Chapter 32

Mason

“You sure you can handle the meeting with Remar?” Kirk asked, eyeing the beer in my hand. It had been a week since Nicole walked out on the band, and to make things worse, Remar had arranged a meeting for this afternoon. Which was surprising, considering that we were in Memphis and not L.A. Rumor had it that he had flown out specifically for this meeting.

But that wasn’t what had me on edge. I gulped more beer. “Why wouldn’t I be able to handle it?”

“Because you’ve changed. Because half the time you’re either drunk or wasted.”

“I’m not drunk or wasted right now.” Slightly buzzed, maybe. Yes, I was drinking more than I had been a few weeks ago. And yes, I might have taken an illegal drug or two the other day. But that was only so I could perform. My energy level had recently taken a hit, and I didn’t want to let the fans down. Most days I barely had the energy to drag my sorry ass out of my bunk bed on the bus. I was positive I was coming down with something. The flu, maybe?

“Are you sure?” Kirk asked.

“Of course I’m sure. This is only my second beer.”

“It’s your fourth,” Aaron pointed out. All the humor that had been in his tone a few minutes ago had leaked away.

“So what can I say? I’m thirsty.” Because of the meeting with Remar, we had gone to the arena early for sound check, and I had started pounding on my drums. And had kept pounding on them, even when the rest of the band had stopped playing. It was one of the few times during the past week when I’d felt good, when I’d felt a little more alive.

“I’m not surprised you’re thirsty,” Nolan said, “after you broke a dozen sticks while practicing.”

I shrugged, the movement barely more than a twitch of the shoulders. “I break drumsticks all the time during concerts. That’s nothing new.”

“Yeah, but you don’t normally come close to destroying that many.”

I shrugged again and studied my half-empty beer. “So I’m a little moody. I’m a musician. I’m supposed to be moody.” Or so went the theory.

I shifted in my seat, itching to get back to the arena for a game of poker with some of the roadies. I’d won a hundred dollars yesterday, which the guys didn’t know about. They also had no idea about the underground poker group that I’d discovered while looking for something to give me an extra buzz for the show—which was necessary now that I no longer had the desire to bang groupies the way I used to before Nicole came into my life.

My heart squeezed painfully at the thought of her. I swigged some more beer.

“You’re not moody,” Kirk said. “You’re depressed, Mason.”

“I’m not depressed. I’m happy.” I grinned. Then stopped because the action hurt my cheeks. And it wasn’t just my cheeks that hurt. My entire body ached with exhaustion.

“I believe that as much as I believe in the Easter Bunny.”

“I’m sure the Easter Bunny will be happy to hear it.” I tried to form a smirk on my face, but the effort wasn’t worth it and I gave up.

“My mother used to suffer from depression,” Kirk said, ignoring my smartass comment. “I know the signs.”

“Well, good for you, puck boy, but I am not depressed. I’m just tired. Touring will do that to you.” None of the guys could deny it. They were just as tired from all the touring as I was. Ours wasn’t an easy lifestyle. It was the reason Nicole had gone home. It was the reason she and I had never discussed a future together. Our lives were too different for us to make it work.

But no matter how many times I told myself that, I had a hard time believing it. Somehow we could’ve made it work. It was my past gambling addiction that she’d had an issue with. In her eyes, I was no better than her asshole father. She might have had a point there.

I finished my burger, even though I didn’t feel like eating, but if I didn’t eat it, the guys would’ve been on my case for that too, the way they’d been yesterday. We paid for our food, then returned to the arena. The sky had been cloudy when we walked to the restaurant. Now it was pouring, like it was pissed off at the world.

As we passed the security guard standing at the back entrance to the arena, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen. Nicole had sent me a text. For the first time since she’d left the tour, my heart came alive in my chest, knowing that she hadn’t completely pushed me out of her life.

I opened the text to find a picture of Bernie, the giant English mastiff. Drool hung from his mouth and his face featured rolls of dark wrinkles. My mouth tugged slightly up at the memory of walking him with Nicole, when we resembled a part of the family she had envisioned one day for herself, with the perfect husband, two-point-four kids, dog, and cat.

She had also sent me a message with the photo: Bernie misses you. A heart emoji was next to her words.

I miss Bernie, I typed back. Meaning that I missed both the dog and her. More so her.

“What the hell is that?” Aaron asked, peering at my phone. “Is it some sort of genetically modified dog? It’s huge…and kind of ugly.”

I pulled the phone to my chest, as if protecting Bernie from hearing what Aaron had said. “Hey, never let Bernie hear you say that. He’s a great dog.”

