Friday, April 21
(Gus)
The tour starts tonight in Vegas. It's early, eight o'clock in the morning, and Franco's in the kitchen talking to Ma. We need to leave soon but I haven't packed yet. I grab my duffle bag out of my closet and toss it unzipped on the bed. I throw in a few T-shirts, jeans, socks, and underwear, along with my laptop, toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. I check my pockets for my wallet, phone, cigarettes, and lighter. Throwing the bag's strap over my shoulder, I glance back at Bright Side's laptop. It's still sitting untouched on my dresser. Goddamn, I want to take it so bad. To open it up and dive in. Dig through everything she left behind. To have her back in my life again. But it's not that easy and it's so fucking intimate that it almost makes me cry thinking about it.
Instead, I snag my guitar cases from the corner and shut the door behind me. I shut the door on Bright Side. Again.
Ma and Franco are talking. I hear them from the hall. But when I step into the room there's instantaneous silence. Coincidence? Nope.
"It's okay, don't let the fact that I'm actually standing in the room with you stop you from talking about me."
Harsh? Yeah.
Do I care? Yeah, with Ma and Franco I do.
Can I stop acting like an asshole? Nope.
Ma frowns and hugs me.
I hug her back. It's an apology. "Morning, Ma."
"Good morning, Gus." She's forgiving me.
I love her to death for it, because she shouldn't forgive me.
The flight is short and we've landed in no time. A cab drops us off in front of some monstrosity of a hotel on the strip. It's eleven o'clock. I'm ready for a few stiff drinks and a nap, but Hitler met us at the door and wastes no time ushering us through the masses to an elevator.
It's not until we're tucked away inside a shiny elevator that he starts talking at us. "Jamie and Robbie arrived about a half hour ago. The two of you have ... " he pulls back the cuff of his dress shirt to get a look at his Rolex knock-off, " ... twenty minutes before the photo shoot begins."
Jamie and Robbie have been in Vegas for a few days. A mini-vacation. Good for them.
I look at myself in the mirrored wall in front of me. My clothes look like I slept in them. Come to think of it, maybe I did. My hair hasn't been washed in a couple of days and it's pulled back in a ponytail. It's getting long again. I'm thankful for the sunglasses because I can't see my tired, bloodshot eyes staring back at me. Admonishing me.
Hitler doesn't say anything else.
Neither do we.
The elevator stops on the fifteenth floor, and when the doors open we follow him out. Everything in Vegas is opulent and over-the-top. I've always hated it. It's pretentious and fake, just a lot of smoke and mirrors. Hitler stops a few doors down and opens the door to what we soon discover is a suite, like a house inside a hotel. The furniture has been cleared from one end of the living room and a crew is setting up backdrops, lighting, and cameras.
Franco and I drop our bags and Franco walks over to sit on one of the numerous leather sofas with Robbie and Jamie. I walk over to the bar and pour myself a glass of whiskey. Three gulps and the glass is drained. I fill it up again and take it with me to sit with the guys.
I must have started to drift off, because minutes later I'm roused from near sleep by a cute blond in tight jeans and a black tank top. "Come with me, Gustov." Her voice is hypnotic. Or maybe it's her ass. Or her small but unbelievably perfect breasts.
"Gladly," I respond. And just like that the two of us are behind closed doors and she's pulling my clothes off.
"We don't have much time," she says.
Damn right we don't. I need you right fucking now.
She hands me a pair of black jeans. "Put these on."
I'm confused. "Wait. You want me to put these on?"
She blinks her doe-like brown eyes at me. "That's what I said. Hurry up, we need to do something with your hair before they come in to do your makeup."
Dammit. She really does want me to get dressed. I thought shit was about to go down. Now I'm standing here in my underwear, hard, and she wants to fix my hair.
I don't miss the fact that her eyes flit down to my manhood standing at full attention before she turns her back on me to sort through a pile of shirts on the bed.
I slip into the jeans. They fit well, despite the bulge.
"I'm Lindsey, by the way," she says as she turns toward me again. She shakes my hand before handing me a shirt.
Now I feel like an idiot because she seems pretty cool. "And I'm an asshole, by the way."
She laughs at my admission.
"Sorry about that." I wouldn't usually apologize for something like this, because she didn't seem offended and I still have the feeling that we might hook up later, but she just seems ... nice.
"No worries. I've done this job for ten years. I've heard and seen it all." She looks older than I am, but I never would've guessed that she's been doing this job for a whole decade.
