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“I didn’t want to come here, I hate this fucking place.” He spits. Ah, always such a charmer this one. We enter the bar together, and I shoot Garrett an ‘I’m going to murder you’ look. He cringes sheepishly and follows Steve to the open table in the back. Once we’ve sat down, a waitress comes over to take our orders. I order coffee because whiskey sounds like a terrible idea.
“Listen, I’m going to cut straight to it, kid, Alex’s death has skyrocketed album sales. We’re sold out in most cities.” He says excitedly. He says “we” like he put his blood, sweat, and tears into the albums, and the way he’s talking about Alex’s death like it’s a promo pitch pisses me right the fuck off. “And we need to get you back out on tour as soon as possible. The summer tour has sold out completely in over twenty cities. And that little stunt with Bristol at the funeral, fucking genius. The fans are eating it up.” He continues. Stunt? What stunt?
“What stunt?” I ask. “Do you mean us mourning the loss of our friend? Because that wasn’t a publicity stunt, you arrogant prick.”
“The press got pictures of the three of you yesterday, and the fans are losing their minds. We need Bristol to come out on tour with you and Boston.” He waves me off.
“We have a drummer, what the fuck is she going to play? The tambourine?” I seethe. My fists clench against my thighs under the table.
“We’ve given Denny the summer off.” He replies matter of factly.
“That’s not your decision to make.” I slam my fist against the table, causing the glasses to clink and my coffee cup to spill over onto the saucer.
“Actually it is.” He smiles maliciously. “You need to find a replacement guitar player.” His caustic words hit me in the face like a sucker punch, and I recoil at the burn his words hold. His words are like fire, pouring a bottle of vodka over an open wound. No one can replace Alex.
“Fuck that. I play guitar. I can play and sing. We’re not replacing Alex. We replaced Bristol and that was…okay, but I’m not going to have anyone play in Alex’s spot.”
“Fine, I’ll give you that concession.” He waves his hand again, sighing.
“I don’t think Bristol is going to want to come out on tour with us. She has her own band to think about, they should be headed out soon, too.” I say leaning forward.
“They aren’t even scheduled in the studio until this winter. The lead singer had a baby or something. I’ve already spoken to her manager, and she’s free.” Steve says.
“Are you going to ask her?” I ask, leaning back in the leather chair. “Because she’s going to say hell no to me.”
“If I must, but I hoped you would be able to persuade her. The world wants the reunion, this tour is going to be lucrative for the label as well as you.”
“Money won’t bring my friend back,” I sigh, “I don’t want to capitalize off our loss. Donate my share to the Betty Ford Rehab center, okay?”
“That’s fucking brilliant.” He yells, his palm slapping the table. “We can donate a chunk of the proceeds to the rehab center. The press is going to eat that up.”
“Dammit, there’s more to life than money.” I snap, my teeth grip together with force at the audacity of this asshole.
“Spoken by someone who has no problem spending the money I send.” He smiles.
“Do you mean the money I made? The millions that cushion your bank account made off of our lyrics?” I growl, my anger reaching nuclear levels.
“Let’s not split hairs here, kid. It’s a mutually beneficial deal.” He laughs, waving the waitress over for another round of drinks.
“Let’s get Bristol on board and get the fuck out of this shit hole town.” Steve announces, lighting a cigarette.
Chapter 17 Rhyit Past
Sweat rolls down my back as we exit the stage of the Watering Hole after one of the best shows we’ve ever played. We hoot and holler as we make our way back to the green room, also known as the back room of the bar. Bristol, Alex, Boston, and I take another shot in congratulations of a show well done. Alex compliments Bristol on her face-melting drum solo. She was absolutely incredible, I’ve never been more proud. We chat for a bit as the endorphins of the show wear off, and the buzz of the alcohol runs free.
“Andrew, some guy wants to see you.” The waitress says as she walks by, surely on her way out to deliver more drinks.
“Who is it?” I yell back from my spot on the couch next to Bristol.
“I don’t know, never seen him before.” She yells back from the hallway. I look to Bristol, her face pulls into a megawatt grin. I look around the room, and everyone is grinning back at me.
“Fucking go!” Alex yells from the other side of the couch. I hop up from the couch, the alcohol hitting as soon as I’m at full stance. I lean forward, grabbing Bristol’s face with both hands and press my lips against hers. Her lips feel soft against mine, the whiskey she’s been drinking mixed with the cherry of her lipgloss is intoxicating. The boys hoot and whistle as we break apart, a dazed look dons her face as I move to stand.
“Wish us luck!” I yell as I head to the door. I walk the long corridor leading to the bar with excitement pulsing just below my skin. This could be it. This could be the next step.
A man with slicked-back black hair, a polo and slacks stands at the end of the hallway. He turns as he hears me approaching, my black combat boots aren’t exactly subtle in the rickety old hallway.
“Steve Larkin.” He says as I approach. He extends his hand to me, and I grasp his palm and give it a shake. “Head of Paperweight Records.”
