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He lets out a groan. “I bet you look hot in a leotard.”
“Not the point.”
“Mallory, you can do anything you set your mind to. I believe that with all my heart.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t think it hurts to find out more. Meet with the production company.”
“I’ll have to take dance or choreography lessons.”
“You’ll nail it. I have no doubt.” He’s quiet for a few seconds. “If you don’t trust Marilyn, maybe it’s time for you to find a new agent,” he suggests, echoing my thoughts from earlier today.
“I trust her to find jobs for me. She’s well-connected that way but she’s almost too eager to have me accept anything that lands on her desk.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing. She wants her clients earning money.” He pauses. “You might need a lawyer to look over these kinds of contracts, though. Someone to negotiate royalties and stuff. That really helped us out when we signed our first record deal.”
A lawyer hadn’t occurred to me yet. Most days, I still feel like an impostor in this business. Like a child prancing around in her mother’s high heels and makeup. Not a professional who hires other professionals. “I’ll ask around.”
“Did you ask Pamela about the job? Has she ever been offered something like it? Would she do it if she had the opportunity?”
“I wanted to talk to you first. Besides, I don’t trust her. She’ll probably make fun of me.”
“She better not,” he growls. “Have you at least told her you’re home?”
“Not yet. But we have a big scene together this week so I might hang out with her tomorrow to work on it after the table read.”
I don’t bother telling him about the tabloid. It’ll only piss him off and there isn’t much we can do about it anyway.
“Shit. Hang on.” There’s a muffled noise as if he’s holding his hand over the receiver for a few seconds before he returns. “Dinner break’s over. I gotta go.”
“You didn’t eat dinner?”
“I wanted to talk to you more. I’ll grab something for the bus.”
“I miss you.”
“Miss you too, little dove.”
My throat burns from holding back the emotions bubbling up as we say goodbye.
Chapter Five
Chaser
Talking Andrew out of tonight’s show was a pointless effort. He’s worried about disappointing the fans. I seem to be the only one concerned it’s too soon. Everyone else is eager to get moving and making money again.
Unfortunately, tonight the fans aren’t as eager to see Kickstart as they have been at every other show on this tour. When our crew lowers the banner with our name and logo, loud booing ripples through the crowd.
Bottles and garbage fly onstage, nearly missing the roadies hurrying to set up our equipment.
“What the fuck?” Jacob says, watching from the side of the stage. “What’s Louisiana got against us?”
“Motherfucker,” Alvin grumbles, glaring at Jacob.
“Guessing they still think I shot Andrew.” Amazing I have to point out the obvious to Jacob. To say I’m still grouchy over the whole incident doesn’t begin to cover our situation.
“Who kicked your puppies?” Andrew asks, slowly joining our unhappy gathering.
“Shouldn’t you be resting until you go on stage?” I ask.
He dismisses my concern with a flick of his wrist and I flip him off in return. Asshole.
“What’s going on?” Andrew peeks out at the crowd.
Alvin and I stare at each other, neither of us wanting to state the problem. Jacob wanders back to our dressing room. The whole situation’s awkward as fuck.
Darren’s grim as he approaches with my guitar to set me up for our show. “Rough crowd tonight,” he mumbles.
“Yeah.”
Ever the professional, Alvin marches out to his drum kit first. Instead of his usual excitement, his head’s down, as if he’s approaching a firing squad.
Since I’m not guilty of a damn thing and I’ve always been a defiant motherfucker, I stomp out on stage chin up, staring straight out into the crowd.
A beer bottle sails through the air, slamming into my thigh. It hits the stage with a loud clink but thankfully doesn’t shatter.
“Motherfucker!” I shout, kicking it off the stage. Probably not the smartest move.
“Watch it!” one of the security guards yells at me.
“Watch the fucking crowd, asshole!” I shout back.
“Who’s ready to rock out with my favorite band!?” Andrew screams into one of the mics.
I turn and find him storming our stage, coming straight for me. Before I can properly brace myself, he hooks an arm around my neck and hugs me to his side. “This badass motherfucker right here saved my fucking life!”
The crowd does this strange gasp-cheer thing.
“That’s right,” he continues. “Which one of you rowdy motherfuckers can scream ‘thank you, Chaser’ the loudest?”
The building shakes with the roar of a couple thousand fans yelling their gratitude.
Embarrassed as fuck, but relieved Andrew probably saved us from one hell of a shitty show, I tip my head and raise a hand to acknowledge their cheers.
“Woooo!” Andrew shouts, pumping his fist in the air.
“Andrew! I love you!” a girl screams.
“Show me your tits!” he shouts back.
He slaps my back a few times and runs off stage.
No more beer bottles are thrown at us. I glance back at Alvin. At least the going to the morgue look has been wiped off his face. He shrugs and pounds his bass drum a few times. His signal to Garrett and Jacob to get their asses out here.
Garrett strolls out, waving to the crowd. He throws me a wide-eyed what the fuck face.
Jacob runs on stage screaming into his mic. We launch into a rambunctious version of “Hammer to the Heart.”
The rest of our show is tight. The audience probably can’t tell but we’re tense. Rattled by the earlier jeers. Jacob keeps his banter to a minimum. My guitar solo’s short and perfunctory. Call me a moody creative, but I’m not feeling it tonight.
At least by the end of our set, we’ve won over the crowd. We take a bow and wave. Chants of “Kickstart, Kickstart, Kickstart” follow us off the stage.
Andrew’s sitting on a metal folding chair off to the side. First time I haven’t seen him jumping around or running up and down the hallways before his set. I hold out my hand and he grabs it, pulling me down for a hug.
“Thanks for doing that,” I say, slapping his back.
“I feel so fucking shitty about all this,” he says against my ear. “I’ll make it right. Every night if I have to.”
“Not your fault reporters have nothing better to do.” I can’t believe I’m trying to make him feel better about the situation.
Jacob backs away as if he has no culpability in any of this fuckery.
“You ready to go on?” Alvin asks, slapping Andrew’s shoulder a lot more gently then he would’ve a week ago.
Andrew hesitates, glancing at the stage and then back at Alvin. “Yeah. Would you mind sticking around? If I can’t finish, do you think you could take over for me?”
The request sends Alvin into a state of shock where he can’t come up with a coherent answer.
Andrew seems to misread the situation. “I’ll get you paid—”
“It’s not that.” I slap Alvin’s back to knock him out of his panic trance.
“No, I mean, yes. I can do it,” Alvin answers quickly. “I pretty much have your whole set list memorized.”
“Thanks.” Andrew blows out a breath. “Huge relief. I should’ve asked you sooner so you could’ve practiced…never mind.” He glances down the hallway to where Kyle and Boner are waiting to go on stage. “They wouldn’t have showed up for a practice anyway.”
“I got you.” Alvin straightens up and adopts a more reassuring tone. “But I’m sur
e you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, bro.”
Vinnie joins us and Andrew explains his contingency plan.
“Cool. Thanks, Alvin.” He roughs his hand over Andrew’s head. “You’ll be stellar, lil’ rock star.”
I slap Alvin’s shoulder and lean in. “You’ve got this.”
