“I’m not interested in new opportunities. I don’t give a shit how big the paycheck is.”
I toss the phone, still uttering persuasive sounds, across the room and pick up my guitar instead.
My agent’s nothing if not insistent. Thank God I don’t pay him by the word.
My fingers pluck at the strings, and the knot in my gut lessens a degree.
Like most sicknesses, motion sickness is in your head. After ten years in the business, I can control it.
But lately, the low-grade discomfort of being on tour has grown into something bigger. Something unwieldy.
A sound like rain has me shifting on the leather couch to see Mace’s head sticking through the beaded curtain. “You working on something new?”
“You learn to knock?” I ask my guitarist.
He drops onto the couch across from mine. The back of my bus is bigger than the living room of the rent-controlled apartment I grew up in. I have nothing modern to compare it to since I’ve never bought myself a house.
“Wouldn’t kill you to give the fans something,” Mace says. “It’s been a year.”
He pops his gum because quitting smoking’s a bitch and he won't let any of us forget it.
I play him the I-V-IV-V chord progression as I croon over the music. “I know a guy. His name is Mace. He likes to get fucked in the face…”
He bursts into laughter, the kind that shakes the bus. “Sounds like a hit.”
The look in his eye when the laughter stops has my own smirk fading. “What’ve you been doing?”
“Nothing.”
We’ve been friends long enough he knows not to lie to me. Alcohol’s one thing, but I don’t let shit on my tour. Not since the longest night of both our lives.
The night I made a contract with myself. Decided I’m responsible for everyone who works here, and I will do whatever I have to to keep them safe.
Mace shifts back on the couch. “What’s happening with Jerry?”
“Nothing. He’s the best goddamned sound tech in the country. He’s been running shows since you were in diapers.”
“Since my folks were, more like. He fucked up last week, Jax. Maybe the audience didn’t notice, but it could’ve been a helluva lot worse. Next time…”
I silence him with a stare.
“Fine. Jerry’s golden.”
I’d stopped by the studio this morning to record an alternate version of a couple verses for an EP. I planned to get in, get out, and get on with my tour.
But the kid couldn’t do his job, and Jerry was AWOL.
Then things had gone from annoying to X-Files weird when some unfamiliar girl shrieked at me in my own studio like I was forcing myself on her against the wall.
I can’t remember a woman complaining about me putting my hands on her before. And I’d barely touched her.
Had I overreacted by telling Cross to get rid of her?
Maybe. A thread of guilt tugs at my gut, but the brakes on the bus catch and I reach for the curtains. It’s too soon to be in Pittsburgh.
I set down my guitar and follow Mace toward the front of the bus.
“Watch the Death Star,” Mace warns. I skirt the half-built LEGO on the floor as I pass.
Brick looks up from the video game he’s playing, and Kyle pockets his drumsticks.
Outside, I stalk toward the front of our convoy, brushing through the crew pulling off the other bus. Smoke billows from the front of the truck that holds all the equipment for the stage show.
“Pyro started early,” Mace says.
Nina’s already standing by the front, one hand on her hip and her brows fused together. The rest of the crew forms a half circle around the truck, standing at a safe distance.
Except one.
The girl in jeans and a leather jacket inches toward the front of the truck, craning her neck to see what the driver’s doing over its open hood.
“Who’s that?” Brick asks.
“They called her in to cover Jerry,” Kyle says.
The remorse I might’ve felt about my role in getting her fired evaporates like sweat off hot asphalt at the realization that she’s not fired.
It’s twisted, sure. But if I gave myself shit for every twisted thought I have, I’d never find time to entertain millions of people.
Meaning no one here would have jobs.
So basically, cutting myself slack is great for the economy.
“Can we put all the equipment onto the bus?” Lita asks.
“It won’t fit,” Nina snaps, her gaze darting between the vehicles.
“What about your Zen shit, Neen?” Brick calls. “You always say we should live in the present.”
“I’m in the present. It sucks.”
Brick’s laughter has her glaring.
“Looks like the fan belt,” the driver says to her. “Need a replacement part.”
“We don’t have time. Twenty-thousand ticket holders expect to see this show in six hours.”
The new girl crosses to the truck’s passenger door and runs a finger over the logo there. “What if you borrow one?”
