Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Nothing’s wrong with the song,” says Wily, surprising me. He finally looks up from his phone. “Just don’t forget about the rest of us, man. Whatever it is on your mind. What you’re going through. Because I’m not giving up on you. I ain’t Cam.”
“I know.”
He gives me a long look, then lifts a fist toward me. I bump it with my own. He gets up, crawls into his bunk, yanks his partition curtain shut, and I’m left with his plate of Pop-Tart crumbs. After taking it to the sink—I’m used to cleaning up around here, call me Daddy Chase—I crouch at the opened mini-fridge with its bright light blinding me in the otherwise dark bus. Don’t even know what I’m looking at. Or looking for.
“I thought it was great,” comes Raj, his face appearing through the glass fridge door. When I stare back blankly, he clarifies, “Your new tune. Reminded me of the old you. Like, Hate Me era.”
“Everyone keeps sayin’ that,” I mumble half to myself.
“But I wasn’t sure how to back it up,” he admits, as if taking notes of what to improve on in his imaginary snare-and-hi-hat-beating sessions. “Felt more like a solo piece. I kept worrying my percussion was interfering.”
“You were great, Raj. I liked the rhythm.”
“Really?” He smiles to himself, nearly holding back a giggle. The smile vanishes. “But really, it’s important we get things right, especially at this point in the tour. I don’t wanna hold you back at all. I’m just a guest in your world. Lucky to be here.”
Fiona, apparently awake, says, “Take his dick a little deeper, will you?” from under her hat.
Raj leans in to me and whispers, “I heard Laina broke things off with her. Couldn’t handle the long-distance girlfriend-always-on-tour thing. Poor Fiona.”
“I can still hear you,” she mumbles, causing Raj to wince.
I realize what I want isn’t something I can find in this fridge. I shut the door and rise up—so does Raj—and lean back against the counter. “What do you mean it’s important to get things right at this point of the tour?” I ask him quietly.
“Because I know we’re on the edge of a breakthrough,” is his answer, as dryly as if it’s fact. “Everything is on the line. You’ve established this new rock sound for Chase Holt. The world hears everything we do—including our mistakes. I won’t blow any of our opportunities. I know everyone’s eyes are on us.” He leans in. “I’m gonna be the best drummer you ever had. I won’t let you down.”
Ian’s getting to him. In through Raj’s ear like programming a robot, and out his mouth, that familiar, hypnotizing flow of self-fulfilling optimism I can’t stand.
But it’s also the same optimism that got us where we are. And it’s not like I haven’t done my part in perpetuating Ian’s mantras.
Alleged not-so-country-anymore sellout …
I shudder away the words. “Y’know, Raj …” I start to say.
Then the bus jerks, throwing him into me—I catch him to save him crashing into the wall—and everything is rumbly and fucked up. “Aw, shoot!” growls Larry our driver from up ahead. “Ah, hang tight, hang tight. Shoot.” The rumble continues. Fiona has sat up, annoyed. When the bus finally lurches to a stop, Larry sighs. “This cursed damned night. Sorry, folks. Bleepin’ tire.”
Wily pokes his head out of his bunk, rubbing his eyes. Raj, still caught awkwardly in my arms, winces at Wily over my shoulder and whispers, “Flat.”
Last time this happened to a tour bus of ours, it was a bus we rented from some cheap company our first year of touring. Feels damned near nostalgic standing roadside again at fuck-it-o’clock, watching the 24/7 industrial tire service work their miracles on the edge of whatever Texas freeway we’re on. Some of the crew still awake came out of their bus, parked behind us. Dee’s chatting with Fiona. Ian’s pacing by the road on his phone. Wily’s trying not to fall over as he stands in place, blinking.
I’m trying not to see this as a sign.
Like something in my life needs to be rammed off track before I continue on this sellout road into my future.
Like something’s wrong.
I stare up at the stars as if looking for the answer. It’s amazing how many are visible out here. Something about long, quiet roads far away from any known city, out in the middle of who-knows, when the night sky’s so dark every star flashes like glitter, so close you swear you could catch them in your eyelashes.
“Do you meet with fans in secret?” asks Raj, still next to me.
I flinch out of my thoughts. “What?”
“Sorry, nothing, I’m prying.” He looks off, pretending to have lost interest. Doesn’t last long. “It’s just when I came to get you …”
I forgot Raj was the one who was sent to fetch me before the show. He likely saw the guy I was talking to. Or rather: listening to. “Nah, not a fan. He didn’t even know who I was.”