CHAPTER 3
Cory
I’ve never enjoyed a shower more, but with the sweat of the arena behind me, I’m ready to go. Life on the road is a whirlwind of busses and venues, meet-and-greets and interviews, women and alcohol…and that pretty much sums it up. Tonight, I’m not in the mood for any of it. The quicker we escape Springfield the quicker I can outrun the memories.
I climb into the waiting limo, accept an outstretched Miller Lite from Sal, and open my mouth to say as much when my manager kills that plan.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he says. “And don’t get drunk. We’re on our way to a meet-and-greet, and I need you sober.”
I pop the tab and take a long drink just to prove a point. Not sure what the point is, but I take another one while I try to figure it out. I swipe my mouth with the back of my hand and settle the icy can on my knee.
“How long will this one take? I want out of this town, and I want to sleep.” Simple requests in my opinion, so it shouldn’t be too hard to meet them.
“An hour, maybe a little more.”
Sal’s gaze stays on me, but I lean my head back and focus on the sky. The sunroof is open, the night is clear and filled with stars that glitter overhead like a million high-clarity diamonds. I don’t remember the last time I looked at the stars, especially not with a view like this. The night sky in Missouri isn’t like the sky in Los Angeles. No tall buildings obstruct the view, no screaming sirens or blaring horns interfere with the ability to listen. What I wouldn’t give to be lying on an open field right now, stretched out on a blanket, a drink in my hand and plenty of time to drift to sleep…
I shake my head to clear the wishful thinking and look up at Sal. I can’t go back. I tried once before.
Besides, one more week of the tour and I’m free. Four weeks off to do anything that I want without having to answer to anyone.
“We’ll stay an hour, that’s all. Then I want to leave.”
“Sounds like someone’s losing their edge.” Sal raises an eyebrow at me, but all I can do is study his tie. Sal is brilliant at his job, but he has absolutely no fashion sense. Dressed in a gray suit, pink shirt, and yellow polka-dot tie, he’s a study in contradiction. He’s brilliant. Sharp-minded. Shrewd in negotiations. A Nazi at keeping a tight schedule. A friendly guy whose features resemble a taller George Clooney. But he dresses like a clown. Until you hear the man talk, it’s hard to take him seriously. Also there’s the issue of his name. It’s made up of his initials—Steven something Lewis. Andrew? Amos? Adam?—but he goes by Sal. A teacher called him by his initials in grade school and the moniker stuck. I tried to call him Steve once; I never made that mistake again.
He’s the best in the business. The money he makes off me alone proves it.
“I’m not losing my edge,” I protest, stifling an ill-timed yawn. “I’m just tired tonight. That place was hot. Didn’t you think it was sweltering in there?” The art of the subject change; it blends in nicely with the art of guitar playing and songwriting. I’ve mastered them all quite well.
“Hotter than normal,” Sal says with a shrug. “But that mop on top of your head isn’t helping with your problem. I’d tell you to cut it, but it’s unfortunately part of your whole…” he twirls a finger in the air between us, “…image.”
I roll my eyes. My hair is in style, no matter what Sal says. People magazine didn’t name me one of the fifty most eligible bachelors last year for nothing. Take that.
“There’s nothing wrong with my hair, so you can drop the speech right now. It’s getting old.” I tap out a rhythm on the door. “And at the next arena, tell someone to make sure the air is set on sixty-five. From now on that’s a requirement.” I’m not normally so demanding, but tonight has put me in a mood that I can’t shake. I flick the door handle as though it’s a cymbal, all the while a new series of notes beginning to play in my head. A new song is taking shape, but it’s not yet clear enough to see the full picture. “Are we almost there? And why couldn’t we have done this before the concert?” These sorts of get togethers were always held before curtain call, making this a major inconvenience.
Sal rolls his eyes. “I’ve already told you. There was a multi-car pileup on the freeway late this afternoon. Traffic was at a standstill for over an hour. Too many people with paid tickets were stuck on the highway and wouldn’t have been able to come. We didn’t need the negative press. Happy fans are what keep you in business.”
Maybe he’s right, but I’m still annoyed. “People need to learn how to drive.” Stupid accident messed up my whole night.
“Not everyone rides around with a chauffeur like you. You’ll survive for an hour.”
I nail him with a look. “Don’t be so sure about it. And as for not getting drunk, I’m not making promises.” Man, my attitude is bad. But I can’t help it.
Despite an obvious effort to keep it from happening, Sal cracks a smile. “I expected no less. Just try to hold off until the end, alright?”
I shrug, but it’s pointless. I never drink much, and we both know it. Despite a reputation as a partier, the real me isn’t exactly like that. The press writes about me like I’m a drunk womanizer when in reality—yes, I’ve had a handful of hook-ups that I’m not proud of—but I’ve only ever had two serious girlfriends. These days, I’d rather take a nap or a solitary walk than spend time with groupies.