“From where? We need this bus for the crew,” Nina says.
“What about the other bus?”
Every pair of eyes turns to me.
“Jax, this is Haley,” Nina murmurs almost as an afterthought. “It’s not the worst idea. If the parts are compatible.”
The driver shrugs. “Serpentine belts come in a few lengths. Got some tools in the back. I can check it out.”
“It is the worst idea,” I interrupt. “It’s right up there with asbestos and “Gangnam Style.” We’re not leaving my bus at the side of the road and waiting for AAA.”
The crew looks between us. Few people would go toe to toe with me and even fewer that I’d stick around long enough to argue with.
Nina squares her shoulders. “Jax, we have four hours of setup in Pittsburgh.”
I don’t want to leave the crew stuck, and she knows it. It’s my name on the tour, but it’s their livelihoods.
Nina closes the distance between us, her blue eyes the same color as her hair. When she speaks, it's for my ears only. “You have two interviews before tonight’s show. I know the full range of issues you have with this tour. But could you please assert yourself tomorrow?”
Nina’s a pro, but I can see the panic under the edges.
I rub a hand over my neck, which is suddenly itching like a mother. I can already tell it’s going to be one of those days.
“Fine,” I decide. “Take what you need from under the hood, but I’m not leaving my bus.”
“Thank you,” Nina mouths before turning on her heel. “Mace, Kyle, Brick, on the crew bus. Haley, I have a new assignment for you. Make sure Jax gets to the venue.”
She’s gone before I can tell her that’s not part of the deal.
Ninety minutes later, my band, my crew, and my instruments—save my favorite guitar—are pulling away down the road. My driver’s tucked into the cab of the bus, reading a paper, and I pretend I wasn’t just outsmarted by my three-time tour manager.
I ascend the stairs to my bus, cursing as I trip over Mace’s LEGO at the top. I grab what’s left of it and set it on the coffee table, including the little pieces.
No one tells you having a band’s like having toddlers.
I shove the controllers off the couch, grab a seat cushion, and carry it back to the stairs.
I toss it at the surprised-looking girl standing at the bottom.
Problems come in all kinds of packages. Hers isn’t the worst, which only annoys me more.
Her thick lashes are the same near-black as her hair. Her nose is small, like she’d have trouble wearing glasses. Her bottom lip’s too big for the top one.
Under the leather jacket, she’s got curves.
Not that I’m noticing.
“I bet you’re pretty proud of yourself, huh? Let’s get something straight,” I say before she can respond. “I don't know why you're not fired. It’s probably Cross’ idea of a joke, sending you to babysit me. But until we get rescued by Navy SEALs or whoever gets dispatched to save our asses out here, you will sit right there”—I point to the shoulder—“while this inspired fucking plan of yours rolls out.”
Without waiting for an answer, I shut the doors and retreat to the back of the bus.
My Emerson goes into its case. I grab some clothes from my built-in dresser and shove them in a duffel bag.
There are pictures pinned up around my bus, and I take one down and lay it inside the top of my bag.
I glance out the window. She’s sitting on the dusty shoulder of the highway on her backpack, her computer open on her lap. Dust has collected on her faded jeans and Converse sneakers.
You never used to be such an asshole. The familiar female voice in my head comes out of nowhere.
Pain edges into my brain, and I glance down. My thumb’s bleeding again. I rip off the piece of fingernail I’ve been tearing without noticing.
I suck on the spot where it stings, crossing to open the mini-fridge and grabbing two bottles of water with my other hand. I lower the window and toss one. It hits the ground next to the girl’s knee, and she jumps.
I take a sip from mine, watching her through the half-open window. “Fuckturd.”
She looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Excuse me?”
I nod toward her computer. “The internet password.”
She takes a drink of water before setting the bottle in the dust next to her. “T-U-R-D?”
“Yeah. How do they spell turd where you’re from?”
I close the window without waiting for an answer and finish packing, then pull up a reality home reno program on my iPad. Nothing distracts me before a show like seeing a bunch of contractors argue over cellulose and spray foam for insulating a garage. It’s blissful and mindless, which I need because in a couple of hours—assuming we ever make it to Pittsburgh—I’ll be spun.
