Page 35 of Animal Beats

The stylist laughs. “And Jenna here was only Bennett’s physical therapist.”

“Leave the poor girl alone,” Jenna chides as the guys take their bows center stage. “She has her hands full with keeping Río under control. We both know that’s not a small ask.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

The band comes backstage and Jenna’s swung up in Bennett’s arms. Coop and Tris tease 007 about a few of the signs held up in the audience wanting to do dirty things with his belt. His fingers caress the studded belt around his waist, which I now know belonged to UC’s original keyboardist.

Río leaps like a ballet dancer across the area, causing the rest of the guys to laugh. What’s gotten into him now? I don’t have to wait long for my answer. “Best. Concert. Ever!” He punctuates his assessment by spinning in the air, landing about three-quarters of the way around.

Tris jokes, “Baryshnikov doesn’t have anything to worry about!”

Río puts the keyboardist into a headlock. “Dude’s retired. Show some respect.”

Tris pulls free and rubs the top of his head, ending with pointing the middle finger at the drummer.

Coop steps in. “Let Río perform all the pirouettes he wants. Fact is, this was a great gig.”

“We fly to Madrid tomorrow,” Luke tries to reign in their antics.

Bennett remarks, “Which means it’s our last night in Barcelona! Río, want to join us at a club that’s supposed to be hopping?”

Jerk. He’s deliberately trying to make me lose his bet. I scowl at the lot of them. Truth is, Río needs to be flying all the way to Philly tonight. I need to stop him before he makes plans to paint the town red.

“Actually, Río and I have a previous engagement.” I replay what I’ve said—and coupled with Nese’s stupid observation before—I rephrase. “Luke, can we use UC’s jet? Río has an awards ceremony to attend tomorrow night.”

A hush falls over the group. Awards still hold a lot of sway with them. Good to know.

“Award?” Luke asks. “Of course. The jet’s all yours. What is it?”

I stand straighter. “The Philadelphia Drummers Society.”

Río yells, “What?! No way am I fucking going to that!”

11

RÍO

Coop walks over to me, trailed by 007, Tris, and Bennett. I’ve been ignoring those stupid awards emails for the past year. I don’t want anything to do with Philadelphia. Left that town—with my parents—in the rearview mirror years ago. I never return except for a gig.

Never for an awards ceremony.

“Listen, I know you don’t like going back to that city,” Coop starts.

I jump in “Damn right.”

“If there’s a drum award, though, it might be different.” Coop continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “You could garner a whole bunch of good publicity.”

007 adds, “Plus show Rome you’re better than the Trevi Fountain incident.”

Bennett contributes, “When we were growing up, you used to idolize that Society. Think about it, man. It should polish your reputation real nice.”

Bennett has a point. However. “I don’t want to see them.”

“Who?” Tris asks. I’m not up to explain my crappy homelife, so Coop does it for me. “Oh. Well, maybe your father won’t be there.”

“And miss a chance to hobnob with any sort of elite, even if it’s only lowly drummers?” My bitterness comes through loud and clear.

I glance over to our manager, who is huddled with my babysitter. Which reminds me. “Let’s get to The Closet, guys. I need my phone.” We move into the next conference room, where I seek out the woman holding our cellphones. A few minutes later, I’m off to the side scrolling through my emails. Sure enough, this one from the Philadelphia Drummers Society came in during our gig. And it’s been open. Fucking forwarding.