Page 6 of Living on the Edge

He’s quiet for a minute. “Well, if journalists are starting to ask questions that aggressively, maybe we need to do that then.”

“I don’t know how many journalists are talking about it, but I’m going to call Sasha.” Sasha Petrov is our manager, as well as Casey Hart’s daughter, so we have a fairly direct line to the record company if we need it.

Normally, we don’t.

They treat us well. Better than well. We got a small advance, and we get per diems on tour so we’re not starving to death or worried about buying deodorant.

Not that I’ll ever starve to death, but the rest of the guys don’t have it as easy as I do—they don’t know my situation. Hell, no one knows except my drum tech, and Bobby and I have been friends since college. I think Casey may know, because they did a background check on all of us before we were signed, but no one said anything and there’s nothing nefarious in my past beyond who my family is.

Jesus.

Guilt creeps through me for the millionth time.

My band doesn’t even know my real name.

But there’s nothing I can do about that tonight.

“So… are we going to party?”

“I have a date with Ayn tonight,” I reply, trying to keep a straight face.

He stares at me. “Seriously, dude? You’d rather spend the night with some dead philosopher than a flesh-and-blood woman? You scare me sometimes, man.”

I laugh. “I scare myself sometimes. But books make me think, and it’s a nice break. I can do rock and roll ninety percent of the time—but then I need something else to balance out the crazy.”

He squints, like he can’t understand what I’m saying. “Remind me again how and why we’re friends?”

“Shut up.” I shake my head. “You could read a book once in a while and expand your horizons.”

“I have a bachelor’s degree in social work,” he says dryly. “I did plenty of reading in college. Now all I care about is music. I can read when I retire. In like, fifty years.”

“I don’t read,” our bass player, Mick Lips, deadpans. “It rots your brain.”

“What are you fuckers whining about?” Jonny comes bounding up to us and throws an arm around each of our shoulders. “And who the fuck is thinking about retirement at twenty-five? What the hell is going on with you?”

Tate laughs. “Dr. Strange here wants to go back to his room and read—I was explaining that reading is for retirement.”

“Or long bus rides,” Jonny agrees, “but that is notnow. Not tonight. I heard about a party, and we’re going.”

I manage not to roll my eyes.

Parties mean trouble.

Sex, drugs, alcohol, and whatever other fuckery we get up to.

Don’t get me wrong—I like to party.

I wouldn’t be the drummer for a hard rock band like Crimson Edge if I didn’t.

But sometimes I also enjoy peace and quiet.

Because when we party, we party hard.

That’s where my need for balance comes in.

The last time we went to a party, we drank and smoked for nearly thirty-six hours straight. We never slept and went right on stage for the next gig. And I paid for it for several days afterward.

Unlike the rest of the band, I’m not twenty-five anymore.

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