I drain my water and grab another. Before a show, I can drink Lake Michigan into the Sahara. I glance out the window to see if she needs one too, but she’s gone.
“The fuck, babysitter…” I shoulder my guitar and my duffel and go outside to find a tow truck in front of us.
The man talking to the girl is scratching the back of his neck. When she looks at her phone, he looks at her chest.
He’s old enough to be her father and then some.
It’s one thing for me to give her a hard time, but she’s on my tour. I want to assume responsibility for this girl about as much as I want to adopt a special needs goldfish, but I didn’t get the choice.
I step between them, feeling her move back immediately. I jerk my head toward the bus. “Get it to Wells Fargo by five.”
If he recognizes me, he doesn’t let on. “That’s going to be hard, son.”
I pull out my wallet, peel off three hundreds, and stuff them in the chest pocket of his stained shirt, right behind his name tag. “I have confidence in you, Mac.”
A black limo pulls up, and I turn to the girl.
“Let’s go, Curious George.”
I go back to my bus to grab my duffel and, with a sigh, what’s left of Mace’s Death Star. I shouldn’t care, but I have a spare hand and he’s been building the thing all week.
I cross to the car and jerk the door open with unnecessary force. It takes me a second to realize she’s reaching for the front door.
“In the back.”
She hesitates, and I stare out the door at her.
“You coming?”
A moment later, she complies, dropping into the seat opposite.
There’s lots of room in here for her, and me, and our bags, and more. But her gaze finds the toy on the seat next to me.
“It’s Mace’s,” I explain. “He finished the Super Star Destroyer last week. It was a bitch to ship home. Bought him the Ghostbusters firehouse last year, and he never opened it. Says he’s a purist.”
“Star Wars only?”
“Apparently.”
I study her.
Up close, I notice the dust on her jeans—and on her knees, through the ripped denim. It sticks to the cracks of her Converse. Only her hair, shiny and dark and hanging past her shoulders, seems to have escaped unharmed.
“You didn’t notice how that guy was looking at you?” I comment.
Her gaze drops to her clothes. “Probably like I’ve been mining blood diamonds in the jungle.”
The quick reply has me taking another look at her.
She’s young, like me when I started in this business. Though now that she’s not on the floor at my feet, she has control of herself.
Her face is oval. Fresh skin, as though she’s never done drugs or even stayed up too late. Big brown eyes with a little green near the center. The kind of mouth PR people salivate over. If she were in this business, that mouth would spawn chatrooms and have millions of fanboys jerking off to her.
Curvy legs bump mine as she sets her backpack on the seat, and she jerks them back. Now they’re tucked up comically tight in the spacious car.
“If you’re worried I’m going to steal your virtue on the road to Pittsburgh,” I drawl, “I don’t fuck my employees.” I frown. “I also don’t fuck on back roads, but that’s a personal choice.”
She looks around for something—probably a seatbelt—then turns back to me when she comes up empty.
“I’m sorry about this morning. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. Or hit you.”
“Oh. You think?”
“You touched me,” she goes on as if it explains anything.
“I touched you?” I raise my hands in the air. “You’re still intact. Send word to the nuns.”
Her gaze narrows. “I was startled.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I look out the window because at this rate, it’s going to be a long fucking drive to Pittsburgh.
She pulls out her phone. If she’s updating Cross already, I’m going to flip.
I lean forward and swipe it out of her hand.
The sound of protest low in her throat almost has me looking up again, but when I realize what’s on the screen, I’m instantly preoccupied.
“You’re editing a track?” I take a moment to read the dips and valleys, the graph that music is turned into by computers when it’s dissected. “What’s this app?”
“I made it.” My gaze snaps to hers, and for the first time, I see confidence instead of uncertainty. “It uses research on how the human brain processes lyrics and music to adjust settings to maximize emotional resonance.”
“Come again?”
She shifts so she’s cross-legged, then inches closer so she can see the screen while she’s talking. “Basically, it makes music that affects people. It’s based on the assumption that music underscores lyrics. That we respond to both music and lyrics but the music is in service of the words. Words are the primary pathway. So I use this app to adjust musical arrangements to optimize the emotional resonance of the phrasing.”
I stare at her.
She’s not the first woman to do something crazy within seconds of meeting me. But she's the first to follow up with this. Whatever the hell this is.
