Tori

There’s only a few more days until the competition and apparently the word’s spreading fast. It’s Wednesday morning when Garret, my rep from the label, calls bright and early.

“Hello?” I answer, a little raspy. I actually spent last night in my own bed, unfortunately. Or maybe fortunately, I don’t know. Hanging out with Ian and Chelsea made me want a life I know I can’t have. They all seem so put-together and grown-up and I still feel like the rebellious teenager that doesn’t know what she’s doing in life. I can’t imagine why they’d want to invite the mess of my life into the tidiness of theirs.

“Tori! I’m so happy to have caught you,” Garret says, his voice dripping with enthusiasm I don’t quite buy. That’s the thing with the record types and agents and stuff, you never know when they’re being genuine or sincere because it’s literally their job to keep you happy.

“What’s up?” I say, rubbing sleep from my eyes. The last I heard from the label, they were keeping me on indefinite suspension until I get my act together. But Garret calling should be good news. He wouldn’t sound so chipper if he was calling to let me know the record’s dropping me.

…Right?

Right. Garret and I have never been super close, but he’s always seemed to look out for me and that’s about all I can ask in this industry.

“A little birdie told me you have plans this weekend,” he says, brighter than ever.

I turn away from the windows, squeezing my eyes shut against the too-bright sunlight. “The Sound Hole show? I don’t know, I think we’re going to have to cancel it, my drummer’s—”

“What? No, not that. You’re doing shows at that scummy place?” I can hear the distaste in his tone, but I don’t care whether he likes it or not. While the record company’s not backing me, we’re free to do whatever we want. And since they’re not booking shows for us, that leaves it up to me. We still have fans that want to see us. And to be honest, our residuals aren’t really enough that we can just stop working because I made a bad decision. So however Garret feels about The Sound Hole and the shows we do there, he can just shove it.

“What are you talking about then?” I ask, not wanting to get into it.

“The competition! With the kids?”

“Oh, right,” I say. How could I have forgotten? I guess I’ve been so wrapped up in Serge himself that everything else just kind of disappeared into the background. “Yeah, I’m doing that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he gushes. “This is fantastic.”

I’m a little surprised that he’s so enthusiastic about it. I don’t know what his angle is, but then I remember the whole reason I’m on suspension isn’t because of the DUI, it’s because of how the public perceives the DUI. As long as I’m back in the good graces of the public and they stop writing to the label about what a terrible influence I am, there’s no reason for me to be on suspension.

I guess helping disadvantaged kids go to a singing competition is probably pretty good for cleaning up my image.

“Glad you’re on board,” I say, testing the waters. I don’t know exactly why Garret called and I don’t think it’s just to catch up about what I’m doing with my weekend.

“Oh, I am. This is a great move for you. Very clever,” he says, and I bristle a bit. I’m not just doing this to be clever. I’m doing it because I care about helping the kids and Serge. Because he’s convinced me that they deserve something more out of life.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “Does this mean the label’s lifting my suspension?”

Garret chuckles to himself. “Soon. If you cooperate, I don’t see why that wouldn’t happen.”

Cooperate. I love how he makes my rehabilitation sound like a hostage situation. I guess in a way it is. They’re holding my career hostage until I give them back the perfect public image they want.

“Yeah, of course. Whatever you guys want,” I say, gritting my teeth as I do. It’s this whole aspect of the business that makes me question whether I even want to be a part of it anymore.

“That’s my girl,” Garret says brightly before hanging up, which makes me wince. I don’t know why, but I always feel a little dirty after negotiating with a record label. Whenever they wanted me to dress a certain way or endorse a product or say just the right thing, just the way they scripted it, I’m always left feeling a little dirty and wrong. Like the person the world thinks I am isn’t who I am.

But at this point, I don’t even know who I am. It’s nine o’clock in the morning and already I want a drink to forget about this. To stop worrying about who they’re going to make me be. I want the life of fame and fortune, so this is the price I have to pay.

But now that I’m up, there’s something more important I need to deal with. Because Garret’s right, this weekend is important. I need to be with the kids and Serge and I can’t just abandon them after their performance to come back to my own. Especially not without Serge. So I make a call.

Bobby McIntyre is the owner and operator of the Sound Hole and he looks like he used to be a roadie for the Stones. He’s gotta be pushing seventy, but he doesn’t let that stop him from dressing like a twenty year old, complete with leather pants and chains. The guy’s kind of like a grandpa to a lot of us in the local scene, but he’s a foul-mouthed grandpa that isn’t afraid to let you fall on your ass to learn a lesson.

“You have any idea what fuckin’ time it is,” Bobby answers, his voice low and gravelly.

I chuckle to myself. “Bob, it’s Tori Winters. I’ve got a problem and it can’t wait.”

“Of fucking course you do,” he says, his words rounded by a cigarette between his lips. I hear the lighter flick a couple of times and then Bobby exhales. “What is it now, Tori?”

