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ndustry, kept my achievements to myself, and learned to rely on my gut instinct. Despite a few missteps here or there, my system hasn’t failed me.
And while I love the idea of this tour, agreeing to it can wait. Tonight is about paying attention to my gut and finding the redhead before someone who isn’t distracted snatches her up.
I make my way down the back hall to the door that leads to the front and spot her back in the corner. Bingo. Our eyes meet. I drink in what I can see from this distance—her red hair framing an oval face, a slender neck, the delicate slope of her nose. She raises a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. A flash of gold winks at me.
My feet start moving in her direction.
“Adam! Over here! Adam! Adam Rees, get your ass over here.”
I want to ignore Rudd’s shouting, but if I don’t go over there and tell him what Hollister had to say, he’ll hassle me all night. Better for me to get my business out of the way so I can spend the rest of the night with her.
I’m coming to you. Hang on. I try to telegraph. When she doesn’t move, I make a beeline to the bar.
“What’d Hollister have to say?” Rudd asks when I reach the counter. All three of my bandmates look at me with expectant eyes.
I hand the envelope to Ian. He pulls out the contract while I explain the deal. “We’ve got an invite to go out on tour with Threat Alert and two others. It’s being partially underwritten by TA’s new label. Bad news is it’s for five months.”
“That’s not bad news!” cries Rudd. “That’s fucking awesome!” He punches his fist in the air.
“Ian?” I ask.
“Is it even a question?” His smile is so broad the corners of his mouth might reach his ears. “I’m in. I’m so in.”
“What about the baby?” Ian and his wife just had their first kid.
“Berry will be as psyched as anyone, plus, her mom will help. Is this the real deal or another of Hollister’s pipe dreams?”
“It sounds legit. I’ll vet it tomorrow, but if you guys want to go, I’m down with it.”
Five months playing music with a decent band isn’t a hardship for me. I have plenty of money to take care of us if the tour craters, but while Ian and Rudd are willing to throw five months of their life away for their music, I don’t have the same confidence about Davis.
He peers at me over the top of his glass before draining the contents. Slamming the empty glass on the bar, he hails the bartender.
A girl trots down immediately, her white T-shirt damp from work. “What do you need, babe?”
“I’ll take four shots of the top-shelf whiskey,” Davis orders.
“We celebrating something?” I ask, cautiously.
“We’re going on tour,” Davis answers with a crooked smile. “That seems like something to celebrate, no?”
Rudd and Ian bust out the cheers. They body slam each other. Across the room, Hollister catches my eye. I give him an affirmative chin nod and a thumbs-up for good measure. He salutes me.
I pick up my just-delivered shot and raise it. “To FMK.”
“To FMK,” the boys cheer.
The whiskey burns as it slides down my throat.
“Christ, man, it’s all coming together,” Ian crows, slamming his shot glass onto the bar top.
“Can you imagine the road pussy?” Rudd claps his hands together.
“Do you ever think about anything but sex?” Davis jokes.
“Yeah, music. Which is the same thing, ain’t I right?” Rudd asks me.
“Can’t argue.” Speaking of sex and women, now that I’ve arranged the band, I have other matters to take care of.
