“Aaaand violin solo, violin solo, violin solo,” Ace belts, counting out the bars for the break in this song where a violinist accompanies us when we perform it live.
I have to count too, have to distract myself by tapping out the measure on my pickguard, because Roxanne is the one who wrote this violin part, and even when it’s just Ace shouting to keep us in time, all I can picture is what she looks like while she plays it.
We get through half the setlist before taking a break. I grab my water bottle out of the mini-fridge and pull one of the floor fans closer. We’re all coated in sweat by now.
“Ah, shit,” Matt swears. “I just got a text from Mona. She wants us to call her ASAP.”
Mona, our barracuda of a manager, is one of the most brutally efficient people I’ve ever met. When Matt dials her up and sets his cell to speakerphone, she doesn’t waste time exchanging greetings.
“We have a problem.”
The four of us glance around at each other. If Mona admits to having a problem, then it means we’ve got ourselves a fucking big problem.
“The tour manager just called your violinist to go over some transportation details, and apparently she was under the impression we released her from her contract. Do any of you know anything about this?”
The guys all turn to me.
Well, fuck.
I forgot that little complication was due to come bite me in the ass.
Six months ago, when this summer’s gigs were getting arranged, the usual violinist we bring on the road announced he wouldn’t be available for the North American tour. Mona mentioned her search for a replacement to us, and the first thing I thought of was Roxanne.
Back in the early days, when we were still playing basements and dive bars, Roxy accompanied us for a song or two whenever she could make it to the gig—or whenever we weren’t fighting. She had great stage chemistry with the band, and I had dreams about bringing her around the world with us. The guys bugged me to get her on a tour for years, but she always blamed her job and turned my offers down. There’s this constant tug of war inside her between the pragmatic workaholic and the inspired artist. Somehow, I coaxed that creative streak into finally getting her to take some time off this summer.
We joked about how we’d probably break up before that and then joked some more about how we’d probably already be back together too. I’m still holding out on the second part. Blame it on a state of denial, but the fact that we still haven’t made up and the tour is only two weeks away kind of slipped my mind.
“Uh...” I begin.
That’s all it takes for the guys to start railing on me.
“Jesus, Cole.” Matt groans. “Don’t tell me you and Roxy are still fucking around.”
“I think the problem here is that theyaren’tfucking around,” Ace offers with a snicker.
I’m about to shoot him a death glare that will have him watching his back for the rest of the week, but Matt saves me the trouble by snapping at him.
“You know what I meant!” He starts drumming his fingers against his thighs as he shakes his head. “Cole, please tell me you and Roxanne have sorted your shit out and that she’s coming on this tour.”
“Of course they’ve sorted their shit out,” JP pipes up. “It’s thesummer.”
There’s an implied ‘duh’ at the end of his sentence, but everyone just stares at him.
“They’re always together in the summer. They’re like...seasonal. Like flip-flops.” He clacks his heels together and points at his feet. “And Roxanne promised me she was going to bring her espresso machine to make us all coffee on the tour bus. My homegirl wouldn’t bail on me. It’s going to besuperbe.”
Matt and Ace sit there with their arms crossed, giving me the evil eye. Mona’s probably sitting in her office with her arms crossed too.
I let out a breath. “I’ll get it sorted.”
“Sorted?” Mona repeats. “What does that mean? Do I or do I not need to find you another violinist? I said we should have gone with a professional from the start, but the tour’s two weeks away, and I don’t know if there’s anyone—”
“I’ll get. It. Sorted.”
The room goes dead silent as everyone seems to stop breathing. I went too far. I can snarl at the guys all I want, but Mona’s not someone you talk to that way, and we all know it.
“Sorry,” I bite out. “I’ll fix this, I swear.”
“Good,” Mona quips. “Call me when you do.”