I shake off the feeling of unease as I stretch my legs now that I have the entire space to work with. “Your assumption is wrong. The words are nothing without the music.”
Instead of backing down, her expression sharpens with interest. “What about poetry?”
I cock my head. “What about it, babysitter?”
“It exists without music, but it touches people. Evokes a response.”
Shit, she’s committed to this idea.
Too bad I’m going to have to beat it into the ground.
“Even poetry has a meter. Besides, if words mattered so much, some of the best-known pieces of all time wouldn’t be instrumental. Van Halen’s “Eruption.” Miles Davis’ “Right Off.” And don’t get me started on Rush’s “YYZ.” The drum solo alone could level armies.” I tap it out on my thigh with my free hand, and she listens.
When I finish, her attention flicks to the phone in my other hand, and I raise a brow. “You want it?”
The indecision on her face is comic gold, as if the idea of getting within a foot of me is horrifying.
Finally she leans forward, carefully plucking it from my hand and tucking it into the dusty backpack on the seat next to her.
I reach into my bag and pull out a chocolate bar.
“What is that?” she asks, her eyes widening as I unwrap it.
“Snickers. You’re one of those health freaks too? Perfect.”
“No. I have a peanut allergy. I almost died when I was four.”
“So if I eat this thing in here…”
“You’ll have to carry me out.”
We stare at one another for a minute.
Two.
Finally, I buzz down the window and toss out the candy bar. She heaves a sigh of relief.
I grab a bottle of water from the bar. A piss-poor substitute for Snickers.
“Is this usually how you get to know your new employees?” she asks.
“Yes. It’s part of a five-step process. Now tell me your dreams and fears. I’ll take notes.”
Her eyes glint. “My dreams? I want to do something that matters to the world. And I’m afraid of dying of anaphylactic shock in a limo with a rock star.”
I reach for Mace’s toy sphere. It’s done enough to have shape, but some of the decorations are missing. I lift it, turning it in my hands as I look at her through the gaps. “Death scares you. That’s healthy.”
“Not dying exactly. More like making twenty thousand Pittsburgh music fans curse my immortal soul.”
Normally my first impressions are spot on. But maybe—just maybe—I was a little off on this girl.
You can’t blame me. Thousands of bright-eyed kids want to be me, to get close to me.
Now that we’re flying down the highway in the back of a limo and not in a studio, she’s not awed at all.
I set the sphere in my lap. “So, what? You’re going to tell computers what to do for the rest of your life?”
“I’m pretty good at it. It’s a solid career path.”
I’m shaking my head before she finishes.
“Going with the flow is insidious. You’ll be an animal, driven by whatever master exerts himself on you.”
“But people are animals,” she responds easily. “We live. We die. Somewhere in between, we procreate.”
“Not if the nuns have their say,” I say drily.
She levels me with a look. “Come on. Nuns are secretly fans of procreation. Even if they don’t practice it. Otherwise there’d never be any new nuns.” I swallow the laugh, but she keeps going. “Do you like animals?”
I lift two LEGO Jedi from the spots they’re plugged into, turning them in my hands so their lightsabers clash.
“Not like Kyle. I see the kid on one more SPCA commercial, I’m going to shoot myself in the head. But Shark Week’s still a classic.”
Her eyes light up. “Have you seen the documentary Planet Earth?”
“Nope.”
“It’s insane. They use a combination of cameramen plus all of this technology to shoot footage of animals in remote areas no humans would be able to get to. In one episode about jungles, there’s this jaguar that stalks the rivers and eats—”
“Whoa.” I raise a hand. “Didn't anybody tell you tour rules?”
She straightens. “I got three.”
“Rule twelve: no spoilers on tour.”
“It’s nature. You can’t spoil nature.” Then she pauses. “How many rules are there?”
“A lot.”
“Does the fact that you don’t want me to spoil it mean you’re going to watch it?”
I shoot her a smirk. “I’m Jax Jamieson, babysitter. I don’t have time to watch documentaries.”
I plug the Jedi back onto their spots and set the toy next to me. Then I close my eyes, tapping a finger along the armrest.
Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap.
Eventually, I pry open one eyelid to see her still watching me.
“Netflix or Hulu?”