Page 8 of Just Wait

“Don’t do anything to get us hauled in for a meeting at the label,” I call after him. “Or Randy brought back.”

“How about you chill out, Dad?” he counters, flipping me off over his head as he opens the door.

Three years ago, I would have trailed after him to make sure he couldn’t get himself into any trouble.

Now I roll my eyes.

There aren’t many fans around this early—security won’t let them into the venue for hours—but there are a variety of other bodies available. Everyone from the stagehands to production assistants to members of the wardrobe department, all the way to journalists here for interviews. He should know better than to screw anyone we have to work with, but Mal isn’t picky. His carelessness has almost led to issues multiple times.

I used to care more than I can currently muster.

My eyes meet Riser’s, and I quirk an eyebrow. “Wanna get high? I need a pick-me-up or I’m gonna crash.”

He shrugs. “I’ve got nothing better planned.”

People look at rock stars and assume our lives must be glamorous. They have no idea how brutal touring really is.

Sometimes we’re in thirty cities in thirty days.

We’re expected to be wired on stage to engage the crowd in the best show they’ve ever seen. Then we have to keep them happy as we sign autographs, do the meet and greet, and give interviews, but we’re still expected to come down enough to sleep by a reasonable hour while we travel to the next city.

Only to be woken up at noon to practice and give interviews.

It’s a vicious cycle of highs and lows.

I’m either on top of the world or so exhausted that I consider climbing out of my own skin to get an actual break from the grind. Even that wouldn’t work, because our manager would drag our corpses out, prop us up, and play one of our tracks, rather than canceling a show.

Damn, man.

I’m too jaded to not even be thirty.

Every musician has their own pre-show routine.

Mine is fifty push-ups, followed by twenty-five jumping jacks and fifty sit-ups. It has to go in that order, and I don’t feel centered unless I complete the ritual.

Benji glares at me the entire time I do my last five sit-ups. The rest of the guys left when he called us a few minutes ago, but I’m running late.

While I don’t have to do my routine right before we walk out on stage, it does make my muscles more pronounced when I do. Mostly, I just ensure I do it every single day we have a show. Unfortunately, I forgot to dive in earlier.

Our manager will deal.

I’m lead singer.

It’s not like they can start the show without me.

Popping up, I head for the table, grabbing my mask and yanking it on.

We all have our standard masks that we wear regularly, then specialty ones for certain shows.

The worst are the glowing neon masks they had us try out for the upcoming Halloween shows. They make it impossible to see anything more than three feet away. They’re also boiling hot, but the effect is cool.

Heading out the door, I swipe my hands off on the jeans the wardrobe department put me in tonight.

I make my way down the hallway, and Malcolm, Riser, Ten, and Parish come into view. They’re all standing around, shoving in their mixers or strapping into their guitars.

There are fans with backstage access corralled on the left side of the hallway. Security holds them back to give the bands entering and exiting the stage space.

Once the new band is on stage, the security guys will let them go. They’ll be free to chase after Tangled Desires or watch us perform.