Page 27 of Ring My Bell

Groaning, Iggy followed them with me in tow.

Gerald gave up, heading for the sofa to collapse. “Fuck my life,” he groaned.

Paige leaned against a half-size replica of Bremen Bear, barely managing to hold in their laughter. “Regular,” they pointed to the den where the huge bear waited, “and travel size!”

“Why does he have a fucking bear mascot in here?” Iggy demanded. “Oh my god…”

“Look at it this way.” I leaned in to whisper close to his ear. “These bears won’t eat you, but I know a really grumpy otter who might.”

Apparently, I wasn’t quiet enough. Paige fell into fresh giggles, and Iggy buried his face in my shirt. “Just let me die now…”

Chapter Eleven

MATHIS

“Seriously?” I demanded.

Iggy and Paige both nodded enthusiastically, a pair of brightly colored bobbleheads the two of them.

Gerald spoke up. “I, ah, pulled some strings,” he muttered, face bright red as he looked anywhere but at us. “My ex, he’s one of the coordinators for the Thursday stages, and his baby is the open mic competition.”

“The schedule was packed,” I murmured. “I checked myself. Four times.”

Paige winked at Gerald, who buried his face in his hands. “Gerald’s ex is pining. Big time. Like… Rockefeller Center-levels of pine for our boy here.”

“I’m not a boy. I’m thirty-four, for fuck’s sake,” Gerald grumbled. “And he’s not pining. He just owes me a favor.”

“Must be one hell of a favor,” I said. “How did he get us stage time?”

Paige spoke up again. “Apparently, Mister Pine out there feels so bad about breaking things off with Gerald. He’s willing to do just about anything to get him back.” They grinned harder, leaning in to stage whisper, “Anything.”

Gerald scowled at them. “We parted on good terms over five years ago. We wanted different things, and why the hell am I giving you my life story here? The important part is you’ve got a double slot, so get to practicing.” He shot a glare at Iggy, then me. “I may have promised my firstborn to get access to one of the practice rooms in the main lodge. Haul ass before they figure out I’m not having kids unless Cary Grant rises from the dead in peak form and offers to be my baby daddy.” He jabbed a finger at Paige. “And you! If you’re going to help me, help me!”

Paige’s brows disappeared somewhere under their bangs. “Sir, yes, sir!”

Everything became a flurry of movement laced with acid-bright panic as Paige hustled us to the lodge and found the practice room check-in desk. Gerald, bless his magical self, had gotten one with a piano. At the sight, Iggy grinned. “It’s even a Schimmel.”

I nodded, the bees in my head suddenly buzzing to life again. It was disorienting and too much, being at the festival again for the first time in over a decade, this time as… Well. As nobody. My name had never made it to the tabloids like Iggy’s. I’d never even made it past Raymond’s little studio except for a few gigs he had nothing to do with, which received almost no attention but had been exciting and fulfilling for me personally.

The first time I’d played at the festival had been a fluke, back when it was a regional thing, kind of niche… Now, though. “Jesus,” I muttered as the nice lady with the lemon-yellow hair showed us into the practice room. “This place has come up.”

She flashed us a smile, already backing to the door so she could get to the next people on her list. “The funding definitely helped, and being on Next Big Thing was a huge boost for us.” Glancing down the hall, she frowned, shaking her head at someone. “No, Room 2A. A! Like apple! Sorry, guys.” She spared us a smile. “Gotta sort this out before the Happyland Chorus and the Clogbunnies absolutely murder one another!”

Her shouts at someone to never put Happyland next to Clogbunnies echoed down the hall. She ran off, leaving me and Iggy alone. “Clogbunnies,” he muttered. “What the hell…”

“We don’t have a name,” I said suddenly. “I mean, we’re on her list as Iggy and Mathis, but… We need a name, don’t we?”

Cocking his head, Iggy moved towards me slowly. Like he expected me to bolt if he startled me or moved too quick. “Do we? Sam and Dave did fine without some made-up band name. Tegan and Sarah.”

“The Captain and Tennille.”

“Now you’re just trying to make me laugh.” He smiled softly. “Hey, maybe we should do a rendition of ‘Muskrat Love.’ Hit ‘em in the nostalgia.”

I made a face. “I will walk out this door right now rather than play yacht rock.”

Iggy laughed. “Then what are we going to play?” He lifted his violin case, holding it up between us by the handle. “I brought my baby. There’s your borrowed one. We’ve got three hours to figure our shit out and look like we know what we’re doing.”

“I feel wrong-footed,” I admitted. “I’m not usually the nervous one.”

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