Page 2 of Drum Me Away
“The band won’t be destroyed,” Lucas said, his grip tightening on the back of the chair.
“So you’re saying you are breaking up?”
Jesus, this guy needed to stop. “How about we talk about the upcoming tour,” I suggested, leaning into the mic set up on the table in front of me and deliberately keeping my gaze away from Lucas.
“Yeah,” Lucas chimed in, “nobody cares about whatever relationship Faith and I may or may not have.”
“I beg to differ,” one of the other reporters called out in a vaguely British accent. “Your fans care. A great deal, I’d wager.”
Lucas shoved away from his chair, pushing himself into a standing position, and then flung his arms into the air. “I’m out. If all you want to talk about is what she and I do when you aren’t there to watch, I’m not sticking around for that shit.” He started to walk away and then paused and glanced over his shoulder at the crowd of reporters, every single one of whom had a camera held up in front of their faces, recording this moment for prosperity.
“I’m going to practice,” he said, “for our tour.”
And then he was gone, and the reporters all started barking questions again. Gabe shook his head and rushed through the door after Lucas. I glanced at Matt. He lifted his chin, which I took to mean I should take off too, so I did, grateful I was getting out of having to figure out how to fix this mess before those media goons pressed upload on their phones and this little episode was splashed all over the internet.
The media nightmare was being held in one of the conference rooms at the Starlight Music Distribution headquarters, a high-rise building right smack dab in the middle of downtown LA. The door behind the dais led to a narrow hall with offices on either side, most of them closed, thus blocking out any glimpse of the sunshine pouring through their wall-of-glass windows. There was another conference room at the other end of the hall, which, for today’s purposes, had been converted into a sort of waiting area for the band. There were couches and comfortable chairs and a nice charcuterie platter, along with a wet bar set up with everyone’s favorite drinks. Angel and Gabe knew how to take care of us.
I assumed that’s where Lucas and Gabe ran off to, so I headed that way. The door was ajar, and I heard them talking before I actually reached the room.
“I’m tired of it, Gabe. I want out.” That was Lucas’s voice.
“Out, likeout?” Gabe sounded slightly panicked. With good reason. Lucas was arguably one of the best drummers to have been born since Neil Peart. If he left…
“Of this fake relationship,” Lucas said, clearly exasperated.
I winced. I hated when he referred to our relationship as fake.
Even though it was.
That was another one of Dahlia’s brilliant creations: Lucas’s and my love affair. She’d come up with the idea after some fan posted a picture of us on social media. We’d looked chummy, flirty even. We were probably both drunk or, more likely, still riding on the high from another successful concert, because at the time, there had been nothing between us but friendship. It was a great friendship, but it was totally platonic.
The post went viral, hundreds of thousands of comments making it clear our fans loved the idea that we might be a thing.
Dahlia saw it as the perfect opportunity to give the band more publicity.
It worked.
Four years later, there were entire chatrooms dedicated to our love affair. And only four people on this planet knew it wasn’t real: me, Lucas, Gabe, and Dahlia.
Any time the band recorded a ballad, Dahlia led our fans to believe it was about Lucas and me. Matt and I wrote most of the songs, and I rarely wrote about love. That was all him, and by the way, any love song he wrote was definitely about Angel.
But for whatever reason, our fans weren’t nearly as rabid over their relationship as they were over Lucas and me.
And Lucas hated it.
Gabe made shushing noises, and I imagined him waving both hands up and down, like he was trying to soothe a cornered animal. “Calm down, Lucas, and stop throwing that word around so freely.”
“Why? I’m serious, Gabe. Make it happen. I can’t do this anymore.”
“What can’t you do? Make googly eyes at Faith? Kiss her once in a while? Live the perfect rock ’n roll life?”
“Yes.”
There was a slight pause, and then Gabe said, “Is this about getting laid? I’ve told you I can make that happen. I am the king of discretion. Just say the word and—”
“What about the rest of it?”
“I’m not following you,” Gabe said.
