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That just confused me further. I couldn’t think of a proposition Axel might make to me. It wouldn’t be a sexual one—that was a given. He’d made that proposition months ago, and I’d said no.
It had been absolutely the right decision. He wouldn’t try again.
Eventually, he’d proposition another woman who wasn’t me. And she’d give him a different answer.
That would be great for both of them. Just great.
In the meantime, I remembered to breathe.
SIXTEEN
Axel
Eighteen months before the Road Kings broke up, I injured my right wrist. We were mid-tour, with a packed schedule, and a couple of Advil and an ice pack didn’t help. The pain radiated up to my elbow, and because I was altering my posture at the kit every night to compensate, I started to get pain in my lower back and my knee.
During a stop in Sarasota, I went to a doctor and explained my problem. He asked almost no questions, and I left with a prescription for enough Oxy to sedate the entire band for a week. I didn’t share with the band, though. I took it all myself, and when it ran out, I got more.
We drank a lot in those days, and there was usually weed, so it was a cocktail that sent me to the Land of No Pain. The schedule was intense, and we were known for putting on high-energy shows, so before long I needed something to get me up and going before I went onstage. Then I needed more Oxy and something to help me sleep. Then the next day, I needed to be up again. That was how I got on the roller coaster that almost killed me.
It isn’t a dramatic story, and there are thousands like it. One day I was a guy getting through life doing a job he loved, and the next thing I knew I was dopesick. Just like that.
I told this story to Brit as we sat on my back deck the evening of the folk festival. We’d had a great day—bad music notwithstanding—followed by dinner with good friends. The weather turned cool after the sun went down, and we’d both put on sweatshirts. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up as I spoke, staring out at the trees behind my house. I’d told this story to more than one therapist and at more than one meeting, but telling it now made my stomach churn. It turns out that when you tell this shit to someone whose opinion you care about, the shame comes right back.
I told her about how the Road Kings had run their course by then, how we were all tired and we’d lost our creative spark. We weren’t enjoying it anymore, least of all me. We fought. We drank too much. I didn’t remember much of that last year we toured. When we were done, we were done.
And then I was home alone, with no one and nothing. I didn’t have the shows, the music, the band, or the packed schedule to distract me anymore. I just had my own thoughts, and with every day that passed, I knew more clearly that I had to get out of the hole I’d dug for myself or I’d go all the way down.
It took me two years to get out of that hole. It wasn’t a magical transformation. I had withdrawal. I relapsed. There were some very bad days, days I didn’t recognize myself. Days when I wondered why it even mattered. But it did, and somehow I’d gotten from there to here.
Brit was quiet as I spoke. When I paused, she asked softly, “Why are you telling me this?”
I sighed and scratched my chin, still staring out at the trees. “Because the band is getting back together,” I told her. “And we’re going on tour.”
There was a shocked silence filled with nothing but the wind. “You’re going ontour?”
It had been in the works for weeks now. A promoter had gotten hold of Neal. Neal had called Denver. When Denver was sold, he texted Stone and me.
I’d been in a good mood that day, and I’d been missing music like a phantom limb. When Denver had messaged about a possible tour, I’d texted back,I guess so. Is he nuts?Because we were a great fucking band, but the Road Kings weren’t known for being easy to manage or making a lot of money. Our shows were rowdy, our fans liked trouble, and we really, really hated being told what to do. It was one of the traits that had brought us together.
But Dan Daniels, the promoter, apparently was nuts, because he wanted to put together a tour. He had a backer who insisted on staying anonymous but was—for whatever reason—willing to put up the money. There were plans in place—negotiations had been happening for weeks, and we’d even gone to a studio downtown to make a demo recording for our backer.
After five years, I’d played with the Road Kings again, and even though it had only been four minutes, it was intoxicating. Dangerously intoxicating. There was no way I could say no. I was going to tour.
Just about everything was a go.
Except I hadn’t told Grant yet, because I knew he’d worry about me. And I hadn’t told Brit until now.
“We leave in a few weeks,” I said.
“A few weeks? I didn’t—” Brit stopped herself, and I knew she was mentally editing herself, reminding herself that she didn’t have a right to know any of my plans the way a girlfriend would. She didn’twantto be my girlfriend, but I could practically hear her thinking out loud. “You haven’t mentioned it,” she finished, lamely.
This was the part of our friendship that I hated. In a lot of ways, friendship meant that we could be honest with each other, but in other ways, we had to be careful. Don’t act too upset or jealous. Don’t be emotional. Always act cool.
“I haven’t mentioned it because I almost bailed,” I said. “The guys have agreed that it’s going to be a sober tour. No alcohol and definitely no drugs. Not even a joint. It’s the only way I can get through it.”
I risked a glance at her and found her watching me with a wary look. “Okay,” she said.
“Then our backer wanted to send a PR person on the tour to make sure I stayed sober. Pay some jerk in a suit to be Big Brother, and I was going to bail again. But Neal gave me an idea for a solution.” I risked another look at her. “That’s where you come in.”
