Page 26 of Fire
Guarding a five-star hotel that’s used to hosting high-profile clients is much easier than keeping track of multiple buses while overworked musicians fight over bunks, women, and fridge space.
Plus, let’s face it, who wouldn’t rather spend a night in a luxury hotel than be crammed in a tour bus with five other dudes?
Not me.
“Hey, big brother.” Mercury’s sing-song voice echoes behind me in our parents’ kitchen. I’m rifling through the fridge, looking for a soda, and I peek my head out to look at her. She’s got her long brown hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. It’s our last family dinner before Zander and I leave on tour.
“Hey, little sister.” I parrot back at her in the same tone.
“You ready for tomorrow?”
I shrug, grabbing a Coke before shutting the door to face her. “Ready enough.”
“You gonna give me your autograph before you leave?” She pops a hip against the marble countertop and gives a mischievous grin. Sometimes I forget just how grown-up she is. Dressed in designer jeans and a creamy white top, she looks more preppy than rock and roll, and it’s hard to believe she just put in a ten-hour day at the recording studio with an up-and-coming goth band.
It feels like yesterday she was blowing up my phone, crying over her first middle school boyfriend.
“Will you sell it on eBay?” I ask, joining her at the kitchen island. I pop open the can and take a sip.
She folds her arms across her chest and scoffs. “I would, but I doubt it would go for much.”
I press a hand to my chest. “Harsh, Merc. That’s just harsh.”
She simply shrugs, then swipes my Coke and takes a long drink. When she’s done, she sets it down in front of her as if it had belonged to her all along. “If you want hype, go find Pres. She loves talking about music.”
“And you don’t?”
“I do,” she agrees. “But it’s different. She loves the emotional aspect of music. I love perfecting it.”
“God, you’re a nerd.”
“A music nerd,” she says, correcting me with a smile. “Which is how I know you’re going to do great on this tour. You’re a brilliant musician, Hen.”
She beams up at me, and I am once again struck by how grown-up she’s become. “Brilliant, but not famous?”
Her smile transforms into a wide grin. “You’re a bass player. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” I snort a laugh, and she hooks her arm in mine. “Come on, rock star. Let’s go find everyone else.”
Theeveryone elseshe refers to is sitting in my parents’ giant family room, which overlooks the Pacific. It’s dark, and the sun has sunk below the horizon hours ago, but you can still hear the rhythmic crashing of waves outside.
That sound used to calm me and lull me to sleep at night.
Now, it’s just pure nostalgia. Hearing it reminds me of home.
My mom is the first to notice us. Her silvery-brown curls are pulled into a loose knot, and she’s dressed down in lounge pants and a long cardigan. “You found him,” she says, not bothering torise from her spot next to where she’s wedged herself between my dad and the sectional.
“I just look in the most obvious location. The?—”
At first, I think she’s pausing for dramatic effect, but then I feel her body tense and turn to see what’s got her so worked up.
Standing by the window next to Zander, looking slightly out of his element, is Asher Knight, the lead singer for Manic at Midnight.
My eyes dart back to my little sister, who stands perfectly still, staring at him. Completely starstruck.
Mercury is not typically the fangirl type. She once accompanied my father as his date to the Grammys and walked right up to the Artist of the Year to share her thoughts. She was half his height and barely in double digits, but that didn’t stop her from informing him that his latest album was pitchy and pedantic.
I say usually, because there is one exception.
And that is Asher Knight.
