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If I thought my life was busy before I went into rehab, the past week has been crazy busy, like pack up and move straight to an asylum sort of crazy.
I’ve been so busy it makes my head spin.
Nick has us rehearsing around the clock, and when we’re not rehearsing, we’re in meetings, or at Reed’s apartment going over the new lyrics he’s been working on.
Turns out, while the fans love our OG stuff, they’ve gone bat-shit over the new songs Reed wrote for our last tour, and so the studio wants an even fresher sound for this tour.
Reed’s been working his ass off coming up with new material to record before we hit the road. We leave in six weeks. The thought sits bitterly sweet in my mind. It’s not enough time. It’s too soon.
I don’t know if I’m ready yet.
On one hand, taking Cold Neptune international is the opportunity of a lifetime, the big break we’ve always wanted. But leaving Sienna behind for so long. Yeah, fuck that. And Bailey, too. Man that kid has a way of sneaking up on you and crawling under your skin, and I’ve kinda grown accustomed to spending time with him.
Some days we just talk about nothing and everything. He asks me questions—the kind of questions a fifteen-year-old boy doesn’t particularly want to ask his sister—and for the most part, I answer him as honestly as I can. But mostly I just listen to him.
And Sienna said he wasn’t a good communicator. I disagree. Because sometimes the things that aren’t said are just as important, just as impressive, as the things that are said.
It’s a bit like music that way. Sometimes it’s the moments of silence, the breaks between the chords, the hiatus at the end of a verse right before the chorus kicks in. Those are the moments that take a song and make it something else. Those are the moments that make beautiful music.
Speaking of music, I’ve been teaching Bailey everything there is to know about playing guitar.
He tries hard. But he’s fucking terrible.
He’s just not getting it at all. Totally sucks. But that doesn’t stop him trying, and I swear some days he gets this awesome confidence about him that comes so far out of left field it makes my throat close over, and I have to look away.
Bailey watches himself carefully in the mirror, just like I taught him, holding the guitar, butchering the notes, thinking he’s freaking Jimi Hendrix. He’s definitely no Hendrix, but I’d never tell him that. He seems to enjoy having me around, and he really seems to like me hanging out with his sister.
Thank god for that, because I really like hanging out with his sister, too.
Other than the night I spent away with the band in Boston while we got interviewed forRolling Stonemagazine, Sienna and I have spent every other evening together, alternating between my place and hers.
On the nights we spend at my condo downtown, Bailey sleeps in one of my spare guest bedrooms. Yeah, I’m a rich-ass rocker with a massive apartment. There’s a common area downstairs with a sauna, a spa, and a plunge pool, and as it turns out, Bailey’s got a boner for the spa.
He wears swim shorts big enough for three men, and his hair looks like a burning bush. But it’s fucking hilarious, and the dude has totally made himself at home.
Most nights have been spent at Sienna’s house, though, all three of us watching television together for hours on end. Mostly just shitty Hallmark Christmas movies, you know the kind, same storyline over and over again, with different settings and different actors playing the parts. Sometimes it’s even the same actors in different movies. I don’t get it, but for reasons I’ll likely never understand, Sienna can’t seem to get enough of them.
It’s cute. But still, it’s fucking weird.
Sienna was right; she and Bailey are kind of a package deal. The thought would have terrified me once but now, not so much.
Speaking of terrifying…
Nick storms into the warehouse, slamming the side door closed behind him. He holds his hand in the air, signaling for us to stop playing, and his face looks like deathly thunder while the room fills with the off-key shriek of fading instruments.
“What now?” Reed lets his hands drop away from the mic stand. “This is the third time you’ve interrupted us this session. You better have a damn good reason for—”
“Quinn! My office. Now!”
Quinn glances up quickly, his head jerking back in shock. He looks just as confused as the rest of us. Quinn’s never in trouble.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sliding his guitar strap over his neck, placing it carefully against a speaker at the side of the stage. “You sure you got the right guy? What did I do?”
“Trust me, Quinn, you’re going to want to talk to me about this in private.” Nick holds his hand up and shakes his head when Reed steps forward. “Not this time, Reed. This doesn’t involve you. It’s between me and Quinn. You’re going to have to stay out of this one.” He glares across at Quinn, and I swear the icy look he’s giving him right now could freeze entire oceans. “My office. Move it!”
Quinn jumps down off the front of the stage, leaving the rest of us to stare after him in stunned silence.
“What the hell’s going on?” asks Jaxon, staring at Quinn’s retreating back as he follows Nick across the warehouse. Jaxon’s sticks are hanging down by his sides. His black T-shirt is drenched with sweat, glued to his chest, and his forehead is covered with beads of perspiration.
