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“We let ourselves be defined by one song, and we’ll never be the band we can be. This is the only song our crowd will want to hear. I don’t want that for us. Look at Threat Alert.”
Davis’s eyes soften in understanding. Landry looks thoughtful. We’ve been peeling away the other band’s audience, one night after another. It’s making everyone on the headliner’s group testy.
They try to hide it, but the snarky remarks they shoot in our direction have more than a little truth to them.
I press my advantage. “I’ll subsidize this band for however long it takes for us to gain the right audience that can keep us playing for years. If we take a shortcut, we’re cutting ourselves off at the legs. We’ve got a great sound. Let’s not sacrifice that for some quick money. If you need a loan, I’m good for it. Hell, it doesn’t even need to be a loan. I’ll just give you the money.”
“It’s not about the money for me,” Davis says. “The idea of national exposure sounded good, but I’ve never done anything but play at a few local bars and fraternities. If you think turning this offer down is the best thing for us, then I’ll back you.”
Relief fills my chest. Feeling about a hundred pounds lighter, I turn to Ian. “You in, man?”
He shakes his head and snorts before holding out his fist. “I’m in.”
“Rudd?”
My bassist makes a face but puts his hand in the middle. “I think we’re stupid as fuck to turn it down, but I’m in.”
Davis’s hand lands on top. “No shortcuts.”
“No shortcuts,” we all yell.
It’s not until I’m in my bunk that I remember Landry didn’t stick her hand in.
And it bugs me. All night long.
* * *
The next morning, she’s waiting for me. We go to breakfast. We talk about everything but last night. Not the almost sex we had at the mini-golf and not the offer from Hollister. I wait for her to bring it up, but she doesn’t. Not once.
“We still on for tonight?” I ask as we walk from the IHOP back to the bus.
“I don’t know, are we?” A pair of metallic aviators shield her eyes.
“It’s all I can think about.”
Her head swings in my direction. “Same.”
I push away any feelings of unease. Or rather, my lust does. This morning, my phone was full of texts from my roommates.
Finn: Heard you’ve been bagged by the redhead. Nice.
Mal: Still working on our project. Keep in touch. Sounds like this one’s a keeper. Thumbs up.
Bo: We like this one.
Noah: Don’t fuck it up.
The challenge is, I’m not sure what fucking up entails. For a moment last night, I wondered if not selling my music to some ad company was the fuckup, but since Landry hasn’t uttered a word about it, I chalk up my unease to an overactive imagination. There wasn’t disapproval in her eyes, and she didn’t chime in because she doesn’t feel like she’s part of the band.
“I’m not sure what I’m going to tell Davis,” she says, breaking into my train of thought.
“Huh?” I must’ve missed something. “Tell Davis what?”
“About us. I don’t want him to know.”
“Why not?”
She shoots me a skeptical look. “You really think Davis is going to be okay with you and me hooking up?”
