Page 40 of Sycopation
“Because I’m pretty sure you just told a reporter to go to hell.”
“Actually, I gave him the finger.” If Carl was going to scold him, he could at least get the details right. “He was a prick and piece of shit.”
“He’s going to roast you and the band alive.”
He’d had enough of Carl’s false concern. “Like you give a fuck. Youwantme to be the drunken asshole singer. Am I not performing well enough for you?”
Carl stormed in, grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled him up. “I want you to be a goddamned professional, you little shit.”
Every inch of Ray wanted to punch him in the face. He was too close and reeked of crappy aftershave. It was a struggle not to fight, not to lash out. One thing Ray knew about bullies, though—you hit them, they’ll hit you back harder.
“Let me go.”
Carl shook him once, rattling Ray’s teeth, then let go and stepped back. “You damn well better give this show your all, or I’m pulling the plug.” He spun and stormed out.
Ray collapsed back on the vanity, then lowered himself into a nearby chair. They were fucked.
He was still sitting, staring at the floor and trying to remember how to breathe when the rest of the band walked in. None of them said anything to him, just went about getting ready. He should do that too, so he did.
In the end, it was the rhythm and the murmur of preparing and dressing that finally shoved enough of the churning tumult from Ray’s head. If Carl wanted their best, they’d give it to them. He’d do it for the fans, since it might well be their last show.
They brought the house down,and Ray breathed a little easier. From opening with “Lightning” to their acoustical swing version of “Sprinkles on Top” to yet another ripping version of “White Hot Midnight” as their last encore, they’d whipped the crowd into a frenzy. Zavier had suggested they change how they finished the song, having the instruments drop out until therewas only Ray’s and the audience’s voices belting out the last verse. The screaming and the yelling and clapping kept going, even when the lights went up and the crews ran out to change the stage for Five Asylum. The line for autographs was huge, and they barely made it into the bus in time to have any hope of making it to their next destination when they needed to be there.
Carl pulled Ray aside before he boarded, his grip painfully tight on Ray’s arm. “I don’t know how you did it.” His voice hissed in Ray’s ear. “But you did, so you get a reprieve. But one more slipup, and I’m not giving you a second chance. You’ll be done, do you understand?”
“Loud and clear.” He yanked himself free and climbed into the safety of the bus.
His bandmates were already in their usual places on the front couches. “Maybe we should do one of those VIP experiences.” Mish lolled her head against the leather and clutched her half a glass of wine. “Because if we pull off a show like that again, we’re never gonna make the bus.” Her voice was giddy and higher than normal.
“How do you even book those?” Dom had his beer and had done a crappy job of taking off his makeup, but his face was bright and youthful, a mix of Dominic and Domino. “I mean—” He waved his hand. “We’re not Five Asylum.”
They were better than Five Asylum. At least tonight.
Ray slipped past Zavier’s outstretched legs and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Zavier was lounging on his half of the couch with hot tea, and looked up expectantly at Ray. “You joining us?”
He should crawl into his bunk and sleep. Exhaustion gnawed at him, as well as his actions from earlier in the day, and Carl’s cloying aftershave. But he owed it to the band to be better than he’d been. “Yeah. For a little. I’m dead on my feet, though.”
He sat down next to Zavier and cracked open his water. “How can you drink something so fucking hot?” He did before concerts when his throat was bothering him, because the heat loosened things up. But afterward? Nope. And Zavier didn’t even sing. He didn’t need tea.
Zavier’s lips twitched, but not in amusement. “My throat’s been bugging me.”
Ray shifted away. “You get me sick, Demos, and I’ll kill you.”
“Noted.” So neutral. So cool. Zavier shifted his attention away from Ray and spoke. “There are companies that handle those VIP experiences, but I don’t know how well your label would react to bringing in someone from the outside.”
Yourlabel? “You work for them, too.”
“No.” Zavier’s voicewasa touch hoarser than normal. “I’m a session musician.” He rose and walked to the back of the bus, vanishing behind the privacy curtain they left to separate that quiet space.
Fuck. Guilt rose and wrapped its hands around Ray’s throat from the inside. “He’s still mad at me.”
“Well,” Dom said, his voice soft, “you were kind of an ass to him.”
Yeah, he had been, but he didn’t need Zavier chiding him, especially in front of shitty reporters. “This is why I should have gone to bed.” He rose and climbed into his bunk. He’d change and piss once everyone else had turned in.
Texas next. Then New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, California, and Washington. He could do this. They could survive.
Except every inch of Ray hurt, and everything he did or said was wrong. The only right thing was the music.