We still had a few minutes before we were due to meet Remar, so we headed to the dressing room first to change into dry clothing. Afterward we walked down the brightly lit hallway to the conference room, all of us suddenly quiet, as if we were heading to a funeral. Hopefully not our own. Other than the heavy tread of our booted feet against the gray floor, the corridor was silent.

We entered the conference room where Remar was supposed to meet us. The sight of him left me craving something to give me a happy buzz. The man was capable of sucking the life out of you, just by being in the same room. He must be fun to be around at the office Christmas party. A real jolly old St. Nick.

I stumbled my way to an empty chair, as far away from him as possible. Then I squirmed in my seat, attempting to get comfy. An urge hit me, like an impossible-to-get-rid-of itch, to leave and find Doug. He was the roadie who had what I needed to take off the edge.

Remar smiled. Holy shit. I hadn’t thought the man was capable of doing that. Would miracles never cease?

Next to him was a guy in his late twenties, with very short hair like Remar had. The only difference was Remar’s hair was gray while the younger man’s hair was black. His dress shirt was an interesting contrast to the hoop piercing above his left eyebrow.

“Congratulations, gentlemen, on the album’s recent success,” Remar said, still smiling.

We all nodded our thanks.

“In light of this, I’ve decided to take you off the Endless Motion tour come February and have you headlining your own tour. We’ll be announcing the dates next week.”

No one spoke for several seconds. We just stared at him, positive we’d misheard him.

Nolan was the first to collect himself. “We’ll really be headlining?”

Remar nodded. “It was a ballsy move to do the encore in Atlantic City, but it worked. Fans are demanding that you headline your own tour so they can see more of you. They aren’t happy that you’re just the opening act.”

That news wasn’t a surprise to anyone in the room. Nicole had already told us as much from working with our social media sites and from answering our fan email.

“You’ll continue with Endless Motion until the new dates, then we’ll switch you over. Your new tour manager will fly out on Thursday to iron out details with you for the shows. And in the meantime, let me introduce you to your new social media specialist. Trey will be joining you for the rest of your tour, and will continue with you on the new tour.”

The guys and I exchanged looks. Yes, Nicole was gone and wasn’t coming back, but weren’t we the ones who got to decide whom we hired? The record company wasn’t paying his salary. We were.

“Trey has an impressive background,” Remar continued, “including a communications degree with a specialization in social media, and an MBA in marketing. Because of that, he will also be working with you to help capitalize on the band’s marketing.”

Trey sat up a little straighter. “Yes, I was impressed with what you guys have achieved in the way of marketing.” What Nicole had achieved. “But there are some other areas you can explore as well.”

Kirk swiveled his chair in my direction, a guess-you-won’t-be-screwing-around-with-this-one smirk dancing at the corner of his mouth. I mentally flipped him one.

Trey spent the next few minutes enlightening us with his plans for our marketing. I couldn’t have told you what they were because I’d tuned him out soon after he started talking. All I could focus on beyond the blah blah blah was when the hell we were getting out of here, so I could track down Doug and the poker game.

My leg bounced rhythmically under the table. I had to fight the urge to pound a beat on the edge of the wood. Until I scored something or got behind my drums, I was pretty helpless at keeping the restlessness under control.

Eventually we were released and I located Doug. Most of what happened afterward was a blur. I had some beer. I lost two grand. I drank some more beer and had some pot. I might have gotten into an argument with Aaron. I couldn’t be sure.

We went onstage, and as always nailed our performance, even with me buzzed. But the happy buzz faded by the end of our set. Thanks to all the drumming I’d done, I sweated away the benefits.

“I’m beat,” I told the guys after we’d finished our encore, which Remar had told us would continue for the rest of the tour. With the adrenaline high the guys had going, they were ready to go out. But it wasn’t the same without Nicole. Nothing was the same without her. “I’m just going to head back to the bus and read. Maybe catch up on sleep or play a video game.” I wanted to be left alone, something that didn’t happen too often on tour.

At first the guys hesitated at the idea of leaving without me, but after I insisted I would be fine and was going straight back to the bus, they decided to go without me.

As promised, I returned to the bus and checked my phone for any more messages from Nicole. Nothing. I sat down hard on the couch and stared at Bernie’s picture. But instead of reliving the memory of walking him with Nicole, all I saw was the slobbering dog.

I pushed off the couch and walked back to my bunk, where I had left my sports bag. I unzipped it and pulled out the whiskey bottle I’d hidden there.

Back on the couch, I gulped down a mouthful of the smooth amber liquid and popped one of the pills Doug had given me earlier. The best kind of painkiller around—the kind that killed the pain of a broken heart.

I chased it with more whiskey and stared at the photo of Bernie—remembering everything I could about the few days I had spent living with Nicole in Desert Springs—until I blacked out.