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With a heavy sigh, I lean against the backrest of the couch and stare at the ceiling. I really want to be reviewing music stuff right now, not discussing snack food abominations. We have three new tracks we’re working on, and I’m incredibly excited about two of them. I can’t stop thinking about what Val did with the build in that bridge on “Third Last Kiss.” I’ve never been so excited to get into a studio and play around with backing vocals. So much ear-candy potential in that transition.
“A bean!”
I divert my attention back to my assistant’s eager face.
“A bean?”
This is what happens when your pajamas are too wild for the event.
“Yes! Hazelnut coffee is a nut trying to be a bean.”
“Or a bean trying to be a nut?”
He frowns again. Gosh, I’m being so mean.
“Sorry. You’re right. You drink beans, not nuts, so nuts can be beans but not the other way around.”
Except in the case of almond milk. I resist the urge to point this out.
I feel his attention as my gloom returns. Maybe my rare sour mood is because I’m a hypocrite to believe nuts can be beans but fruit can’t be nuts. Or maybe I’m just tired. It’s probably that.
“I should get some rest for tomorrow.”
Steve looks concerned as I push up from the cushion, and I force the most sincere smile I can muster. It’s not his fault he’s not Val.
“You sure you’re okay, Larry?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for being here.”
I lean in for a quick hug and squeeze hard. He’s a good friend. Sure, he’s hurt me in the past, but it wasn’t on purpose. He means well, including the time Jarvis tricked him into giving him my unreleased songs while my ex was in a questionable state of morals. Thankfully, Jarvis decided not to do anything nefarious like steal months of my blood, sweat, and tears to pass off as his own. Just over a year (and countless apologies) later, the songs have been released, charts have been hit, awards have been discussed, and bygones can officially be… crap. Is it more bygones? That doesn’t make sense, though, right?
Whatever. The point is Jarvis and I patched things up for this sold-out blockbuster tour featuring two country music superstars. In fact, he’s made it clear he wants our pretend relationship to be real again. Yep, pretty sure, like mega-label Lakebend Records, he also wouldn’t be happy if he found out I had feelings for someone else—someone like my talented, up-and-coming producer who’s currently asleep on the crew bus.
2—INTERSTATE 80 (TWO VEHICLES AHEAD)
VAL
I can’t sleep. At all.
And not because of the extra rumbling caused by getting the bunk right over the wheel well of the bus. This insomnia is caused by the guy across from me who unilaterally decided we’re going to be best friends for this tour. At least he’s been a good distraction from a brain that keeps telling me I shouldn’t even be here. (That’s a whole other insomnia-inducing thought spiral.)
All I know about this guy is that his name is Chad Smith and he’s some corporate agent representing the tour’s meddling sponsor, Sandeke Telecom. He called himself the Administrative Talent Liaison for Reedweather Media vis a vis Sandeke Telecom, whatever the hell that is. His business card confirmed it, but why he thought I needed an entire stack of them is beyond me. I kept one and used the rest to plug the crack between the cushion of my bunk and the wall of the bus.
He knows way too much about me, though, apparently.
“So what’s it like having a birthday in early September?” he whisper-shouts across the aisle.
I cringe as this conversation that doesn’t need to happen continues for the forty-third minute. Unfortunately, I’m genetically wired to be polite and it’s way too early in the tour to make an enemy—especially someone with the clout of a Sandeke Telecom representative. Or is it Reedweather Media? Or Jarvis McKinnley? I’m not entirely clear on who this guy works for. He also claims to be a “super-secret spy,” so I guess that tracks.
“It’s… fine?”
He nods with a grave expression. “Probably had issues with birthday parties and such during the school years. What happened when your birthday fell on Labor Day?”
I squint around the dark bus, searching for any excuse to end this weird interrogation. “We celebrated it on Labor Day.”
“You probably just made the cutoff, right? So you’re young?”
“I’m the same age as anyone born on that day.”