The limo slows to a stop in front of the hotel. With dread settling on my shoulders and this awful isolated feeling rising up again, I stare into my hands and wait for the driver to open the door. When he does, Big Jim waits on the sidewalk like always, whisking me to the front door as cameras flash and screaming women engulf the area around us.
I sigh.
Stumble a little as bodies press into me.
Tell myself to calm down.
And try to steady my spinning head.
It’s been only twenty-five minutes since the concert ended—a fraction of time to most people, but a long stretch of mind-whirling seconds to me. My life is a roller coaster that twists and turns and speeds up and slows down and leaves you feeling dizzy.
But it never, ever stops.
* * *
I’ve sipped half a martini, but I could really use a whiskey straight up. Maybe three. Not because I want to get drunk—I meant it when I said I’m not much of a drinker—but because I’m wound up tight and on the verge of self-combusting. I hate these things. Feeling a half-dozen strangers touch my forearms, my thighs, my butt—in one case, even my nose—makes me want to down a few glasses just so numbness might temper the anxiety building like cement blocks inside my chest. I’m at ease onstage in front of thousands of fans; it’s the one-on-one I’m not good at.
A line of women a few dozen yards deep still looms in front of me, and I have to make my way through all of them. My brain works overtime trying to tune out all but the woman currently talking to me. Her hand is on my arm and her breath a little too close to my face. It smells like peppermint and Cheetos; it takes work not to step back. I hate Cheetos.
“So which one did you like best?” She just told me her favorite song, but I’m only half listening and have no idea which one she said.
“I just told you. Tell Me Another Lie is my favorite song of yours.” She presses against me and drops her voice, runs a pink fingernail down my arm. “If you want, we could go somewhere less noisy and I could tell you all my other favorite things, too.”
I suppress an eye roll, but then my mind also pauses on her offer. It’s the universal catch twenty-two of being in this business. The perks are almost always laced with a shot of downside, and sometimes it’s hard to know which side to listen to. But then she breathes on me again and she still smells like Cheetos and I’m not sure I can look past it.
“Maybe later.” I nod toward the line take a step away from her. “Right now I need to get through the rest of these people.”
“Okay, I’ll be here waiting. Come find me if you’re interested.”
I glance behind me to memorize her hair, her outfit, her long blonde waves, her tight black dress that leaves little to the imagination just like it’s meant to. I inwardly curse myself for being just another male celebrity cliché. Give it an hour and I’ll be doing inappropriate things in the back of my tour bus just like everyone else in this business. Except I never invite groupies onto the bus. I don’t place a lot of restrictions on myself, but this one’s a hard and fast rule I haven’t broken yet. I’m not about to break it tonight. A high five to me for having mid-level standards.
Maybe I should buy myself a trophy. Or just get a girlfriend like a normal guy and be done with it.
I laugh to myself before I think not to. Two people in front of me startle at the sound, then smile as though the laugh was meant for them.
But seriously. Except for pre-arranged girlfriends that I’ve dated for publicity only, I haven’t gotten attached to just one girl in years. I have no intention of changing that now. I might be twenty-seven, but there’s still plenty of time to settle down. Like when I’m fifty. Maybe seventy. I can be this generation’s Mick Jagger; no shame in that. Babies when I’m eighty. Child support until I die.
Maybe mid-level is a stretch.
I adjust the sunglasses still perched on my nose and turn to greet the next girl. Something about her seems familiar, and I frown trying to place her. Yellow top, gold hoops, killer smile, short red hair. That’s when it hits me. The young redhead from the front row. She’s clutching the hand of a friend standing next to her, the prettiest grin I’ve ever seen covering most of her face. The sight is contagious, and soon I’m feeling my first genuine pleasure since the show. I hold out my hand and grasp hers in mine.
“I’m Cory Minor. What’s your name?”
When I slip off my sunglasses, she latches on to my fingers like each one is made of priceless gold bars and she’s afraid to lose one. She speaks on a breath so soft I can barely understand her words. But I do catch her name, I’m glad, at least, for that.
“Nice to meet you Kassie. I’m glad you enjoyed the show.”
* * *
It takes the full hour, but finally the room is nearly empty save for a few people who won’t leave until I do and that increasingly appealing blonde who hasn’t moved more than ten feet away from me all evening. True to her word, she stayed through the whole gathering, and she’s looking right at me with an expression that couldn’t be more obvious even if a thought bubble were hanging above her head. I want you, I need you, I’m yours for the night. I like bold women, and I like the way they think. I’m walking her direction with a cocky grin on my face when Sal stops me.
“Cory, we need to go,” he says. “We’re almost two hours behind schedule as it stands. Everyone’s loaded up except you.”