“The show on Saturday? Can’t do it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans. “It’s Wednesday, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

I nibble my lip, still grinning. I know he’s pissed, but I also know Bobby will basically let me get away with murder because I pack his shitty little club to the gills whenever I play.

“Who do you have on tomorrow night?”

“Uh…” There’s the creak of a mattress — and I’m pretty sure I even hear a feminine murmur from his bed, the old stud — and then the shuffling of papers. “Some garage band called Twisted Fisters.”

I snort. “Charming.”

“Thursday’s not exactly a big draw,” he says, and I can just see him shrugging in my head.

“Well, I think you’re going to make Twisted Fisters’ life and give them the headlining spot on Saturday.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because I’m taking their spot tomorrow,” I say, grinning.

There’s glass rattling and I can just picture him stamping out his cigarette butt before I hear the lighter flick again. “You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”

“Bullshit. Get that cute little hostess to put it up on social media for you as some secret spontaneous show — oh! And make sure you mention Serge Davenport will be playing with us.”

“No shit? You got him to agree to that again?”

“I have my charms,” I say and he just laughs.

“No doubt about that. All right. Fine. Just don’t do this shit to me again, okay?”

“Promise.”

He scoffs. “Like that’s worth anything.”

I grin. “See you tomorrow, Bobby.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters before disconnecting the call.

Okay. One down. One to go. I told him that Serge is playing with us without actually confirming that he can…

But Serge won’t turn me down. I’m pretty sure.

He’s too busy with preparations for the competition to actually have time for me, but when I call him to tell him about the swapped show dates, he agrees.

It’s not even noon by the time I’ve accomplished all of this and I lay back in bed with a happy sigh. Things are going so well lately. Even if the record label’s not quite ready to forgive me yet, I know it’s coming. It’s on its way and then I’ll be back on top of my game like nothing ever happened.

We meet up early Thursday afternoon to practice since Serge still hasn’t gotten a full practice in with us. We’re running through warm-ups, waiting for everyone to show up, but Rock’s nowhere to be seen and I’m looking at the clock on the wall every few minutes, then looking at my phone to see if there’s any news from him.

“Anything?” I ask Onyx and he shrugs.

“I haven’t heard from him since Sunday, to be honest,” he says. “Sam?”

Sam shakes his head. “Been spending time with the family.”

“Fuck,” I grunt. First Tad, now Rock. Is my whole band going to fall apart before I can get us back on track?

“We can do it without the back-up guitar,” Onyx suggests.

I shake my head. “There’s at least three songs that won’t work without it.”

“We could cut them?” Sam offers. I hate that, because Serge really only knows a specific portion of our catalog and cutting out some of the songs he does know for ones he doesn’t hours before the show seems foolish.

“I might have an idea,” Serge says, but his face is uncertain, his brows knitted together, his forehead wrinkled in a way that clearly says he’s wrestling with himself.

“Let’s hear it,” I say, my heart in my throat, waiting and hopeful.

He shakes his head. “I’m not saying it’s a good idea.”

“Spit it out,” Onyx says.

“I don’t even know if he’s available…”

“Serge,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

“I could call Luke,” he says.

“Luke?” I frown, not following. Should I know Luke?

But Sam whistles, laughing to himself. “No shit? Luke Bassett the pussy hound?”

Serge scowls, but gives a reticent nod. “That’s the one.”

The penny drops and my eyes go wide. Luke Bassett was in Nuclear Kool-aid with Serge and Ian. He was the wild one of the group, the one that was always in tabloids for being with one starlet or another. Until the band fell apart with Serge’s OD. As far as I know, they haven’t really been in touch since he and Ian got clean. Luke never did, from what I’ve heard, though it’s been years since he’s been in the spotlight, so who knows really.

“Is he still playing?” I ask, my voice kind of hushed, awed. Luke’s another one of these guys that’s just insanely talented. The whole of Nuclear Kool-aid was, that’s what made their dissolution so damn heartbreaking.

“I don’t know, to be honest. Haven’t talked to him in ages.”

“Well, call him up. We’re wasting time,” Onyx says, fiddling with his bass even though there’s nothing to do.

Serge hesitates.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s just that… Luke can be difficult. And he doesn’t exactly have a reputation for keeping his nose out of trouble.” He sends a meaningful look my way and I know I’m supposed to care about that. I know I should consider how playing with Luke will effect the changes to my image I’m trying to make, but it’s Luke fucking Bassett. How can I say no to playing with him?

“We don’t have much of a choice here,” I say, trying to inject some remorse into my voice, though I’m pretty sure it’s just pure excitement.

Serge sighs and shakes his head. I think he’s probably regretting even bringing it up. Maybe he thought we’d all balk at the idea instead of jumping at it. He gets up and walks out of the room with his phone to his ear.

“What’s the plan if this doesn’t work out?” Onyx asks, an eye on the door.

