I’m jonesing—hard. And even though booze isn’t my substance of choice, that glass of Jack Daniels that Dez is dangling from his fingers is looking damn good.

“You going to drink that or just hold it like a security blanket all day?” I ask, eyeing the golden liquid as my bones actually ache from the want.

Dez looks down at the glass in confusion, then up at my face, and because he’s my best friend and has been for years, I can see that he gets what’s happening.

He swigs it down in one gulp, then stands and walks the glass over to the bar in our manager’s office, setting it down amidst the shiny bottles that beckon to me.

“There,” he says, as if I was just giving him shit for the hell of it. “You satisfied?”

Hardly. “Hey, didn’t want you to look like a giant pussy in front of all the suits.”

He gives me a wry smile, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s my best friend and these are the sorts of games we play when it comes to my addiction. I’ve been out of rehab for four months, and I’m hanging on, but some days it’s by a thread.

“Did they say they’d actually be here on time?” I jiggle my leg up and down as I sit on the big leather chair that our manager, Shannon, keeps in her office overlooking L.A.’s downtown. She’s got the whole slick agent thing down. Her dad owns the firm, so she grew up here. It all comes to her like second nature. Someone needs to tell her that her furniture is too low though. I’m six foot four, and this club chair has my knees up somewhere around my ears.

“Topher and Carson are already on the way,” Dez answers, referring to our bass player and drummer. “I haven’t heard from Garrett, but I reminded him last night.”

“Yeah, but if he found some tail after you talked to him he could be balls deep right now and completely forget about this.”

Dez raises an eyebrow at me. I know what he’s thinking. Quit stressing, quit worrying about shit you can’t control. Dez is Zen. He’s the best human being I’ve ever known, and the most patient. I’m the opposite. I’m driven—I’ve been told to a fault—I can’t stand to wait, and I’ll do pretty much anything to come out on top.

I’ve talked to my addiction counselors about it. I know I send myself to a place where I can only get relief with substances. I know I’m way too type A. What Dez and the counselors don’t realize is that I have so much shit to prove that my one lifetime won’t be enough. Every day, every decision, every deal, is essential to showing the world. Showing them—showing him, my asshole of an old man—that I’m every bit as good, that I might have chosen a different path, but I’m as worthy of the Davis name as he is.

The door to the office swings open and in walks Shannon, all stiletto heels and long red hair. Dez stands awkwardly. I know he’s got a thing for her, but he’d never admit it. It’s kind of strange to see him anything but completely chill and confident though. Normally Dez would just put it out there—his attraction—but in our industry, in the crazy world of rock and roll, she’s a suit, we’re the talent, and the two don’t tend to mix. Even for someone who cares as little about rules as Dez I guess. Shannon’s closely followed by Topher, Carson, and Garrett, our lead singer. Thank God, at least one thing’s gone right today.

Shannon ushers us all to the conference room that connects to her office and everyone settles in around the big glass table.

“Glad to see you’re all here,” she says, looking at Garrett in particular. He scratches his nearly bare chest, where his short-sleeved plaid shirt is unbuttoned midway down his chest. His dark red hair is, as usual, askew, pieces sticking up all over, and his green eyes sparkle as he grins at her, because he’s fucking shameless. “I’ve got some great news and paperwork to seal the deal if you all agree to the terms.”

“Get on with it then,” I chide. “Before Dez pees his pants with anticipation.” Dez flips me off silently, his eyes never leaving Shannon, and everyone else chuckles. This is how we roll.

Shannon clears her throat, her eyes darting away from Dez. Hmm. I’m starting to wonder if there’s something there on her end too. “So several of the biggest new economy companies have gotten together to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the World Wide Web,” she says. “They’ve decided to put on an outdoor music tour, the West Fest 666 tour. It’ll be six bands, six cities, and six weeks.”

I look around the table and everyone’s nodding. It’s a good start.

Shannon continues. “They only want bands from the West Coast to keep with the theme, and they want two headliners with four lesser bands to round out the lineup.”

“I assume we’re a headliner?” I ask. We sure as hell better be. Rhapsody’s been working our asses off for six years, and in the last two years we’ve had the highest selling single of the decade, as well as three Grammy nominations. We’re not the top of the top yet, but we’re definitely headline material.

“Yee-es.” There’s a twitch in her left eye as she answers, and I know I’m not going to like what I hear next.

“Oh shit,” Carson pipes up. His gray eyes are sleepy but in his own quiet and astute way he’s noticed it too. “There’s a catch.”