It's my turn to laugh and it feels like a weight's been lifted off my chest. I shrug on the shirt.
"Sit here, please," she says, gesturing toward a chair. After tugging the elastic band out of my hair, she rakes her fingers through it a few times. It's tangled.
"Hmm." She's thinking.
I look back at her over my shoulder. "It's a fucking rat's nest. I didn't know a photo shoot was in the plans today. Sorry." I'm apologizing again. I feel bad, like I'm making her job harder.
She smiles and it's friendly. It makes me want to stay in this room forever. "Never doubt me," she says. "There's a product for everything." She starts finger combing my hair again. "Even this."
Five minutes later, my hair looks better than it has in months. I guess I shouldn't have doubted her.
Lindsey hangs up the shirts and folds the jeans that weren't used while someone applies makeup to my face. Usually I hate it when they put this shit on me, but I'm not paying attention because I can't take my eyes off Lindsey.
When the makeup artist (I didn't look to see if it was a man or woman) leaves the room, I blurt out, "Are you going to our show tonight?"
She laughs again and it's like music to my ears. "No. Though I've heard some of your songs on the radio. You're good."
"You should come. I can get you in." I sound ridiculous. And desperate. Of course I can get her in; I'm in the fucking band.
"I can't. Have to catch a flight back to Seattle tonight. Thanks anyway, Gustov."
"How about dinner? Before you leave?" Goddamn, it's almost embarrassing how hard I'm trying here. And it's not even about the potential of sex with her that's got me so wound up. It's just ... her.
She blinks a few times and I already know she's going to turn me down. "Gustov, I'm flattered. Truly." She smiles to soften the rejection, I suppose. "And you're not an asshole," she adds quickly. "But I have a boyfriend."
I nod. Understood. And if it's possible, I have even more respect for her. I don't get in the middle of other people's relationships. End of story.
Someone clears her throat behind us. I turn and there's a woman standing just inside the doorway. Her stance tells me she'd rather be anywhere but here. For the most part, her attention is focused on the doorframe in front of her. I can only see the left side of her face, and it looks tight, not friendly. I wonder how long she's been standing there. Judging by her posture, it's been a while. She shifts her weight to her right side, and she's holding a legal pad of paper tightly in her hand. She looks impatient. Impatient, like it's her middle name. Like she eats, sleeps, and breathes impatience. I already don't like her.
"Gustov, if you're done here ... " Her voice is quiet, and her eyes flit in our direction without turning to face us. The hasty eye contact tells me she heard everything. She's judging me. "They're ready for you." The tone of her voice is total annoyance.
Without taking my eyes off Lindsey, I hold up a finger in Impatient's direction asking her to give us a minute. She turns and quickly disappears.
Closing the gap between me and Lindsey, I offer my hand again. I'm nervous. I hate being nervous.
She shakes it. She's calm. The calm bleeds in through the contact and I welcome it.
Meeting her eyes, I say, "He's a lucky man, Lindsey." I mean it.
Smiling, she nods and winks. "Thanks Gustov. And just so you know, if I wasn't completely, madly in love with the guy, I would've said yes to dinner."
I smile like a schoolgirl, release her hand, and walk out the door.
The photo shoot, an event I usually loath, isn't as miserable as I expected. And I'm not even drunk. The photographer, Jack, isn't the type we've worked with in the past. They usually take themselves too seriously and wear the title, artist, like it somehow elevates them to a state incapable of communicating with the lowly "talent." Jack has a sense of humor and humility. It's a nice pairing, one of my favorites. He gets all of us to loosen up and act natural. Hell, I don't know what natural is anymore, but I'm doing it.
By the time I get out of the shower and change into some clean clothes from my bag after the shoot, Lindsey's gone. I kinda wanted to see her again, but I know that's a little too stalker for my style. It just felt good to be attracted to someone so normal, but she's taken and that means it's time to put her out of my mind.
I'm startled back to the present by the sound of Hitler barking at me from the living room. "Gustov, join us. We've got a few things to go over before soundcheck." He says it like he's involved in soundcheck. I'd be surprised if he's ever touched an instrument in his life. I walk to the bar and fill a glass with whiskey before taking a seat on the sofa next to Franco. My ass barely hits the cushion when I realize I can't listen to Hitler sober. So immediately I rise again, grab the bottle from the bar, and set it on the coffee table in front of me before settling in.
He gives me one of his looks. It's the degrading, I-don't-get-paid-enough-to-tolerate-your-shit stare. "Anything else you need before we get started?" Pure sarcasm.
