“Mm-hmm. I guess she’s also one of the lucky ones, because her email’s asking for data.”
Translation—any other person would have been jealous his friend still got to participate in active climate science and he didn’t, but Carter was too sweet.
In any case, Jeff had lost him—whatever this request was, his curiosity was piqued and he was now in full science mode. “All right, I’m going to let you go and try to shower off this morning so that I don’t break any guitars onstage tonight.”
“Hmm? Oh. Sure. Thanks for calling.”
Jeff shook his head. “Talk to you later.”
Then he dropped the arm with his phone into his lap.
There was only so much wallowing he could do, and he’d already done most of it. Trix and Tim did a shitty thing, but Jeff wasn’t doing himself any favors either. He needed to come up with an album timeline and touring schedule he didn’t hate, evaluate whether he could do it with Howl, or find a way to get out of doing it.
Knowing that it would likely spell the end of his time with the band.
He couldn’t do all of that in an afternoon, but he couldn’t doanythingif he didn’t start somewhere. With a new objective in mind, Jeff pulled himself up off the apartment floor. He had work to do.
BY THEtime Jeff’s car service dropped him at the venue, he had fifteen minutes until sound check and Tim was obviously about ready to light into him.
Before he had the chance, Jeff handed him a business card. “You’re right, I’m borderline late. If you’ve got anything to say about it, please contact my lawyer.”
Tim’s face went from apoplectic to pants-shitting dread and back again. “Yourlawyer?”
“Monique Huberdeau. She’s reviewing Howl’s contract as we speak to determine whether there’s been a breach on your part. Because if I find out that you knew that photograph would be used on the show this morning and you didn’t tell me, and the contract says you should’ve, we are done.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Tim sputtered, turning red.
Jeff took his sunglasses off and, channeling Carter, hung them on the front of his T-shirt. Time to out-douchebag the douche king. “I’m a motherfucking rock star, Tim. I don’t know where you got the idea you could walk all over me, but it ends now.” Then he clapped him on the shoulder. “Now where’s my band?”
Joe, Trix, and Max were already on the stage, waiting for him.
Jeff’s stomach twisted into knots. Trix was sitting at the drumkit, elbows on her knees, leaning over with her sticks held loosely in her hands. Max and Joe stood stage right and stage left respectively. The atmosphere was one of persevering awkwardness.
And most of it was Jeff’s fault.
“Hey,” he said, taking the stool that had been left at center stage. “Can we talk for a minute?”
Joe met his eyes and nodded incrementally. Max pulled his own stool closer and sat. “Sure.”
Trix let out a long breath. “Whatever,” she said, shoving her drumsticks into her right boot. “Can’t imagine what we have to talk about.”
But before Jeff could say anything, one of the techs popped up from the side stage. “Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but we’ve got a limited window here and we still have to do sound check for the opening act. Any chance we can get started?”
Fuck.Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to eat something and get some Advil or tonight would destroy him. “Yeah, okay. First things first.” He blew out a breath and met Trix’s eyes. “After the show?”
For the first time he noticed she looked tired. Obviously she hadn’t been to Makeup yet. “Yeah.” She nodded and pulled the drumsticks out of her boot. “The show must go on, right?”
“Ready to rock,” Joe confirmed, plugging in. “From the top?”
Something always went wrong during sound check. Broken guitar strings, accidental feedback loop, mic stand tipping over. Jeff took it as a good omen—things going wrong in sound check meant theywouldn’tgo wrong during the show.
This time, when Trix was retuning the tom to avoid sympathetic vibration of the snare, one side of the lug broke off. She pulled her hand away and stared at the offending plastic—only the rods were metal—and swore. “What the fuck. Mass-produced piece of shit.”
“That’s a new one,” Max said. “Hey, Wilma!” He leaned over the side of the stage, where the tech crew was working on… something. If it didn’t happen onstage, Jeff didn’t know about it. “You got a pair of Vise-Grips?”
A moment later someone handed up the appropriate tool, and Max walked it over to Trix.
With a minimum of fuss, Trix resolved the problem. “Can I keep this ’til after the show?” she yelled.
