Daniels completed the paperwork on his computer and printed it out for me. “Keep a copy on you at all times while traveling. You’re responsible for clearing your schedule with the nursing homes.”
“I will.”
When we’d picked out a date and time for that return appointment, he stood and extended his hand.
I followed suit, saying as we shook hands, “I appreciate you helping me stay afloat financially.”
“I don’t mind having a client who follows the rules. See you next week.”
I kept my cool as I left his office, walking past a young Black woman with a worried expression sitting in the chair I’d vacated. We didn’t meet each other’s eyes but I silently wished her well. Down the elevator, out into the street, and then I startled some passerby with my fist-pumping shout of “Yes!”
The relief was so overwhelming, I barely noticed the odd feeling in my throat as I called Pete Lebraun.
“Hey, dude.” Pete wasn’t California-born, but by now he sounded that way. “What’s the word?”
“He signed the damned forms. Finally. I’ll see you in, fuck, two weeks? Yeah.”
Pete chuckled. “Gonna be good. We haven’t jammed in far too long. I’ll meet you at the airport. Let me know if your flight changes.”
“Will do.” I might’ve made the decision not to tour again, might be winding my career into low gear, but the prospect of seeing the guys, of jamming with topflight musicians, the heady expectation of the crowds at Rocktoberfest, made my feet feel light on the pavement as I walked down the block to catch the bus.
Chapter 16
Lee
Something was up with Griffin. Beyond the fact that Rocktoberfest was three weeks away and he was starting to get obsessed with the details of his trip, his rehearsal with holy fuckin’ Chaser Lost, his set list, and even what he would wear onstage— the question he was currently dithering over.
“They’re all T-shirts, babe,” I told him from where I sprawled on his bed. “Light blue and mid blue and dark blue. Tight and not quite as tight.”
“Yeah, but…” He tugged at the bottom of the electric-blue version he was wearing, turning to look over his shoulder at the mirror. “You think this one’s too long?”
“I admit I like to actually see your ass in those jeans.”
He laughed. “Yeah, maybe fifteen years ago.”
“Hey, you don’t let me say ‘fifteen pounds ago,’” I pointed out.
He shot me a narrow glance but nodded. “Fair enough. So which shirt?”
I decided to put him out of his misery and pick something. “The dark blue. Hugs your chest but not like you’re trying too hard, matches your best beret, won’t show the sweat if you drip on it.”
“Sold.” He draped the shirt in question on a hanger, smoothed it down, and set it at the end of his closet.
“And the faded jeans. The ones with the ripped pocket.”
“Thanks.” He chuckled. “You’d think I’d never done this before. Of course, half the time my manager or my label were picking my performance clothes.”
“That silver shirt open down to your belly button on the cover ofDay Trip?” I teased.
He put a hand over his face. “Totally the label. That whole fucking tour was a fashion disaster.”
I had to laugh. “Glad that wasn’t your choice. Hopefully getting to dress yourself will make your performance more comfortable.”
Something dark passed over his face for a second and he turned half away, fiddling with the rejected T-shirts. “Hopefully.”
Okay, that was enough of that. “What are you not telling me?”
“Huh?”
