by Max Henry
“Well, good thing you can’t, huh?” I shove down the irrational jealousy and open Toby’s reply.
I don’t trust you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you.
Fuck me dead. He did not just say that. And I’m supposed to watch a movie? It’s strictly business, Jeanie.
Do I need to pack an overnight bag? The flight details were one-way.
My gaze flicks from the TV to my phone, back and forth on repeat until his reply comes through.
How long do you think you’ll be here?
And just like that, Toby Thomas again manages to rip the rug out from under my feet. Or does he smack the rose-colored glasses off my face? Whichever it is, the feeling isn’t nice. I set the phone down, shoving it between the cushion and the side of the seat so I’m not tempted to dive back into the fire during the movie.
I bought his contact details for the sole purpose of purchasing a trending story. I paid for his attention with the sole intention of furthering my career.
Best I remember that and forget this fluttering jitter he stirs deep in my heart whenever we interact. I am the vulture, and he is the prey. That’s the way our dynamic works, and it’s the way it’s got to stay.
No matter how giddy the sound of my name on his lips makes me feel.
TWENTY-THREE
Toby
“Lift the Curse” - Redlight King
“Tracked the fucker down,” Rick cries triumphantly. The video doesn’t match the sound, making his call look like a low-grade Kung-Fu movie. “Got confirmation of a name last night.”
“And?” I stand in fucking Pottery Barn, our band manager in one hand and a vanilla-scented candle in the other.
“And he no longer has a job. Direct violation of the contract bringing instant dismissal.”
I shake my head, setting the glass canister back on the shelf. “You are not leaving it at that, are you? He didn’t lift some gear to pawn. He fucking sold my private details.”
Rick sighs, bobbing on the screen while he descends a flight of stairs. “Legal proceedings are costly, Toby. You won’t get any compensation from him. The only reason you’d take that path is petty revenge.”
“Petty?” I scoff, running my hand across a faux fur throw. “Should I sell some journo your mobile number and see if you think it’s trivial?”
“I didn’t say it was trivial.” He curses at something off-screen as an automatic beep trills through the line.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I rest my elbow on the shelf to my left, crossing my legs at the ankle while I watch his train wreck unfold.
“I’m trying to get myself a tube ticket.”
“Tube? As in, like London?”
“Like London,” he affirms. “Don’t ask me any more about it; I can’t tell you.”
“You’re boring, Rick.”
He huffs a laugh. “I wish. Motherfucker.” He frowns, emitting a cry of victory when he begins to move. “I hate traveling.”
“And yet you work for a PR firm.”
“Record label,” he corrects. “I didn’t sign up to follow your asses around.”
“So, you are tracking down Kris.” I chuckle, slinging the fur throw over my arm. “Give the guy a break. He finally has a chick.”
“I’m not after Kris.” Rick pauses to give me a knowing stare. “Anyway,” he pointedly says. “Wasting money pursuing that asshole who gave out your number is stress you don’t need.”
“It sets a precedent, though.” I scan the store for anything else I need. “If you let him walk, what deters people from doing the same when they’re at the point they want to quit anyway?”
“I see your point.”
“Sue the fucker.” I make eye contact with the crisply dressed employee. “Make him a martyr for the rest.” She glances away once I resume shopping for over-priced luxury.
“You’ll self-fund this,” he warns. “Yes, the guy was hired to work for the band, but this isn’t a band conflict. It all revolves around you.”
“I’m aware of that.”
He steps inside the underground train, shouldering for position before frowning intensely at the screen. “Where the fuck are you? Is that … Are you in Pottery Barn?”
“One,” I state. “I’d rather not admit it. And two, it says something about you if you recognize it from what you see in the background.”
“There’s a huge wooden sign hanging over your head.”
I twist and look up at it. “So, there is.”
“Do I ask why?”
“Felt like a change.” A crimson glass vase catches my eye. Blood red and undeniably striking.
“I worry about the state of mind you lot live in.”
“It’s a creative world, Ricky-Dick. Objects inspire art.” The statement is true, but I’ve never needed to buy anything for my muse to talk; a walk down the street works fine.
“Buy yourself a clock. It might remind you how long you assholes have left to create a new album.” He smirks, lifting one eyebrow. “Or how little time you have.”
“Funny,” I drone. “When you call Leonard, have him draft something up for Better Beats.”
“That gutter spiel?” He lifts his brow. “Why?”
“That’s who he sold my info to.”
“Motherfucker.” Rick lifts an apologetic hand to somebody off-screen. “Send me the request in a message, so I don’t forget. I need details. What exactly he has from this goddamn rat.”
