One Year Later
September 23, 1981Heritage, California
Willie's Roadhouse squatted five miles north of downtown Heritage like a stubborn holdout from another era - wooden stilts, peeling paint, neon sign humming in the warm night air. It sat atop a massive pier overlooking the Sacramento River, just off the Eden Highway, and tonight that entire rickety structure was rocking. Every inch of the adjoining parking lot and levee road was packed to hell with pickups, muscle cars, and half a dozen boats tied up down at the marina. The only reason for all that chaos?
The Saints.
The marquee out front said it all: PLAYING WEDNESDAY 9-23 - THE SAINTS. In smaller print beneath that: with opening act, The Stevedores.
Nobody cared about the Stevedores. Hell, the crowd probably wouldn't have noticed if the damn janitor took the stage to hum into a kazoo. They were here for one thing and one thing only.
It had been just over a year since The Saints had lit up their first stage at D Street West. Since then, it was three gigs a week minimum - Fridays and Saturdays at D Street, Wednesdays at Willie's, sometimes Thursdays or Tuesdays at whatever other venue would pay. Heritage wasn't just familiar with The Saints anymore - they were damn near folklore.
As for The Boozehounds, the former top dogs of the local scene? They were officially extinct. Refused to open for The Saints, refused to adapt, and ended up scrambling for scraps. Michaels unloaded trucks for UPS now. Hathaway? Flipping burgers at a highway truck stop.
Which is exactly where Matt and Jake had rolled through one night, buzzing on coke and beer from a post-set blowout courtesy of O'Donnell. They took seats right at the counter - dead center in Hathaway's field of view.
"Hey," Matt had said, grinning as he eyed the tall chef's hat and hairnet combo. "Nice hat, Hathaway. Real stylish."
Hathaway burned red and stayed silent, refusing to give them the satisfaction.
The counter waitress - a bleach blonde barely nineteen - lit up like a Christmas tree when she recognized them. She went on a giddy, breathless rant about how amazing The Saints were, how many times she'd seen them, how they kept getting better.
Matt took full advantage.
"You gonna be at the show tomorrow night?" he asked, practically undressing her with his eyes.
"I'm working," she said, pout in place.
"Call in sick," Matt said, brushing her hand with his fingers. "Come hang out after. You know what I mean."
She did. Her smile said it all. "I'll be there."
Matt's hand drifted up her arm and barely grazed the top of her chest before pulling back. "I'll be looking forward to it."
Across the grill, Hathaway's jaw was so tight it might've cracked. It was obvious he had some delusional crush on the girl. Matt knew it, and enjoyed every second of twisting the knife.
"I'll have the Chef's Burger," Jake said, keeping the grin off his face.
"Fuckin' A," Matt chimed. "Same for me. Heard the chef's a real artiste. That true, Hathaway?"
No answer. Just the sizzle of beef slapped on the grill.
Ten minutes later, the burgers arrived. Matt examined his like it was a stolen Rolex - turning it, poking at it, sniffing it. Finally, he took a bite. Chewed. Thought.
"Pretty second-rate," he said at last. "I could do it better."
That did it.
Hathaway ripped off his hat and hairnet, stormed over, and pointed a trembling finger right in Matt's face.
"You and me. Outside. Now!"
Matt shrugged like he'd just been challenged to a game of darts. "If that's what you want, hacker."
"I'm gonna kick your fuckin' ass!"
A few truckers at the counter followed them out, hoping for blood. They weren't disappointed - at least, not on Matt's end. Hathaway swung first, missed wildly. Matt ducked, landed an uppercut clean to the chin, then a right cross to the temple. Hathaway hit the pavement like a sack of potatoes.
Matt didn't even break a sweat. He strolled back inside, tossed a twenty on the counter. "Keep the change."
"Uh… thanks," the waitress said, starry-eyed.
"See ya tomorrow night?"
She nodded. "You know it."
And she meant it. She showed up at the next night's show in a denim mini so short it should've come with a warning label. Afterward, she brought two equally dolled-up girlfriends and found Matt by the bar.
"Remember me?" she asked shyly.
"Course I do," Matt said, pulling her in close. "How could I forget the sexiest damn waitress in California?"
She giggled. Her friends giggled. And then she dropped the kicker - Hathaway had actually called the cops on Matt after the fight. But between her statement and those of the two truckers, the police had laughed him off.
"Don't let your mouth write checks your body can't cash," one of them apparently told him.
What happened next was par for the course. Matt took the waitress out to his van. Coop and Darren took her friends backstage. The girls weren't shy. None of them were. That kind of thing happened after nearly every show now.
Tonight, at Willie's, the cycle was in full swing again.
The Wednesday night set had ended barely an hour ago, and the bar was still buzzing. Most of the band were scattered around the room, sifting through the crowd of girls like rockstar royalty shopping for souvenirs.
Matt's place was the afterparty destination. That was already understood.
Like he'd said months ago - there were always women. Dozens of them. And they wanted one thing: a night with The Saints. Some were groupies. Some were shy nobodies. Some just wanted to say they'd done it.
"Sluts!" Matt would declare with delight, grinning as they giggled. "A bunch of fuckin' sluts. God bless and keep 'em."
Even Bill - awkward, gangly Bill - had joined the fray by their second gig. He'd lost his V-card to a brunette in a leather mini who'd taken him into Matt's spare room and given him a crash course in rockstar sex ed. Since then, he was a different man. A man on a mission.
Tonight, he was weighing his options between a redhead in a green micro-mini and a blonde in a halter top. Both clearly moneyed, both equally transfixed by his in-depth rant on cold fusion and its lab implementation challenges.
Across the bar, Darren and Coop were tag-teaming a table of eight girls - three of whom had ditched their dates mid-set. They'd already extended invites to Matt's place. From there, it would be a simple matter of selection. The rest was routine. Sometimes even coordinated.
Matt, for once, wasn't hitting on the loudest girl in the room. He sat at the bar with a quiet brunette in faded Levi's and a blue pullover. Recently, he'd taken to finding the shy ones - the ones who'd never approach him unless he did first. He liked watching their faces light up when he picked them. He liked playing the fairy godmother.
As he sipped his Jack and Coke, he leaned in close, brushing her hair behind her ear.
"So what do you say," he murmured, voice low and inviting, "you come to the afterparty and let me show you how rockstars really live?"
Her eyes went wide.
And she nodded.