I shrug. “We’ll do what we always do: wing it.”

Sam laughs from the back of the room, but Onyx doesn’t look amused at all. He just purses his lips and goes back to fiddling with his bass.

Serge comes back in a few minutes later and by the look on his face, I can’t tell if he failed or succeeded.

“Well?” I ask.

He nods. “He says he’ll do it. He knows your stuff and he’ll meet us at sound check.”

“He’s not even coming to practice?” Onyx scoffs.

Serge gives him an apologetic look. “Told you he’s difficult.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “If he knows our stuff, I believe in him. I’m sure he’ll be able to pick it up no problem.”

Serge nods with me and I let out a relieved sigh. Another crisis averted.

We run through what we can a couple more times before heading to the club. And we’re twenty minutes into sound check when Luke appears.

Serge introduces him to everyone, and when he comes to me to shake my hand, I can smell whiskey on his breath. It makes me hold his hand a little tighter, my jaw clenching with the need for a drink. But I never drink before shows, even when they’re a clusterfuck like this one.

“Nice to meet you,” I say to Luke. “Serge says you know our stuff?”

“’Course,” he slurs. “Who doesn’t know DCoy gotta get up to get down down down,” he sings a line from one of our chart-toppers, bopping his head.

“Cool, let’s run through the set,” I say, trying to ignore the look Onyx is giving me. Because I know the look he’s giving me. And I know the look is ‘who the hell did you invite to play with us?’

Serge and Luke exchange a few terse words I can’t hear, but I’m not here for old band drama or for them to catch up or anything else. I strum a chord on my guitar and everyone’s attention turns to me.

“Battered and Broken,” I say, and no one says anything. They just all take up their instruments and their positions on stage and we run through the song.

Luke hits a couple of snags, but for the most part they’re things we’re able to iron out now, before the show. And by the time we’re getting ready for the curtain call, I’m pretty sure it’s all going to be fine.

Never mind that we advertised for Serge and got Luke as a package deal. I know Bobby’s pissed at me for making him change the schedule, but this should more than make up for it.

Then the curtain’s going up, the crowd’s going nuts, and the rest of it’s a blur. I know it goes well, that’s all I’ve got. There’s electricity in the air and the music is flowing, it’s sounding great, the audience is loving it, everything’s right with the world. Luke and Serge fill the missing spots in our band perfectly and they have a familiarity together that adds another layer. Even Onyx is getting into it. I see him send looks my way a couple of times. Looks that tell me how much he’s enjoying himself. Looks that say ‘are you believing this shit?’ in a good way.

We get called back on stage twice, which is kind of unheard of at a shitty hole in the wall like this, but people are crammed in, trying to shove in through the doors. I guess word got out about who’s on stage. I’m just surprised the Fire Marshal hasn’t shown up to break up the party yet.

Finally, sweaty and exhausted, we stumble off stage. Before I can even give him a clap on the back Luke’s got a flask to his lips and then he holds it out to me. My mouth waters and goes dry at the same time, all my awareness focused to a pinprick on the neck of the flask. Then, from the corner of my eye I see Onyx watching me. And further in the shadows, I see Serge too.

“I’m good, thanks,” I say, shoving the flask away. “Great job out there tonight. You really saved our ass.”

Luke shrugs. “Felt good to be in front of a crowd again. Now, if you don’t mind, there’s a crowd of girls gathering outside my dressing room and I’d hate to keep them waiting.”

I try not to grimace as I nod at his retreating back. So Luke’s not the type to hang out after the show. Fair enough.

“Well, you did it again!” I say cheerfully to Serge, wrapping him in a hug, resisting the urge to kiss him because I know Onyx is hovering around here somewhere.

“I did,” Serge says nodding.

“Pretty sure that was even better than last time,” I gush.

“Well I’d hope so, since he actually got time to practice with us this time,” Onyx butts in.

“Listen,” I say, rocking on my heels a little, nervousness bubbling up inside me. “I was thinking once the label lifts my suspension… Maybe you could join us on the road?”

“Tor, shouldn’t the whole band be in on this?” Onyx asks, but I wave him off.

“They’ll be fine.”

“Besides, we have a drummer. What about Tad?”

“As flattering as the offer is, I’m steering clear of that lifestyle, remember?” Serge says, stopping the argument between me and Onyx before it can start.

“Don’t overthink it,” I say, trying to put my persuasive voice on even though it’s not working because I’m still irritated with Onyx ruining my plans. “You have a good time playing with us. We like having you. It’s a good fit.”

Onyx and Serge are both giving me the same look. The same hard-faced look that says they’re not going to budge and they’re not going to see my side of things. I don’t really want to ruin the good mood after the show, so I just shrug.

“Fine. Just think about it,” I say. “Gino’s? It’s not Friday this time.”

Onyx and Serge exchange a look, but both of them shrug and then we’re off for pizza. I’ll just have to keep working on the Serge joining us full-time thing.