“Sure. Have fun, Rick.” I move my thumb to hover over the red button. “Don’t upset any royals while you’re there.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but I cut him off, making a beeline for the vase while pocketing my phone. Jeanie arrives tomorrow, and for fuck knows what reason, I woke up this morning deciding I needed to make my place more comfortable if I expected honesty out of her. I like my shit simple, but that also means my minimalist furniture and lack of décor can make the space feel cold and clinical. Hence why I have a soft throw tossed over one arm, and now I ponder what flowers would look best in this epic fucking vase. The neck tapers, the shape purposefully A-symmetrical. It’s intriguing in its ugly aesthetic.
A conversation piece.
“We have it in a deep ocean blue as well,” the clerk states, startling the shit out of me. “Would you like to see it?”
“Nope.” I gesture to the vase. “I like that one. Fuck it—I’ll have two.” She stares at me wide-eyed, no doubt at my use of language. I bundle the throw in her arms. “I’ll take that too.”
“Anything else?” She pushes the words through a stiff jaw.
“You got any clocks?” It might not be for the reason Rick said, but he gave me a decent idea on how to break up the expanse of my living room wall.
“Of course.” She turns, not one hair in her perfect blonde bun shifting when she does, and leads me to a wall displaying an array of timepieces. “May I ask what style your home décor is?”
I shrug. “Minimalist.”
She grits her teeth, a practiced smile in place. “Industrial? Contemporary?”
“Never home?” I grin.
I get it—I’m not her usual demographic, but I guarantee I could spend three times her typical clientele and not bat an eye. If I learned anything in business, it’s that your customers—fans in my case—come in all shapes, sizes, and ages. You can’t discriminate based on an ideal profile unless you don’t care about missing out.
“Based on your choices here,” she says before pursing her lips and looking the length of me. “I think you might like this one down the end here, or maybe the abstract design in the middle.”
I check out her two options and go with the first. “Bigger is better.”
“Now, that one is a heavy clock, so you will require a proper fixture when mounting it on the wall. Adhesive strips won’t be enough.”
I dodge her and reach for the marble circle. Sure enough, the fucker weighs a shitload. But I lift it off the wall and gesture to the counter with my chin
. “See you there?”
She softens, her smile a touch more genuine when she turns to get my vases.
Hopefully, Jeanie appreciates the effort. But then again, she won’t know if this stuff is for her unless I say so. Makes a man wonder what the fuck he’s got himself into—why it even matters. Honestly, I’d rather not think about it.
As it is, I have no idea if she’ll stay long enough for any of this to be worth my while. She left my question unanswered. I left her return flight unbooked. Time dictates she needs to stay at least one night to get her money’s worth out of the trip—or my money’s worth as it may be—but how long can she stay before it inconveniences her.
Or becomes weird. Probably the more likely answer, dickhead.
Forty minutes later, I have an oversized clock carefully stowed in the bed of my truck, the vases wrapped within an inch of their life with the faux fur throw, and some flowers the shop lady told me would last three days with the sachets of powder shit taped to their wrapping. I could have bought some dried arrangements or those colored stick things people put in vases to make an art piece, but I love nature. Always had a thing for the real deal, and stuffing these epic shapes with cardboard crap seemed like a travesty.
I cruise home, intent on keeping the cargo in one piece, freezing my goddamn nuts off so that the heater doesn’t wilt the arrangements. My headspace remains chaotic, a mixture of beats and questions—an eclectic track of drum and Jeanie. I drum of Jeanie. Nice. Now I make goddamn puns out of her name.
Speaking with Rick gave me the perfect opportunity to run this interview idea past him. I know that would be the right thing to do, and the rule-abider in me shivers at the knowledge I intend to keep her a secret. But I guess not knowing what to say is why I hold back with Rick. He’d ask what the purpose of the interview is and what would I tell him? Jeanie made out it would be the perfect opportunity to tell my side of the story. But I’ve never been the guy to talk about himself, and now doesn’t seem the right time to change that. My brother is in a mental health institution, our bassist spirals down into another drug and alcohol-induced Wonderland, and our lead guitarist is M.I.A.
We’re a walking, talking, rock ‘n roll lifestyle cliché. The funny thing is, none of us ever thought we would be. Back at the start, we’d have hilarious conversations about how foolish the new generation is, repeating the mistakes of their idols. We’d rib each other about what our failures would be, teasing one another with stupid shit like Rey being the one to demand only blue M&Ms in his dressing room. That was before any of us understood why it is our idols fell into destructive bad habits.
Survival.
There is no time for bullshit like self-care when you’re on the grind. Making a name for yourself is all about momentum. Slow, and you stall. Stop, and you fall. The people we look to for guidance repeat the mantra that it’ll all be worth it in the end. I’m not so sure anymore. Ask me before we cut our first deal if I would have signed knowing it destined my brother to live in purgatory, and I’d tell you fuck no. Ask me if I would have signed knowing it sent our anxious guitarist into a cold sweat most days. Like hell. Ask me if I would have signed our bassist into a life of addiction. Nope. Finally, ask me if I would have signed, knowing it would have flicked my switch into overdrive, ensuring I never shut off. Knowing it would have led to sleepless nights, repeating thoughts, insatiable needs to control, and fits of rage when I couldn’t.
