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Sniggering echoes behind me as I leave him to do his shit and attempt to make it to the obscenest phone before a headache sets in.
I round the pool just as the noise stops and pick up the device only to have it start right back up again.
“What.” It’s more of a snap than a greeting when I slap the device to my ear, which I hadn’t intended, but you get what you get at this hour after a show night while having been on tour for the last three fucking years.
“Rex, my dear!”Shit… Recognition of that voice has me pursing my lips and rethinking my life choices. That kind of opening to a conversation won’t win me any awards with this one.
“Genevie,” I soften my tone with the photographer, an old friend of mine, and scratch at the eagle tattooed on my bare chest. “What can I do for you?”
“Ahhh, that’s a much better tone. Glad to see you’ve woken up a bit, dear.” Genevie chides in my ear as I slide my ass to the concrete and roll up my pant legs to dip my feet in the pool. “I have a proposition for you.” Continuing on without a responsefrom me, he explains a bunch of crap about the photography world that I don’t need to keep track of.
I’ve spent time with this person on plenty of occasions. We’ve shot cover photos, layouts, calendars, merch shit for the band, and all kinds of crap.
Tour posters and billboards.
Headshots and interviews.
If I need a pic, Genevie is the person I go to. Always open, always down to do whatever. And so do all the big-name magazines, if they dare try.
When he needs a famous, but down-to-earth subject, I’m his guy. No questions asked.
Just to be clear, I am no model. Covered in tats (some of which were way before I had any coin to spend on them), a crooked nose from one too many mosh pits or stage dives that didn’t turn out as I had intended, and a lion’s mane of curly hair that is way harder to take care of than most people think, leaves me with less of a pretty boy look and more of a rugged … well … rockstar. They love the hair that’s longer than what’s considered normal for a guy. I actually do, too, which is the only reason it’s still weighing down my head. I’m known for it, recognized by it.
But that doesn’t stop the hours needed to untangle the shit or the money spent on fucking goop to keep itshiny for the fans.
It’s like I can hear Leo bitching at me all over again.
‘They like it, Rex.’I mock his voice, except my inner monologue version of one of my best friends is higher pitched and makes me chuckle.
‘Keep it pretty for them, Rex.’
Except right now, I’m on vacation until I decide otherwise and there’s at least 12 hair bands holding this shit up from my face and neck. It’s hot and sticky. Nearing a hundred fucking degrees of the sun up here on cloud nine of the twenty-fourthfloor and a voice I’d rather not deal with still droning on in my ear.
I’ve clearly stopped listening to Genevie talk some time ago. So whatever mumbo-jumbo, special project bull shit he’s got going on is going to have to wait.
For like six to eight months.
Maybe the next ninety years.
Or at least until I regain some of my composure back. Get my diet under control. Kick my muse into gear and start doing something with myself again.
I have music to write and family to see and a new album to record.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I love being on the road, touring, singing my heart out to the fans of our music while they back me up in the most harmonious of ways … but three years is a long damn time to sleep on a bus, eat shit for food, and not be stationary for more than two days.
I miss my bed. And my new recliner.
“Rex. Please don’t tell me I’ve put you to sleep?” I chuckle into the speaker as I kick my feet and splash water around the edge of the pool, soaking my ass more than I had intended, but I don’t give two shits about anything right now.
“Nah, old friend. But pretty close.” The grunt of displeasure that feeds over the line pulls a laugh from deep in my chest.
“Can I count on you, Rex? I do believe you’ll end up getting more out of this than I.” I allow my laughter to fizzle out into a sigh, shaking my head despite the fact that Genevie can’t see me.
“Listen, Genevie, I’m not up for fuck all right now.” Tsks echo across the line at me before I even stop speaking. My eyes roll up to the bright sky before he retorts, I already know he’ll spend the next two hours trying to talk me into it, and I’m not so sure that he won’t.
“Rex—“
“G, I’ve been on the road eating garbage and pulling all-nighters for the last three freakin’ years. It’s break time.” His exasperated sigh shoots static through the line and has me jerking the phone back to save what little hearing I have left, y’know … too many rock shows, with an added scowl that I’m certain will show later in life.
