Page 11 of Bonding the Band

“You can have coffee once we get through the set list at least once,” Gary told him with a stern frown. “We can’t have you boys shitting the bed during your first show back home. You’ve got a considerable fan base in Salt Lake.”

“We’ve got a considerable fan baseeverywhere,” Arlo pointed out.

“Well, yes,” Gary spluttered. “But Salt Lake sales are always more than the status quo—so you need to get this set list hammered out. Start from the top!”

We took our places, and I grabbed my bass guitar, strumming a few chords while Phin settled behind the drums.

Less than three lines intoKnotty Girl,the opening song, Hendrix made a garbled sound; lurched forward, clutching the nearest trash can; and promptly emptied his stomach into it.

Phineas groaned. “Dude, that’s vile.”

“I think I’ve got food poisoning,” Hendrix mumbled, clutching the trash can for dear life.

Food poisoning. Sure. That wastotallythe most likely culprit.

Not the drugs.

“Everything hurts,” Hendrix complained, slowly straightening and making his way back over to us with a self-pitying look on his face. “Even my chest hurts. I didn’t know nipples could be so sore!”

“Your titties hurt, bro?” Arlo laughed, lunging forward and landing a quick, precise punch to his pec.

Hendrix yelped like a stepped-on pup. “You fucker!” he whined, clutching his chest, glaring at Arlo.

“Calm down, children.” I sighed, fiddling with my guitar for something to do, tuning it despite the fact it was already perfect.

“Hendrix, you need to go see a doc. We can’t have you tossing your cookies during a concert. That’s not exactly the look we’re going for.” Gary frowned, his forehead creased and sweaty in the stage lights.

“I’m fiiine.” Hendrix extended the last word with a whining tone. He shoved both hands into his hair, scratching his scalp like he was trying to self-soothe through the nausea. Poor asshole curled up, resting his head on his knees with a whimper.

“Is this because of the party favors?” Gary cocked an eyebrow. “I can get a local doc to prescribe something to help reduce the aftereffects.”

“No,” I said, my voice firm. “If he has less consequences, he’ll be needing Narcan and a morgue, not a good night’s sleep and some sobriety.”

“Then make sure he can perform.” Gary shrugged, turning to Hendrix. “I can help you get something to make you feel a little better on stage.”

Gary was a cunt.

He was supposed to be managing us, not providing our lead singer withmoredrugs.

Hendrix looked up at Gary like the sun shone out his ass. “I’ll take anything to make it stop.”

“I’ll get my assistant to bring you something…after you get through this set list.”

Hendrix nodded, standing up straight, focusing on the mic. “Knotty Girl?” he asked, looking to me for confirmation like he hadn’t just been singing the opening line moments ago.

We didn’t even make it halfway through the set list before Hendrix was done. He staggered out of practice and promptly collapsed on the bed in the tour bus.

“I’ve got half a mind to ask Gary for our own tour bus,” I grumbled.

Ever since we got our first bus, we had rotated who slept in the main bedroom so we’d get at least one good night’s sleep every four days. Whoever wasn’t sleeping in the bed would sleep in the bunks. Switching wasn’t terrible, but the bunks weren’t exactly the lap of luxury.

Considering how much money we made, we probably could’ve afforded better beds. It wasn’t like we were a no-name band slumming it across the country like we had been several years ago.

Unfortunately, in recent days, Hendrix had taken over the bed. Between his manwhore antics and constantly being high or on a major downer, the bunks were actually looking rather appealing in comparison.

There had been one time, several weeks prior, when the bedroom had smelled amazing, and I’d almost insisted on taking my turn. A sweet floral scent clung to the room, and Hendrix insisted he had no idea who was the cause of that.

“He needs some serious fucking help.” While Hendrix was passed out, I sank onto the couch for our pack meeting, running a hand through my hair.

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