I turned to the mic, wrapped my hand around it and smiled to the crowd.

“That’s rock ‘n’ rol !” I yel ed and a wal of sound hit us as they screamed back.

“We need a beer. Give us fifteen minutes and we’l be back,” I told them and they screamed again.

I grabbed the neck of my guitar and swung it in an arc, moving my hair out of the way with a shake of my head and disengaging the black leather strap (that had kil er, tiny, daisy flower silver rivets running up each edge, a double threat, girlie but stil rock ‘n’ rol ) from around my shoulder. I placed my guitar in its stand and walked between Buzz and Leo to the stairs that would lead offstage.

The crowd had moved from fanatic screams to clapping and stomping rhythmical y, chanting the word “Gypsies” over and over again. They were hoping for encore number five and I had to admit, I was high enough to give it to them.

But seriously, as high as I was, as much as the music and the crowd were feeding me, I needed a f**king beer.

* * * * *

My day had started out shit and didn’t get better. Let’s just say Mace hadn’t been happy that our evening plans had changed from a quiet dinner and a talk about our future to his having to pul together a security detail for a death defying rock gig.

After the band left, I cal ed Mace and managed to talk him around (okay, so it could more appropriately be described as yel ing him around). But once he gave in, to my shock, Lee phoned and started yel ing at me too. Then Luke phoned. Then Hector. Then Eddie. I hung up on Hank and then had Roxie phoning me, yel ing at me for hanging up on Hank.

The Hot Bunch weren’t al that excited about me getting shot at again but more, if I was putting myself out there, the Rock Chicks were coming for moral support. And that they really didn’t like.

As for Roxie, she just didn’t like me hanging up on Hank.

I was in a pickle. I couldn’t make the Rock Chicks stay home. I couldn’t let down the band.

Either way, I was screwed.

So, I stuck with the program.

These cal s were intermingled with cal s from reporters and friends; both wanting to know what was going on.

Since I wasn’t al owed to talk to reporters and since I didn’t real y know what was going on, these cal s were short and annoying.

So I decided to quit answering the phone and Juno and I cleaned my house, top to bottom. Wel , Juno didn’t clean.

Juno watched me clean part of the time and snoozed the other part.

Then I worked on the set list. This took awhile considering it might be the last gig I’d ever play. I told myself I wasn’t being morbid, just prepared, but I knew whatever it was, it had to be special.

What I didn’t do was nap, play my guitar to soothe my troubled soul or come to any conclusions about my effed up life.

I should have done al of those or at least some of them or at the very least the last one. But I didn’t have it in me.

* * * * *

I harbored hope that people would stay away from the show considering the cover was doubled, the security was fierce and bul ets were flying. This hope was dashed.

By the time Vance took me to The Pal adium, the doors were closed because the club was already at maximum capacity. I could see there was stil a line straggling al the way down the sidewalk (half a block!) and curling around the corner. Al of this and the show didn’t start for thirty minutes (or, as it turned out, fifty, as the band gave me trouble because they always gave me trouble).

Crazy Rock ‘n’ Rol Denverites.

The good news was there were also a couple of squad cars and uniforms out front, providing what Vance cal ed

“presence” which did double duty of helping to control the crowd and making bad guys think twice.

My being “adopted” by the Denver Police Department definitely had its perks.

* * * * *

The other good news was that, once we starting playing, the band was hot. We were on fire the night before but we were an inferno tonight. We’d never played this good.

Never.

* * * * *

I got to the side of the stage and Mace shoved a Fat Tire in my hand. “Tomorrow, we’l talk about your set list,” he growled.

I looked at him, noticed right off he was ticked and had an instant buzz kil .

I’d been creative with the set list. We were playing songs we’d rehearsed for the hel of it but rarely, if ever, played.

These included Son House’s “Death Letter”, Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper”, Bil y Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young”, Benatar’s “Hit Me with Your Best Shot”, AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck”, and Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money”.

Furthermore, we played two songs that we’d never played at a show and no one had ever heard outside of rehearsal.

The songs were written by Buzz and Leo. I wasn’t a songwriter but they were and they were pretty good at it.

We’d never played them, not because I didn’t let us but because Buzz and Leo weren’t comfortable with it.

I decided that, seeing as al of our asses were on the line, it was now or never.

Buzz and Leo disagreed.

Floyd, Hugo and Pong thought it was a great idea.

The band fought.

My side won but this meant we were twenty minutes late taking the stage.

And so it goes with rock ‘n’ rol .

The crowd loved the new songs. They loved al of it. They were f**king eating it up.

Mace, however, clearly did not appreciate the irony.

“It’s my band,” I told Mace. “I write the set lists and I don’t take any lip.”

This was a lie. I took lip al the time.

Mace glared at me and he was so good at it I felt it prudent to snap my mouth shut. So I did.

As with each break, Mace put a hand in my back and steered me backstage.

They were taking no chances tonight; al the Hot Bunch, Tex and Duke were there again. The same dril as the night before. The difference was, while the boys of the band worked the groupies or the bar, I spent my breaks sequestered in the dressing room with the Rock Chicks.

“Holy crap! That was great!” Indy shouted when I entered the room.

I saw that this time around, Vance was playing bodyguard. Last break, it was Luke.

Vance gave Mace a nod, Mace accepted it with a return chin lift, glared at me one last time and shut the door behind him as he left.

“I loved your version of ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’. That was fantastic!” Roxie yel ed, not holding any grudges from our earlier throw down.

I smiled, took a pul from my beer and threw myself on the ratty couch Monk should have replaced twelve years ago.