Someone raised a hand in a thumbs-up.
They finished just in time to yield the stage to the opening act, and Jeff let himself be hustled to Wardrobe and Makeup. Joe sat in the chair next to him and submitted to being airbrushed, while Nancy tousled Jeff’s curls.
“I could give you a little trim,” she offered, “if you think it’s getting a bit long.”
Jeff had a sudden flashback to Carter’s hands in his hair. “Ah, no. I think I’m keeping it for now. Thanks, though.”
When their techs had left, Joe swiveled toward Jeff. “Look, are we going to talk about this? Because I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something.”
“Yeah. That’s my fault.” Jeff fought the urge to fidget with his hair by sitting on his hands and glanced both ways before lowering his voice. “I’m pretty sure Tim is up to some manipulative shit. There’s no way the hosts of that show used that picture without him knowing, so why didn’t Dina tell me about it? Why didn’t he tell them no?”
Joe’s eyes widened. “You didn’t know that was coming?”
“I didn’t even know that pictureexisted.”
“I’m sorry, man. That’s messed up.” Now Joe was looking around too. “Not that I’ve ever exactly been his biggest fan either. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Yeah, well. We got saddled with him when we didn’t know better. But if we’d been smart a little sooner, maybe we could’ve been free a while ago.” Maybe a different manager would have gotten Max into rehab—realrehab, the intensive kind, not a wishy-washy two-week program where he’d just use the whole time anyway. Maybe a different manager would have supported Joe’s activism.
Maybe a different manager wouldn’t have worked Jeff until he was burned up as much as he was burned out.
“You don’t want to do the album,” Joe said, understanding dawning.
He might as well admit it. “Not if it means working with Tim.” Jeff debated for a moment, but in the end, if he couldn’t trust Joe, the whole thing was shot anyway. “But I know it’s too much to ask everyone to consider breaking our contract. Meanwhile, I told Tim if he needed to talk to me he could go through my lawyer.”
Joe whistled. “That’s going to cost you.”
Not as much as it’d cost to get out of their contract. “It will be worth it.” Besides, hopefully it was a short-term solution.
“Yeah, I guess it will.” Joe worried at his lower lip for a moment. “So. Are you as worried about Max as I am?”
MaxandTrix, yeah. Maybe more so. Jeff grimaced instead of giving in to the urge to rub his eyes. “Yeah.” He’d been hoping, stupidly, that being away from the crush of the tour would mellow him out. But for Max, the problem was never the tour. “After the show?”
“Yeah.” Joe nodded once, face tight, and then clapped Jeff on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go out with a bang.”
Jeff could have let the past day spoil the show. He was furious with Tim and half sick over Trix and Max. But fans had paid stupid amounts of money to be here tonight, and they deserved him at his best.
Besides, outdoor concerts were always special. Jeff liked the way the night breeze could carry his voice, the way it rippled through the crowd. Until recently, he’d loved the sense of security he received from the people around him. He could make a misstep and Max would catch him, add a verse and Joe would be there, lose the beat and Trix would find him back.
He always wanted to feel that way onstage with them. He hadn’t even considered leaving until he realized he didn’t feel it anymore. Somewhere along the way, they’d lost themselves and each other. All he could do now was try to bring them back.
The outdoor stage wasn’t quite dark yet. This time of year, it wouldn’t be for another hour. So Jeff walked onstage in a beautiful twilit May evening, guitar in hand, and joined his band.
Max met his eyes first, blessedly clear and sober. Trix gave a nod, terse but not solemn. Then Joe, who raised his eyebrows and thumped out a quick riff—Are you ready?
Jeff looked out into the audience—a sea of cell phone lights and swaying bodies. At least one person had a really fragrant blunt, but it wasn’t likely to bother even Max.
Jeff’s fingers shaped the chords, major one, major four, minor five, diminished seventh, but he didn’t strum. The guitar made just enough sound without it for the audience to recognize the song.
“I hear you like Shark Week,” he said, because he was a hopeless nerd.
The crowd cheered anyway. A microphone bestowed a lot of power.
Jeff stepped back and turned to nod at Trix, and she raised her sticks for the count. One, two, three, four—
Jeff had always loved this song. He and Trix had written it about their parents, obliquely. Trix’s mom had narcissistic personality disorder. Jeff’s dad was frankly just a shit parent. Jeff had never tried to put a label on it. The chorus pretty much said it all anyway:
I should’ve known you’d smell the blood in the water
