Page 2 of Just Business

Glancing down, I see that she’s handing me a neon yellow sticky note that simply reads:Tour Bus.

With a jerk of my chin, I mutter a halfhearted “thanks” and make my way to the backstage bar for a shot of my favorite Angel’s Envy bourbon. The bartender pours a generous two fingers, and I throw it back, the heat rushing down my throat, settling warm and heavy in my chest. If I’m about to get ripped apart, I’d at least like to be a little numb for it.

Unease snakes through me, wrapping tighter with every step I take toward the bus, until it’s hard to breathe. I know damn well what Ty’s gonna say: he’ll tell me how worried he is and remind me how many people are relying on me. Despite the asshole I’ve been forcing him to be lately, he’s responsible and steady, no matter the chaos we’re usually surrounded by. If I weren’t letting my demons win, I’d probably appreciate his unwavering support more than I do right now.

At the door I pause, taking a second to center myself. Inhale for ten and out for ten. It’s something my sister taught me a long time ago, and sometimes it helps. But not tonight. My hair’s grown a bit too long, the ends still dripping with sweat, and I shake it out like a wet dog and step onto the tour bus, ready to face the music.

Tyler’s already waiting, his fingers tapping out an impatient cadence on the table beside him, his leg bouncing to the rhythm of his frustration. His lips are set in a tight line, and his brows are pinched together in a way that is becoming all too familiar. But when his eyes meet mine, they’re laced with deep concern. Always the concern, as far back as I can remember. Forcing myself to keep eye contact, I take a seat on the couch opposite his.

His mouth opens and closes, but after a beat, he takes a breath and lays into me. “We need to talk.”

He rises and begins to pace the cramped walkway of the tour bus, but he seems to reconsider and lowers back onto his seat.

“That was a shit show. You know that, right?” Without giving me a chance to respond, he goes on, “I lost track of how many words you slurred out there, and you didn’t even remember half the lyrics to your first three songs.”

My mouth opens to protest, but he holds up one finger. “Also, it didn’t slip past me that Frank tried to play your part for you on those first few songs.”Ahh, yes, his name is Frank.

Well, all right. No sugarcoating things. But his words confirm what I was already thinking: it really was a shit show, even with the mediocre second half. Despite being fully aware of this, my hackles rise.

“I know that, Ty,” I bite out. “Do I look like a fucking idiot? I just need to make it through this tour, and I’ll do whatever it takes. Just two more cities.” My head drops into my hands, and a plea seeps into my words that I can’t quite mask. “Two more.”

Tyler’s quiet for so long that a knot forms in my gut, and I finally get the nerve to glance up at him. Jaw clenched, he shakes his head and that knot pulls tighter.

“Listen, I’m not sure there’s gonna be two more cities. Doug is worried about the negative PR and all the social media bullshit that follows you after every show lately.”

My eyebrows rise slowly. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Be honest here, man. Can you blame ’em? He called me this morning to discuss it. I was on the fence, but after witnessing that tonight, I’m leaning toward at least rescheduling it. I think I can talk him into that rather than a full cancellation.”

My nostrils flare, and I can hardly hear myself think over the ringing in my ears. I sit up straighter, shaking my head.

"Unbelievable." I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "I told them it was too much. Months ago I tried to tell them I was hitting a wall. We could have avoided so much of this bullshit if someone would’ve listened to me.”

“You’ve definitely hit a wall. That’s for damn sure.”

He continues to speak, but I’m lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, only snapping back to reality at his last few words.

“—small studio in Alabama.”

My face must show my confusion. Digging my palms into my eyes, I will the haze to lift and shake my head slightly.

“I said there’s a small studio in Alabama,” he repeats. “Remember when my roommate and I went there in college?”

I jerk my head; a vague memory of the trip he’s referring to floats to the surface.

“Well, I heard about it while I was there. Took a little time today to look it up. They’re still around,” Ty continues. “It’s like some hidden gem known for producing hit records. Singing River Sound. The slow-paced life might help you clear your head. Plus, you’ve been bitchin’ about having to sing whatever the label throws at you. Go record some originals I know you’ve got in that notebook you’re always writing in.” He gestures toward the notebook hanging out of my backpack on the floor. “Think of it like a reset—an extended sabbatical. This recording will be for fun, no pressure to release it or tour with it. Might remind you why you love this. You don’t have to be anywhere until our meeting with the label in Nashville on August 30th. I can book studio time for you at Singing River.”

Blink…blink…blink. Holy Shit. I think he’s actually serious. He just threw a lot of words my way, and that shot didn’t do a damn thing, other than jumble my thoughts. August 30th. I squeeze my eyes shut to do some quick mental math. That’s just over a month away. Disappearing for a month would be a publicity nightmare.Worse than your public image already is?my traitorous brain fires back at me.

“Ty, look me in the eye and tell me my career would survive if I disappeared for that long. It’ll be a dark cloud that follows me. All people will see is a drunk who flushed years of success down the drain.” I can’t believe he thinks this is a good idea. But…why does this feel like two elephants have stepped off my chest?

“Okay, first of all, you and I both know you’re not that special.” He fixes me with a pointed stare, one eyebrow raised. “People postpone tours all the time. Your fans and some trolls on the internet will come up with some wild theories about where you are, that’ll last a week or two, and then the next shiny bit of gossip will catch their eye. You know damn well that’s how it is. Kate can handle the publicity and media to spin a believable story.”

“And second of all,” he goes on, “you are acting like a drunk, and if you don’t get your head out of your ass, this will all end with you in rehab. The writing’s on the wall, man. We’ll say you’re exhausted and dealing with vocal stress. When you figure your shit out, you can finish out the tour and give them the best night of their lives.” He offers me a weak smile—one I don’t return, and I look away, a wave of resignation washing over me.

Kate is my publicist and she’s truly fantastic at her job. She thrives off squashing rumors and putting out fires. She’s somehow managed to turn around even the worst stories about me, but I’m not sure even Kate Green can come up with something that would make people believe this isn’t tied to my very public downward spiral.

Standing, I walk to the window, watching as the crew packs up our equipment to hit the road. The thought of another god-forsaken night on this bus makes my skin crawl. I’m a caged animal with no clue how to break through the bars that are closing in on me. Is this my lifeline or my downfall?

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