Shannon clears her throat. “Before I tell you the rest, I want to remind you that this is a huge honor. To be invited to an exclusive tour hosted by Google, Intel, Amazon, Apple—it’s a once-in-your-career opportunity.”

“Just spill it,” I groan. I should have known I’d jinx things if I thought I was out of the woods today.

Shannon’s next words rush out of her mouth like a geyser out of the earth. “Your co-headliner is Lush.”

“Oh shit,” Dez hisses.

“Nooo!” Topher groans as he flops his head back on the executive chair he’s sitting in, making his mop of light brown hair fall over his eyes.

“Well, it was nice talking to you,” Garrett says before he stands as if he’s going to walk out.

Shannon, however, is looking at me. Her green eyes sharp and assessing.

Because, here’s the thing—I’m the lead guitarist for Rhapsody, and I have a long-standing feud with Mike Owens, the lead guitarist for Lush. Hate might be too weak a word for what we feel for each other. He is, without a doubt, the biggest prick in the history of rock and roll. I hate to admit that he’s also a genius on guitar, but it’s true. And in return for all that talent, he’s spent most of his life boozing, fighting, and stealing any woman he could get his hands on, including one of mine.

It’s not that I was in love with Lisa or anything, but I liked her, and we had an actual relationship, not just fuck buddies. Rhapsody was opening for Lush in a couple of shows in Seattle and San Francisco. We were everything polite and respectful, they were far bigger than us after all, but the first night we all performed, Mike went onstage and started off their set by playing a riff from one of our songs. The crowd cheered and then he leaned into the mic and said, “Thought I should show Blaze how it’s done.”

The guys told me to chill about it—sure he’d meant it as a joke, just a way to have some fun with the crowd—and I could have let it go even though I was fucking pissed. But the next night I came off stage during the break between our set and Lush’s and walked into the dressing room to find Mike with his head between my girlfriend’s thighs.

It’s been war ever since.

I look at Shannon, my bones aching more. My God what I wouldn’t give for a hit right now. “So, six weeks, on the road with Lush? And who takes the stage first?”

“Alternating,” she answers. “Three shows with you up first, three shows with them up first.”

“And pay? Ticket take?”

“Equal. I wouldn’t have discussed anything else.”

I appreciate that Shannon’s a barracuda, but if you’re one of hers she’ll never let you down.

I glance around the table, and they’re all looking to me. Well, fuck.

“I hate Mike Owens,” I say to no one in particular.

Shannon presses her lips together in a grimace.

The businessman me—Peterson Davis, not Blaze Davis—kicks in. My old man always told me that the businessman who lets his emotions make his decisions for him is destined for mediocrity. I repeat this mantra over in my head a couple of times, then I breathe deeply. The premier tour of the summer, six cities that have huge purchasing power and are live music hotbeds, the access to the fans of all those other bands—most of all, Lush. Any time you get the chance to exploit Lush’s enormous market share you take it. My dad’s voice echoes inside my head once again—destined for mediocrity. Fuck that. Every day, every decision, every deal.

“But, I guess I’ll be spending the summer with him anyway,” I finish.

There’s a collective sigh of relief. Garrett sits back down, and Shannon grins, taking a sheaf of papers from a file folder on the table. “You won’t regret this,” she tells us. “This is going to make you even more famous, and increase your net worth by millions—each. Now, let’s get to the nitty-gritty, and make Rhapsody the best thing to hit amphitheaters in decades.”

* * *

After we leave the meeting with Shannon, the guys and I decide to go out to our favorite pool hall to celebrate the new tour. There are plenty of nights we all go our separate ways—Garrett in search of pussy, Carson and Topher hanging out with their family, Dez and I writing some songs or playing a little Bloodborne. But at least once a week we all get together and just relax, go somewhere we know we won’t be followed by the paparazzi, do our thing. It’s good for morale, and it’s good for the music.

Benny’s is one of our favorite places. The owner is an old friend of Dez’s parents, and he’s been reliable about keeping the fans and paps away. We know we can always go to Benny’s and get a good game of pool, some cold beers and a relaxing night.

Well, cold beers for everyone else. Cold soda for me.

“All right,” Garrett says as his eyes wander to the waitress walking by with a tray full of beer bottles and peanuts. “Who’s up from last time?”

We keep a running match going. Rotating through the band in alphabetical order by first name, and next in line plays winner of the last game.

“It’s me versus Carson,” I say, even though it’s me versus Garrett. I like to play Carson to get warmed up because he’s quite possibly the worst eight-ball player on the planet.

“No it’s not,” Carson complains. “You beat me just last week. It’s got to be Dez or Garrett’s turn this time.”

