No wife or kids or anything to show for the last twenty years.
Just work, a little money, and more work.
What does that say about me?
“Hey.” Kingston finds me in the lobby waiting for a delivery.
“Hey.” I glance at him. “Nervous about the appointment tomorrow?”
He shrugs. “A little.” His voice is soft, a whisper really, since that’s the only way he’s allowed to talk at the moment. “You look like a man with a lot on his mind, though.”
I nod. “Yeah. The last week has made me think about things I stopped thinking about a long time ago.”
He smiles. “Care to share?”
Do I?
I hesitate. “This is weird to talk about. Especially to you.”
“Because you want my job.”
“What? No! I just?—”
He stops me, putting a hand on my arm. “It’s okay, man. I’d say you were a liar if you didn’t. What musician doesn’t want to be me? Us?” There’s no concern or anger in his expression. Just a solemn understanding.
Maybe he is the one to talk to.
“I don’t necessarily want your job,” I say carefully. “I love working for you guys so that’s only part of it. It’s more about remembering everything I lost. Gave up. Whatever you want to call it. And now there’s a chance to rebuild. My life. The career I thought I was going to have. Falling in love. I’m fucking scared, King.”
He nods, like he already knew those things. “Of course you are.”
I stare at him. “Where do I go from here? In a week, a month, whatever it is, you heal and I’m no longer necessary. Great. I’m not mad. I love running the tour. But then you guys gave me something else to think about. I mean, does anyone truly give a shit about Ross Rockit? Sure, the crowd is excited to see me every night. We’re having fun playing both your music and mine, but they’re excited because it’s Onyx Knight with Ross Rockit. I don’t think Ross Rockit on his own is much of a draw.”
“You don’t know that.” His soft voice is somber. “And just because the offer is there, it doesn’t mean you have to do it. Everything can go back to exactly what it was before.”
I pause and look at him for a long minute. “That’s just it, man—I don’t think it can.”
Chapter Nineteen
Wynter
There are 736 emails in my inbox. Since three thirty on Friday. It’s only nine o’clock on a Monday morning and over 700 issues came up on the weekend while I was away.
How is that even possible?
Okay, to be fair, there are four emails from Harley, sending me links to things she thinks I might want to buy.
There are probably twenty that fall into the junk mail category.
Two from Ross with calendar updates.
And one from my boss—she wants to see me today when I get a chance.
I sigh.
Now what?
There are still about 700 emails to sort through, though I’m sure some can easily be deleted, and it’s going to take hours. I also have no idea what my boss wants. I put in a lot of hours last week so leaving early on Friday shouldn’t have been a big deal. Of course, I also called in sick last Monday and didn’t lie about where I was going on the weekend.
