Page 5 of Ticket to the Stars: Part One

I was the first to arrive at the suite in the Redborne. A fancy hotel in the heart of the city, where many rich people lived. I never considered myself one of them, even though I had money to spare—though it had gotten tight these past few months. Royalty checks could only go so far when you weren’t putting out new music.

The Redborne was a building with fancy arches and architecture, with a doorman and security up the ass. Even the elevator had a man working to press the buttons for you; he doubled as security. People who lived here long-term liked that added benefit. Not just anybody could stroll in through the front door and come upstairs.

Priest and Deacon should be here soon enough. I didn’t know what was going on, but it was late. Ramona had mass-texted us to say we were ready for our comeback.

And we were. I, for one, was itching to make music again. When it was in your blood, it was so hard to resist. I loved having a guitar in my hands. I’d tried making some music with Priest and Deacon these past few months, but things just hadn’t been the same since Pope…

Since Pope did what he did, and the band as we all knew it broke up.

But that wasn’t the story Ramona spun. She was good like that—able to twist things and get the media to say whatever she wanted them to say. Black Sacrament never officially broke up; we were just on hiatus, until we weren’t. Until now.

I sat in the living room, sprawled out on a couch, watching some stupid show on the TV while scrolling my phone. It was late for Ramona to make a house-call, so to speak; nine at night. Not really late for someone like me—or for Priest or Deacon, which must’ve been why they were taking so long to get here. They were out and about, living their lives, pretending Black Sacrament wasn’t everything to them.

A lie, because it was. This band was everything to us. For the last five years, ever since we started it in Pope and Deacon’s parents’ garage back in high school, this band had been everything.

None of us expected it to blow up. We hoped for it, sure, but we didn’t really think we’d make it big. How many guys started up bands, tried their hands on social media and local battle of the bands competitions, and still failed? Lots. More than you could count.

But, somehow, in spite of all that, Black Sacrament took off. We made a name for ourselves. When we were Black Sacrament, we weren’t the same kids from high school. We went by different names, dressed in all black, and wore black masks that made us look demonic. What skin wasn’t covered by the masks we painted black with body paint.

Mostly black, I should say, because there were a few key exceptions.

I, for instance, had an upside-down white cross that started on my bottom lip and traveled all the way down my neck. Priest had white, twisted crosses on his mask’s cheeks, right under the eyes. Deacon’s mask was divided in half; half was white while the other half was black, and each side had half of an upside-down cross in the opposite color, like a twisted yin yang symbol.

We looked like devils when we were on the stage. It went with our fake names and our band name. It was our thing, and the girls loved it. Guys and girls painted their faces and wore knock off masks when they came to our shows, wanting to be one of us.

And everything had been going great until Pope fucked up, and then Black Sacrament was in limbo for so long.

No public appearances. No press releases, save for what Ramona fed the press herself. It’s been hell.

Eventually, I heard someone pop their keycard into the lock on the main door, and it dinged as it opened. I turned my head and leaned back from where I was sitting to see Priest stroll in. He wore an off-white V-neck shirt, showing off his muscles and the many tattoos lining his skin—tattoos that got perfectly covered up with body paint when we were onstage.

I’d known the guy since middle school, though he was a grade above me. The tattoos had started out as a single star on his chest and spiraled from there. He worked out like a maniac when he wasn’t practicing guitar or singing backup vocals. He kept his shaggy blond hair messy—though don’t ever assume he rolled out of bed that way. He stood in front of the mirror a lot and practiced with some kind of hair gel to get it to stay like that.

He strolled straight to me and plopped himself down on my right, letting out an earth-shattering sigh. He faintly smelled of booze; he’d been drinking since high school, but now that he was twenty-one, he could get it anywhere legally.

Me? I preferred to be of a sound mind. Call me a prude. Call me squeaky clean. I didn’t give a shit.

“I take it Ramona’s not here yet?” Priest asked, tossing me an off-handed look. His facial expression read that he was bored, but underneath that uncaring exterior, I could tell he was brimming with curiosity.

He was probably wondering the same thing I was, if Black Sacrament was going to try to move past what Pope did. It’d been months. Surely long enough that the world had moved on and forgotten about the drunk rant Pope went on after getting caught doing drugs.

None of that was out of the norm when it came to rock bands, but Pope being in character—as in, still wearing his mask, his lips and chin painted like he’d just gotten off the stage—and the things he’d said to a group of women, were enough to cause backlash. One of the videos went viral, and the record label had to respond. We were told we had to kick Pope out, or Black Sacrament was done. It wasn’t an easy decision, but none of us could ever truly let go of Black Sacrament.

“No,” I answered him. “And no, she didn’t tell me what the hell this is about, either.”

Priest grumbled, “I hope this means we can get back to work. As much as I love fucking around, there’s only so much you can do.” As a group, we weren’t allowed to tell anyone who we were. When we weren’t Black Sacrament, we were ourselves. Couldn’t use the name to impress any girls or anything.

Priest was a ladies’ man, let’s just say. I was surprised he hadn’t spilled the beans about our identities already.My money had always been on him fucking something up, not Pope. I didn’t think any of us ever thought Pope would be the one to screw the band over.

“I wonder if Pope is coming, too,” Priest went on. He ran a hand through his blond hair, his gray eyes fixated on me.

Pope. Priest. Bishop. Deacon. Could you tell what our schtick was?

“I doubt it.” I didn’t know if Pope could ever be welcomed back into the band after what he did. The internet was forever. If we could’ve forced him into rehab and made him make a public apology, maybe things could’ve been salvageable—but Pope wasn’t the type of guy who ever admitted he was wrong.

If only his mistake didn’t leave the rest of us up Shit Creek.

Priest was about to say something else, but right then another person walked in the suite. We both glanced over to see Deacon coming toward us. His long, thick black hair was pulled back in a bun, and he wore a loose t-shirt with paint splatters on it, along with tight jeans. His mouth was drawn into a frown, and he said nothing to us as he joined us on the large couch.

---