Page 63 of Street of Dreams
The tour proved to be the distraction that Mac needed in order to heal and move forward. His heart hurt less, mainly because there was little free time to think about Jake. His schedule was brutal, and he used whatever down time he had to catch up on sleep. Not only was he performing five nights a week, but he had a PR rep who dragged him to local radio stations for interviews on a daily basis.
Today, he just finished a set at a music festival to fill in for an artist who bailed at the last minute. The crowd, who was expecting a 20-minute lull in a day filled with back-to-back live music, had given him a rock star reception. He was exhausted, but he could definitely get used to this life.
He stretched out in the Town Car as he drove away from the festival grounds with Gary and Carlos. He didn’t realize he dozed off until he was in front of a building that looked like a warehouse. “Where are we?”
“This is the address I was given by Mr. Randall,” the driver replied.
Mac stepped from the vehicle and approached the building with confusion. He read the gold-plated sign on the exterior wall. Colby Studios. When he pushed open the door, Jerome Randall, the tour manager, was standing there with someone Mac never met before.
“This is Colin McMillin,” the tour manager said. “He’s a record producer. You’re recording your first single, kid. You’re a hit. An instant sensation. The label wants to get a single on the radio next week and record an album when the tour’s over.”
Mac was flabbergasted at the velocity of everything that was happening. It had been a nonstop string of accomplishments since the tour started, each furthering his career. He’d never been inside a recording studio before or witnessed the process. It was tedious and time consuming, but so fucking worth it.
Five and a half hours later, the tracks toStreet of Dreamswere recorded and ready to be turned into a single to be released to the public. It was almost midnight, and Mac was running on adrenaline. He had no idea how he was supposed to sleep, so he spent an hour at the bar of his hotel with Carlos and Gary. He was still wearing his kilt, so it drew attention, and a couple approached him, filled with starry-eyed smiles.
“You played at the Summertime Festival today.” The girl snapped her fingers. “Mackenzie something.”
“Reid Mackenzie,” he clarified, shocked that she remembered at least part of his name.
“I knew it was you,” the guy said. “Can I get your autograph?”
“And a picture?” the girl added.
It was the first time Mac had been recognized, and his ego received a giant boost. He grinned like a lunatic and posed for several photos, which caught the attention of others in the bar who also attended the festival and wanted to take pictures with him. Even Gary and Carlos were approached for photos and autographs.
The original couple approached Mac again when the small group that surrounded him dissipated. “I’m so sorry,” the girl apologized. “I didn’t mean to make a scene and have so many people bother you.”
“It’s fine.” Mac still had a crazy smile on his face. “No bother at all.”
She let out a relieved breath. “Thanks. You’re so nice. Maybe we’ll run into you again in October.”
“October? What’s happening in October?”
“Rocktoberfest. In Black Rock City. They announced that you were joining the lineup right after your set.”
“Oh. Yeah,” he lied. He didn’t know any gigs were booked after the tour with The Third Rail and Cut Throat, and he tried to tone down his excitement at this new bit of information. “I didn’t realize they announced it already. Cool. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
After the couple thanked him again and left, he practically ran back to where Gary and Carlos were stationed at the bar. “Order a round of shots. It looks like we’re coming back to Nevada in October to play Rocktoberfest!”
Over the next eight weeks, they visited 15 different cities. Now they were on the bus to San Antonio where they’d have the night free and the luxury of a hotel bed. They utilized the four-hour ride by going over some of the songs Mac wanted to present to the label for possible inclusion on the CD. With his acoustic guitar across his knee, he sat on the edge of his mattress on the bottom bunk, while Gary and Carlos sat across from him with an acoustic bass and an electronic drum pad. The three of them stayed in the sleeping area, so they didn’t bother the members of Cut Throat, who were all occupying the lounge area in the front of the bus.
“We’ve been playing the same ten songs at every show for almost three months,” Mac mentioned. “Do you guys think you can learn a new one well enough so we can swap it out at a show next week?”
They both nodded.
He ran through a favorite song that he originally wanted to include in the setlist for the tour, but it got edged out simply because he had so many choices. The guys picked up the rhythm right away, enthusiastic about learning new music.
“You’re an amazing songwriter,” Carlos said. “Is this the song you’ve been working on?”
“What song?” Mac asked.
“When we first started the tour, you used to write in your notebook every night and strum chords. You haven’t done that in a while. I just assumed you finished the song, and this was it.”
Mac inhaled sharply, and his gaze went to his backpack, which was hanging from a hook on the back wall of his bunk. He pulled out the notebook, flipped through the pages and stared at the words and music he wrote during the first two weeks they were on the road. The lyrics were harsh and guttural. They were filled with bitterness and invoked heart-wrenching pain. He tensed as he read the words, and it was suddenly hard to breathe as the feelings they conjured up darkened his heart.
He had started writing the song after the first show when he had punched the pillow, angry that Jake had cut him out of his life so completely. It was easier to be pissed off because hurt was a deeper emotion. Anger masked the pain. Heartache gutted him and nagged at his soul, making it hard to function. So, he compartmentalized his pain and locked it away deep in his heart.
He smirked and narrowed his eyes as he returned the notebook to the bottom of his backpack, where he wanted it to remain, and shook his head. “No. That song is private.” He gave no other explanation and turned his attention back to his guitar.