“Nah,” I lie. “You’re thinking back to two weeks ago, when I beat you in that game in three and a half minutes.”

Garrett shakes his head and mutters, “Like it makes a fucking difference.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask.

“You’re going to win no matter what, dude,” he says, his voice flat. “No one’s beaten you in six straight weeks. Honestly it’s getting boring.”

I can’t help but grin. My winning streak’s actually been five weeks, but if he wants to add to it who am I to argue? “Sorry losing isn’t fun for you, man. Maybe you need to practice more—give the pussy a rest sometimes.”

Just then Dez and Topher come back with the beers and several plates of nachos. “Eats!” Carson hollers before he swipes a mound of cheesy, bean covered chips and shoves them in his mouth.

“Who’s up?” Dez asks, grabbing a beer and sliding onto a stool next to the pool table.

“Blaze says it’s him and Carson, Carson says it’s one of us.” Garrett gestures between himself and Dez.

Dez levels me with a look of such calm disapproval that I feel like a five year old who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“What?” I ask, immediately on the defensive.

Dez shakes his head. “Dude.” His voice is damning.

“Your point?” I ask, irritated now—at him, at myself, at the constant push-pull I have with my own conscience.

“It’s you and Garrett,” Dez says softly.

“That’s not what I remember.”

“See! I knew it!” Carson yells triumphantly.

“Let’s rack em up then,” Garrett says matter-or-factly as he starts gathering the balls.

I flip Dez off and he chuckles. “I’ve started writing it down,” he tells me. “I caught on about two weeks ago when I saw that you were playing Carson first for the fourth week in a row.”

I flip him off again, but then I can’t help the grin that works its way through my irritation. “Carson’s my warm-up,” I tell Dez as I face away from the rest of the guys.

“Play fair, man,” Dez counsels. “It’s just for fun.”

“Losing is never fun.”

“If it involves hot sex it can be,” Dez answers.

“Speaking of,” Garrett interjects. “Let’s get this game on so I can find me some.”

We rack up the balls, and I break. The game is over in five minutes. I make sure to win. I fucking hate losing.

* * *

“Did you see this article on Lush?” Dez asks as he saunters into rehearsal the next day.

I turn a peg on my guitar, getting it tuned. “No. I specifically avoid articles on Lush,” I mutter.

“Well, looks like they’re going to have a girl on this 666 tour with them.”

“They always have their girlfriends, wives, whatever, on tour with them. Shit, I think Walsh brings his baby too. I mean, who the hell brings a baby to a rock tour?”

He sets his guitar case on the floor and gives a chin lift to Carson who’s screwing around with something on his drum kit, dark hair in a sweep across his gray eyes as he works.

“No, man, a girl in the band. They’ve added keyboards. Some chick named Tully O’Roark.”

I stop pinging my strings and blink at Dez. “Lush added a member? Are you serious?”

“As shit.”

“And we all know shit is highly serious stuff,” Carson jokes from behind the drums.

“I don’t believe it,” I protest. “Those guys grew up together. They’re legends. Why the hell would they add a new member to the mix? It’s probably for one song, like a special arrangement.”

Dez pulls out his iPad from his guitar case and swipes it on, hunting and pecking for a minute while I go back to my tuning.

“Here. Read it for yourself,” he says, handing me the tablet. “There’s even a picture of her.”

I take it from him, scanning the headline that reads, “America’s Favorite Rockers Segue Into New Era of Diversity”. My eyes drop further down the screen and there is an artsy shot of the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen. She’s standing over a keyboard, face full of concentration, blue eyes glowing, black ringlets hanging down past her shoulders. Her skin is creamy and she’s got a smattering of freckles across her nose. She’s wearing a black corset that laces up the front with a satin ribbon, and shows off cleavage that should be fucking illegal. Below that is a tiny waist. And her hands are tiny too, to go with her tiny nose, tiny ears, and the tiny diamond stud above her lip, like a beauty mark. But her eyes are big, and luminous, and framed by long inky lashes.

“Dayum,” Carson says over my shoulder. “Guess I see why they hired her.”

“Fuck off,” I mumble as I continue to stare at the photo. I know there are words there, but I have to get some blood back up to my brain to decipher them. I take a deep breath then read the caption on the photo, Tully O’Roark, Lush keyboardist, will be adding to the band’s next album.

“So, still think I’m fucking with you?” Dez asks reaching for his iPad.

I quickly glance at the web address before I hand it back. I need to bookmark that photo.

I scratch my head. “Uh, no. Looks like it’s for real.” And in a few months she’s going to get realer. Maybe I’ll like touring with Lush more than I thought I would.

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