Page 3 of What Happened Last Night

She laughed. “Okay, but I’ll have the phone. Call me if you need me.”

“I’ll do that.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Correct, I absolutely will not do that. Talk to you tomorrow.”

* * *

I walked into my place and stripped all of my clothes off, dropping them as I headed for the bathroom. God bless living solo. I’d pick my clothes up later.

In the bathroom, I glanced in the mirror, admiring the tattoo on my chest. It was my first, it was new, and every time I saw it, I still paused, remembering anew that this cool-as-fuck ink was on my body. I traced my fingertips over it. I had no idea why I’d waited so long in life to get a tat, but I was already thinking about the next one.

I got in the shower and rinsed the sweat off. I rubbed one out, because I did that every day. Feeling more relaxed, I dressed in sweatpants and a tee, ate a snack from the kitchen, and rolled myself a joint. I dropped onto the sofa and powered up my game console. A little Red Dead Redemption was just the thing.

I played for a while, the weed making my head spin pleasantly. Since moving to Portland, I’d made it my mission to slack off whenever I could. I’d spent all of my twenties working sixteen-hour days and seven-day weeks. First, I’d built a website selling movie memorabilia, and when that made big money, I sold it. Next, I’d designed and built an old-style record turntable, making it sleek and high quality. It happened to be exactly the item I wanted to buy at the time, and I couldn’t find it, so I made it.

That turned into my company Brooklyn Turntables, which rode the wave of the rebirth of vinyl. That company—my baby, which I worked on twenty-four-seven for five years, building it from the ground up—made bank, too, and when the offer came to sell it, I couldn’t turn it down. I still regretted selling Brooklyn Turntables, because I fucking loved music. A lot.

But everyone said I was a business guy, not a music guy. So at thirty, and richer than I needed to be for the rest of my life, I’d joined a venture capital firm and spent long days doing deals. In all of that time—over a decade of my life—I’d never once spent a weekday afternoon smoking a joint and playing a video game, like a normal person. There were a lot of things I’d never done.

Like take a vacation, or have a one-night stand, or move to a city I didn’t know, or work on something because I loved it and not because it made money. When I made money, the people in my life were impressed. When I made money, they all told me they liked me.

Then I learned some things about my birth, and it changed how I saw myself. And suddenly, I was done—just done. I quit everything to back a rock n’ roll band called the Road Kings. I’d financed their reunion tour, then co-financed their latest album. The band and I had built a studio together, recorded their album, and were starting to record other artists. It was financial suicide, but the music was so fucking good I had no plans to stop. I was doing something I cared about, making something that mattered. I was happier than I’d ever been.

And except for phone calls to scold me, my parents barely spoke to me anymore. And Lizbeth was getting married to someone else. That was what making all that money had gotten me.

Though I was doing my best to slack, my brain wouldn’t quite stop working. Even the weed couldn’t slow it all the way down. As I played, the thing Luna had said about a text I needed to read floated back into my mind. Something about T-shirts.

I paused the game, doused the last of my joint, and picked up my phone. The text Luna was talking about came from Brad Thiessen, the Road Kings’ tour manager. He’d been on the road with the band while they toured for the last two weeks.

Brad: Landed twenty minutes ago. I’ll give you a full report tomorrow, but everyone’s in one piece. We ran out of T-shirts in Miami. Again.

So the boys were back in town. I put the controller down and leaned back on my sofa. The Road Kings only did short tours these days, because they were all in their late thirties and they had families and lives. They’d be home in Portland for a break, and then they’d go back on the road for another two weeks. I hadn’t been able to go on this tour, because I’d needed to be here to train my assistant before I lost the last traces of my sanity. But I’d go for at least part of the next tour.

Everything I needed to do before the band left again wandered through my mind. T-shirts. T-shirts…

I sat up, pulled out my phone, and made a few notes. After a minute, I gave up and took out my laptop. It was time to make use of Luna’s shiny digital filing system. Who was supplying our band T-shirts? How much were we ordering? And why the hell were we running out?

When it came to the music business, streaming paid almost no money, there were very few record stores anymore, and touring was so expensive that you were happy to do more than break even. But T-shirts—people still bought those. Selling T-shirts was the time-honored way for a band to afford another tank of gas or a motel in the next city. If it was done right, it could help keep us afloat. And I knew the merchandise business from my movie memorabilia days. I’d made my first ten million from it.

By ten o’clock, I had made a rough plan and run some numbers. There were research gaps and missing data, but this was my wheelhouse.

The Road Kings made music. I made money.

And starting tomorrow, I’d make some more.

TWO

Luna

Katie called me at ten o’clock. “Wanna go clubbing?” she asked when I answered the phone.

We both laughed. Katie was my cousin, and she was three months older than me. We were both thirty. Clubbing on a weeknight was a joke to us now.

“Why are you up so late?” I asked her. I was wearing my Christmas flannel pajama pants—patterned with cartoon Santas—and a tank top that had been demoted out of “wearable when anyone can see” status over a year ago. I was sprawled on my sofa, scrolling my phone while pretending I was just about to read a book. Any minute now.

“I got home from yoga class at eight,” Katie said. “Then I had to eat something and decompress. Now I’m going to call you, then pass out.”

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