Page 51 of Out of the Blue

“Gloria Robinson. And can you include backstage passes, too?” I feel like a beggar asking for another cup of gruel.

“You got it.”

Done! I can get out of here now. Maybe even catch my breath.

He rests his hand on my shoulder, and relief this ordeal is almost over disappears. “Hey, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to read you something.” He fishes out his cell, thankfully removing his hand from my rigid body.

He pushes some buttons on his phone. “Listen to this.” He looks down at the screen and a frown crosses his brow. “Shit. It disappeared. Wait a moment.”

This is the most interaction I’ve had with Braxton during the whole tour, and it feels so wrong. But I have to continue with the charade. Another few minutes, and I can escape. I focus on his grumbling about technology. So reminiscent of how Mom used to deal with her phone. Fuck.

“Ah. Here it is.” He glances at me, and I stare into his eyes. So like mine. “This is from theConnecticut Times. ‘The opening band for Hunte, The Light Rail, was impressive. While still in need of some refining, the band’s music was catchy and inspired, encouraging audience goers to get out of their seats. The band’s lead singer-guitarist, Trent Washington’”—Braxton’s amber eyes dart to me—“‘holds much promise. His voice is pitch-perfect, and his guitar chops move from average to sometimes spectacular. In fact, watching him is like watching a young Braxton Hunte, and this writer hopes he grows into his potential.’”

I swallow. Being compared to my father in such a way sends my synapses flying in all directions. I’m being compared to my idol. That is, before I knew who he was to me.Is. Is to me. The writer said I had potential. Potential to grow into being my father?

“What do you think?”

Braxton’s question makes me focus on his face. One my mother found irresistible once upon a time.

“Trent?”

My hand skims over my tattooed arm. “Some review. Hope I realize my potential sooner rather than later.”

The man before me chuckles. “Takes a while sometimes. I have to admit, though, this writer nailed it. I don’t know what it is about you and your band, but I agree with him. Somehow your dreadlocks remind me of how I used to be onstage at the beginning.”

He does a quick tug on one of my dreads, and my stomach adds some churns into its already convulsing mix. I can tell him why. Mouth closed, I raise my chin.

“You’re good, son. Real good.”

I spasm at his word choice.Fuck. I came for tickets and got them. I need to get out of here.

Before I can make my escape, though, Braxton—oblivious to my inner turmoil—continues, “Let me give you two pieces of unsolicited advice, from one musician to another. I’ve watched you guys perform. I like you and your band a lot.”

I swallow and indicate for him to continue, since my voice has left the building.

“First, add more songs to your repertoire. Change things up. It’ll keep it fresh for you as you perform, and audiences will respond to your renewed energy. Second, try to lighten up a bit on the stage. Play with the crowd. Let your true personality shine. I’ve seen you with your band after a performance and you’re different. More relaxed. Try to let that guy loose on the stage. I bet you’ll be much happier with the results. Okay?” His damn hand lands on my shoulder once more.

He’s talking to me like I imagine a father might. My whole body erupts from the inside out. With a gruff voice, I manage to utter, “Thanks. I’ll try.” Then my throat closes up.

I want to yell, to hit something, to throw up.

He gives me a bro hug, his arms going around the back of my shoulders and I don’t move. My body stands stock-still as he invades my every cell. His vanilla scent wafts to my nose and buzzing takes over my eardrums.

The hug ends after a few seconds. I want to pull him back to me and confess the truth—and punch him in the gut. Hard. I do neither.

“You can do it. I have faith.” Someone calls his name and he tells me, “Catch you at the show,” before he ambles away.

My body, in full revolt, can’t assimilate what just happened in this room. One thing’s for sure—I did get Auntie Gloria’s tickets. Time to get the fuck away from my father and his band. With a salute to the room in general, I stride toward the colossal doors and away from the man inside.

Back on the Harley, I zoom over the icy roads, barely registering any potential danger. I’d welcome a spill on the ice over another conversation with the motherfucker ever again. His one piece of advice about adding new songs to our rotation sticks in my throat, because he was right. If only I could string more than two lyrics together, we would have at least five new songs thanks to the work the guys have been doing on the melodies.

I’m such a fuck up. I’m holding my boys back. Maybe I should bow out? Give them an opportunity to shine like I know they can.

I take a turn too fast and skid, barely maneuvering the bike to remain upright. Like the roads, I need to pay more attention to my band. I don’t want TLR to succeed without me. No. I sit taller in the seat. I can do this. I will make us the best opening band of all time. And then we’ll become superstars in our own right.

Just to spite the lead singer of our current headliner.

Chapter 17 - Cordelia

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