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“Hid squeakers I’d taken out of dollar store dog toys all over the bus and not in easy places to find, either. I took the seat cushion off his favorite spot and put a couple squeakers in it before putting the cover back on. I stuck one in his pillow, put one of those small, high-pitched ones beneath the insoles of his boots so he squeaked when he walked, too. In the end, he was so damned paranoid, he started insisting people switch spots with him.”

“And of course, you’d accounted for that too, didn’t you?”

“If I could have found a way to put a squeaker in his toothpaste tube, I would have.”

Apparently, that was the absolute last straw for Tony, who dissolved into a cackling round of laughter before we finally settled in to fully enjoy the show. When he was ready to talk more about the things going on in his head, I’d make sure he knew that I would welcome as many nights like this as he cared to gift me.

For now, I was just going to enjoy the time with my Little Wren.

Chapter Five

Tony

“Alright,” Duke, the sound engineer at the radio station called out over the studio mic. “We’ve been over the rules, we’ve been over the fact this is local radio so no cursing and we’ve been over the no smoking and no vaping bit. Bad for your bodies, bad for the equipment. Gentlemen, are we ready?”

“Are we?” Bowie asked. I hated when he second guessed himself, but some bad habits were hard to break.

“You know we are,” I nudged him, “My dudes, game on,” I said, with far more confidence than I felt.

“Good afternoon KZON listeners,” The DJ dove right in, not bothering to introduce himself to us. “Sitting with me now are four guys that if you’re not familiar with them, you’re gonna be after this. Bowie, Tony, Tibby and Claude from Imminent Danger.”

When they play that fake audience applause it’s trippy as hell.

“We got word you’re hitting the road with Chaotic Abyss for a three-month tour ending at Rocktoberfest 2026!” More freaky fake ass cheers were played. Who benefited from this? His ego or the listeners? What was up with that and which of us was supposed to answer?

“Um, yeah. We’re super stoked for that.” Gotta thank Tibby later for stepping up.

“Sounds intense.” This guy was a fucking tool. “Thirty shows in ninety days. If the walls of the buses could talk.” The headphone wearing tool cracked himself up. Too bad none of the rest of us laughed. “When are you guys headed back into the studio?”

Great question.

“Maybe early next year,” Bowie said. “Masterson likes to give their employees more down time during the holidays.”

“You guys really lucked out signing with them. There are bands out there who’d sell their souls for a contract like that. And to think you were handpicked by the guys from Social Sinners. That’s gotta feel pretty good.”

“Well, it doesn’t suck.” I mean, what kind of response did he expect after acting like we’re some sort of spoiled golden spoon band. “We tried out, we did better than the others, we were awarded the contracts fair and square.”

Must’ve stunned the jackass ‘cause he just sat there blinking for a few seconds.

“Awesome, great luck on tour. Up next I’ve got Soul Sucking Seduction from these guys. Hope to catch a show and see you play live.” As soon as our song started playing he pushed a couple of buttons and took his headphones off. “Well, that’s it. Hopefully you guys do better on the road than you did in here.” Then he walked off and left us in the booth.

“Guess that’s it,” Claude said as we left.

“Fucking hell, man, that was intense,” Tibby said, and he wasn’t wrong. You think you’ll walk in and knock it out of the park then BAM! Reality bitch slaps you and you question everything that just happened.”

“No kidding,” Bowie slammed half a bottle of water down then sat it aside. “I’ve got imposter syndrome after that. I mean, was it me or was that guy insinuating we sucked and only got signed cause we won the band lottery?”

“Something like that.” Fucking sucks how easily some assholes get in your head.

“Get those thoughts out of your heads right now.” Leave it to Stoli to call us out. “You don’t suck and you deserve this gig. You’ve earned this and you’re a damn good band.” Stoli should know, given he’s one of the greats in the business who’s also serving as Bowie’s mentor.

“I second that. And you, Tony,” Should have known I’d be next. “Your vocals were damn good when we started working together and now they’re fucking great so do not follow your BFF down that self-deprecating wormhole.”

“Ohhh, he told you. Snap!” Claude, the current douche canoe on my list chanted.

“Dude, what are you like twelve?” Bowie shook his head.

“That or he’s hung around Diamond too much,” Stoli said. “Guys, bottom line is you’ve got this. Stop overthinking it and hit every one of these interviews like you’re on stage. Besides, that DJ’s already on thin ice with his job. His ratings suck and after bombing your interview he’ll be lucky if he can get one calling numbers at the bingo hall.” Man, Stoli always had a way of bringing our moods around. Bet he kept Joey on his toes. Nothing near what Diamond does to Easton, I’m sure. I’ve never read anything about Stoli swinging his bedazzled junk around.