Which of course I meet with a little of my own, because I can't keep my mouth shut. "Lunch and a hooker? We are in Vegas, you know."
He shakes his head in disgust. He's so over me it's not even funny.
Shrugging, I take a swig from my glass. "Had to try."
Franco shoots me a warning look to shut up, but his smile is seeping through. The smile's winning.
Hitler ignores my retort and clears his throat. "As you know, I'll be with you for the duration of the tour. And though Europe was successful, despite a few rescheduled shows," he says, glaring in my direction, "a lot is at stake with your return to the United States. The US tour last year was good, but your album is really taking off in the states now. 'Finish Me' is in the top ten on the alternative charts this week. You can't afford any mistakes now." He's staring at me as though he's waiting for an answer to a question he didn't ask. When I don't respond, he continues, "Management has a few requests."
"Requests" means "demands." I drain the rest of my glass.
"First, you will start playing 'Finish Me' at every show."
Franco, Robbie, and Jamie are all looking at me. Their expressions tell me this is the first time they're hearing this, too. Shaking my head, I huff, "That's not gonna happen."
More throat clearing. Hitler knows he's in for a fight. "Gustov, this is non-negotiable."
I reach for the bottle and take a long swig. Fuck the glass. "Come on, this is America, everything's negotiable," I say. I'm going to try humor because I am so close to losing it and throwing this bottle of whiskey across the room.
He smiles aggressively. "As I said, you will play 'Finish Me' at every show."
"We'll see about that, motherfucker," I say under my breath before I steal another drink from the bottle.
Franco heard me. He takes the bottle out of my hand and drains some himself before handing it to Robbie and Jamie, who both do the same before handing it back to me. I've been so wrapped up in my own shit that I forgot what solidarity felt like. I love these guys for sticking with me on this. This is why we're a band.
Hitler's quiet. Taking that as my cue, I stand. "I need a cigarette."
Apparently he's not through with the ultimatums yet. "We are not finished here."
I sigh and sit—I'm not defeated. I'm irritated. And he knows it.
"This tour is going to be more demanding than you're used to. Back to back shows almost every night from one end of this country to the other. For these reasons, among others, Gustov, we feel it's in the best interest of the success of this tour, and this album, that you have a PA for the duration."
I squint my eyes and look around at the guys. They all look confused, so I turn back to Hitler. "A PA better not be what I think it is." At this point, humor is not going to cut it.
"Scout MacKenzie will be joining us on the tour bus. She will act as your personal assistant in all matters related to this tour, but her main tasks will be scheduling, communication, and PR. She is to be treated with dignity and respect." The emphasis he put on respect and the way he's looking at me tells me he will castrate me if I touch this woman. And now even though I'm pissed, I'm curious.
"Scout," he calls loudly over his shoulder.
Impatient, from earlier, walks into the room. My eyes don't even make it up to her face before I stand. "Oh, hell no," I say, striding toward the balcony. The cigarette's already between my lips.
Hitler's angry and his voice booms from behind me. "This is non-negotiable, Gustov."
I light my cigarette, inhale, and with the cigarette clutched between my fingers, I point at him. "I don't need a fucking babysitter."
His pompous laugh resounds behind me as I rip open the sliding door leading to the balcony. He's practically shouting now. "I'm afraid after your behavior in Europe, you certainly do."
Shutting the door on his condescension, I slump into a deck chair.
I'm lighting a second cigarette when Franco joins me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. I'm irate. "They can't fucking do this," I say bitterly. Then I look up at Franco. "Can they?"
He shrugs. "I don't know, dude."
Snubbing out my cigarette, I huff. "The next few months are going to be a nightmare. What good is a personal assistant, other than to narc back to fucking Hitler?"
His eyebrows rise in agreement. "I'm not sure what to make of this either." He chuckles a little, apparently amused. "She's definitely not a new fuck buddy. He made sure of that. She's all business, man."
I'm staring at the ground lost in my own rage, but his laughter pulls me out of it. I shake my head. "Have you talked to the girl, dude? She's rigid as fuck."
He laughs harder. "Yeah, I get that. We all got introduced after you left. Go easy on her though, I think she's just shy. And maybe a little uptight," he adds.
"A little? She was completely disgusted with me earlier when she heard me hitting on the stylist." I look him in the eye and can't help laughing with him. "This is a goddamn nightmare."
He slaps me on the shoulder before he walks away. "Welcome to Hitler's hell, twat waffle."
Nine weeks of hell.
Nine more weeks and I'm home.
Nine more weeks.
Home.