hanging off Dex’s arm last year in Phoenix.  Not sure what the deal with that is, but I know I can trust him with anything.  Maybe because he’s Dex’s best friend, (and the only guy Dex trusts to ink his body), is his reason for looking after me.  But I’m not the only girl Dex fucks from the sidelines.  I may be the only groupie Dex lets travel with him, but I know better than to think I’m his sole muse.

I think of myself as spiritual in a different way than my parents do.  Music and the people who make it are my gods.  I disowned my parents at sixteen.  They were too caught up in a religious cult, and it scared the shit out of me.  I get the lure of having a strong faith but living on a commune in the middle of nowhere, howling at the moon or whatever the hell it was they were doing, was not my scene.  The day after my sixteenth birthday, I told them I was going out on my own, and they didn’t seem to mind.  Go find yourself, they said.  You know where to find us if you need us. 

As I walk toward the front door of the tour bus, I pass two new girls who I refer to as cling-ons trying to get Zeke to take notice of them.  He’s too busy playing video games with Hawk to partake in what the cling-ons have to offer. 

Contrary to popular belief, most guys aren’t into fucking all day long.  On a tour bus, there aren’t many private places, so most of them don’t make any effort to go to their bunks for a blow job or a quickie.  It’s kind of like living in a porn movie.  Thankfully when Dex wants to get laid, he takes me to the back room and closes the door. 

I’m faithful to Dex, even though I know he’s not faithful to me.  I didn’t plan on being his little sex toy.  I came to a concert with a friend who knew Hawk, and we ended up backstage.  Dex and I hit it off immediately, and I’ve been with him ever since.  I’m eighteen now, but Dex doesn’t know that.  I have a fake ID which he forced me to show him so he wouldn’t get into trouble for bedding a minor.  I’d be out on my ass faster than I could blink if he ever found out I wasn’t over eighteen when we started hooking up.  But that is the beauty of nobody knowing who you are or where you came from.  You could make up almost any lie, and they’d believe it if you were good at giving blowjobs.

As I exit the bus and set my feet on the warm asphalt, I find BB looking for the rest of the band to let them know the stage is complete.  It’s time for rehearsal.  I love the rehearsals more than the concerts.  They feel intimate, and I like to get lost in the music filling the arena with only me and a handful of other people listening.

Often when rehearsal is over, Dex will sit alone on the stage and mess around with a few ideas he’s been developing for new material.  That is when the magic happens.  He has a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass on a speaker next to his stool.  He takes two full shots of whiskey, retunes his guitar and starts playing random riffs and chord changes.  He’s in his own little world at that point, and it’s when I love him best. 

He’s a true artist.  Once he gets into it, he rocks out on the stage all by himself.  This is the part that makes me so hot for him.  My body reacts in ways I can’t even describe.  It’s almost like he’s playing my body.  I watch his facial expressions, the way his hips move, his knees bend, his hair sways and the way his fingers slide across the neck of the guitar making rapid chord changes.  He’s making love to me with those fingers without even touching my skin.  So hot, so sexy, so Dex.  And in these moments, it takes every ounce of strength not to get myself off right there in front of him while he rocks out. 

One day, I’ll get the balls up to do it and see how he reacts.  My face cracks with a huge smile at the thought.  Dex stops playing for a moment to shoot another shot of whiskey and he nods at me.

What’s on your mind, Sage?

You make me want to rub one out in front of you when you play your guitar all alone up there on the stage, I say.  I get up from the front row chair and approach the stage.  I’d throw my wet panties up there, but I’m not wearing any today, I say lightheartedly. 

As I gaze up at him, he crouches down to his knees and cups my chin in his hand.  Baby, you can do that any time you want.  Give me five minutes. Dex winks at me and the biggest, sexiest smile erupts on his face.  I may have even made him blush a little.  My clit throbs in anticipation.

Chapter 4 – Rye

I don’t need any special sleuthing skills to know what I just witnessed was a prelude to a make-out session between Sage and Dex.  I clear my throat as I walk past the back side of Sage at the base of the stage.  Neither of them pay any attention to me as I exit the arena.  I’m not clear on where everybody is, but I’m guessing BB knew what was about to go down and cleared the place for Dex. 

I stop momentarily at the opening of the arena gate leading to the change rooms and glance over my shoulder.  Sage is jumping up on stage to join Dex, and I don’t need to see any more of this to know what is going to happen next.

In the pit of my stomach, I feel a knot building.  I’ve seen Dex and other band members do this a thousand times, but for some reason this moment is affecting me.  BB strolls past my line of vision at the end of the hall and catches a glimpse of me.  He steps back two paces and wrestles