I glance at the blonde. “Can’t we just—”
As usual, Sal intercepts my thoughts and eyes the girl. “Remember your rule. No groupies on the bus. Let’s go. It’s a long drive to Austin.”
I hesitate only a minute, and then turn to follow him out. He’s right, the last thing my band needs is to wait on me, not with a long drive ahead. Big Jim meets us at the door. I can feel the woman’s hot glare on my back.
* * *
Everyone on this bus keeps giving me looks, and I don’t like it. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes is all it took to go back inside and locate the blonde—Big Jim and I found her in the parking lot next to a red Mini Cooper, she’d dropped her keys and was looking for them in bits of gravel under the car, that tight dress filling out her backside in all the right ways—but you’d think I made them wait through a four course dinner and dessert afterward.
But that isn’t the real issue. Now I’m a cliché, that’s the issue. But I never expected the way being in Springfield would throw me over the edge. In any other city—heck, in any other country—I wouldn’t have asked the driver to wait. He didn’t want to wait, claiming exhaustion and a strong desire to get to our destination nine hours away, but I pay his salary and what I say goes. Besides, tonight I need something to take the edge off. Something to distract me. Something else to think about besides the memories determined to take over my mind like a horrible case of reverse amnesia.
I remember.
I remember.
I remember all of it.
As for the distraction part, the something turned into someone and the blonde is working out nicely. I’m actually kind of proud that I went back to get her. Some rules are made to be broken, and in this case I definitely made the right decision.
What’s wrong with letting a groupie on the bus, anyway? It was a stupid rule made five years ago by an amateur who didn’t know better. She’s a beautiful chick—wait—I stop kissing her for a second and open one eye. What’s her name? What kind of guy am I that I don’t even remember her name? I think it’s Shelly. Or Sheila. Or Sherry. Something with a shhhh sound. She drapes a slender arm around my shoulder and pulls herself closer, sitting more on my lap than beside me. I shrug—who cares about a name?—as her lips press against my jaw, my neck, my collarbone, while her already short dress rides dangerously high on her thigh and my mind goes straight to one thing. From the eye rolls and loud sighs coming from all over the bus, I figure it’s probably time to head back to the bedroom. I stand up and glare at everyone, then pull her along with me. Fifteen minutes. Going back to get her took fifteen minutes. Come on. We’re dropping her off somewhere in Oklahoma in an hour, so I really don’t see what the big deal is. It’s my life. I deserve some fun every once in a while.
We’re pressed against the bedroom door when we hit what feels like a pothole and the bus bounces. The blonde’s heel catches on the carpet, and she stumbles. I catch her and find myself smiling at the way she giggles.
“Walter, watch the way you’re driving!” I shout the words because I can. I like throwing my weight around sometimes.
“I’m driving fine,” he yells back. “Just tired, but you already know that.” His voice has an edge I don’t like. My temper flares and I start to retort when the blonde giggles again. She’s a cute drunk, albeit a clumsy one. She’s had a few glasses of wine tonight—most at the meet-and-greet, a couple on the bus—and holding her up isn’t easy. A small part of me wonders if she’s coherent enough to remember the details of the evening, if maybe I should just let her sleep off the buzz, but then I remember she called her brother—his name was Brian, I remember that—and asked him to pick her up. She didn’t have any trouble recalling his number. Which means she has to be sober enough. Right?
I almost have myself convinced when the driver yells “Car!” and the bus sways hard to the left. This time the girl falls to her knees. What is up with his driving? Someone at the front of the bus yells. Someone bangs into a window. The rest of us just look at each other in confusion.
“What the heck was—”
Before I can finish that sentence, I’m on the floor next to a chair leg, flat on my face. Someone I can’t see bumps into me, hitting me on the head. Another body lands on top of me. I’m pinned under what feels like twice my weight, but I manage to reach for a bar running along the floorboard. Gripping it tight, I brace myself. For what, I don’t know. Something tells me I need to.
The bus bounces. Skids. Slides. Jolts to a stop. I lurch forward. Everyone lurches forward. The guy on top of me moves up and sideways and now I can breathe. ShellySheilaSherry lands on my legs. They crack. I suck in a breath. She moans behind me but I can no longer see her. Maybe she’s hurt, maybe she isn’t. I don’t think I’m hurt, but maybe I am. My ankle feels weird. So does my face. My eyebrow burns and I see the color red. I reach up to touch the spot because fire—my face feels like fire. Glass pokes from my forehead like a circular saw blade—jagged, sharp, cutting. Blood covers my hand and runs down to my wrist like a suicide attempt. But I’m not dead. I don’t think I’m dead.
Everything goes still. Everyone is groaning. Someone is crying. Blood slides into my mouth. It tastes like metal. Hot metal. Rusted metal. Smoke infiltrates the bus.
We need to move.
My brain feels fuzzy.
I’m pretty sure we hit something.
Or someone.
I pray to God it isn’t that.