Then, I would have said maybe.
When it all boils down, I’m wired different from the others, and so it made sense that I would take on the role of caregiver, wrangler, and hype squad extraordinaire. I’m fucking born to take charge; I am the oldest. It’s who I am, and it’s what I do. It’s who the fuck I become in the moments between that I haven’t figured out yet, and that’s what Jeanie’s for.
Because if a journalist can’t dig to the heart of who I am without Dark Tide, then who the fuck can?
It sure as fuck ain’t me.
TWENTY-FOUR
Jeanie
“Hesitations” - Fangclub
This neighborhood is a whole new experience for me. I grew up in the suburbs, surrounded by carbon copy American dream homes with the standard porch and single tree in the front yard—complete with swing. I know weatherboard and brick, tile, and iron. I sure as fuck don’t know how the hell some of these constructions pass building code, let alone who in their right mind can dream up such shapes and manage to engineer them into life.
Architecture wankathon. That’s what I’d call this street. Towering constructions with entire glass facades and natural textures that belong in the Rockies, not on the side-facing wall of somebody’s designer dream.
I check the blue line on the GPS again, flicking my gaze between the phone and the road. The address he gave isn’t far; in fact, I should be able to see his house from here. But are they houses? Do people live here full time, or are these some swanky weekend retreats to host parties and show off to their friends between stints in the city?
“Almost there.” My rideshare driver glances down at my phone from the corner of his eye.
He probably thinks I don’t trust him to get me there. That I’m paranoid he’s some psycho-killer masquerading as a Lyft driver. Maybe he is? The rough mustache gives him a fatherly vibe, but perhaps that’s part of the plan to throw me off, make me trust him? I find myself staring at the guy beside me more than the road, completely unaware we’ve arrived at Toby’s place until the middle-aged man reaches down to put the car in park and meet my curious gaze.
“Would you like me to wait until you’re inside?”
“No.” I hustle for the door handle. “Thank you for the offer, though.” On the off chance that Toby decided to stand me up, or I have the wrong address, I think I’d like a different car back to the airport.
I can’t look at this guy the same after that storyline popped into my head.
“Enjoy your stay.”
Totally not a creepy thing for him to say. I smile, backing away from the door. “Drive safe.”
I stay fixed to the spot to make sure Axe-killer Adam does leave, arms banded across myself to ward off the chill. The air holds the promise of a storm, the winter months definitely upon us. The garage I wait before sits snug beneath the double-story design, enough room in front of the charcoal door to park a single car. Confident I’m not about to be abducted by a crazed cabbie, I drink in as much of the aggregate concrete and tinted glass as I dare before the gap between my arrival and me knocking on the door gets weird. The front of the home is narrow, and given the width of the section, I guess the magic is in Toby’s length. Jesus Jeanie—get your mind out of that gutter. I check the address one last time to be sure I’m not about to make an enormous jackass of myself at some stranger’s house. Nope. Definitely where you’re supposed to be. My heart pounds behind my ribs, the restriction of the cold air down my throat choking. I’m not one for nerves, but then again, I’ve also never been one to drop on by to some rock star’s house like I goddamn know them. But you do know him. As much as I want to say this is work, he’s not at the offices. I didn’t jack this up through Devon. This is entirely on me. On my time.
Goddamn it. Shit just got real.
I thank common sense that I chose to wear rubber-soled boots given the ice that hides in the path’s shady sections. Tote clutched beneath my left arm, I make my way up the staggered, wide steps to the porch alcove. The extra-wide timber door is some ash oak or the like, a gray that compliments the plain concrete exterior to add a touch of elegance to what could have otherwise been a very clinical and industrial look. I shake the nerves out through my hand before reaching out and depressing the black button. It seems so… pedestrian to have an electronic doorbell on a house such as this. I expected something as arty as the rest of the grounds. The front garden has a Japanese vibe, but it’s subtle. Mixed in with natives in a way that breathes unique life to the strict and measured layout.
The weather-seal around the door breaks
with a creak; my heartrate rackets once more as I turn to…what? What do I turn to do? Fuck. I didn’t think about what to say when I saw him, how to break the ice. I’m off guard and totally unprepared, and shit, do I feel it. I imagined scenes like this would pass with a painfully slow pace, but it’s now, in the moment, that I discover they move at breakneck speed. I barely have time to remember my name before I’m graced with what could only be the opening paragraph of whatever it is that I choose to write after today.
Clad in dark gray and black perfection, Toby stands barefoot in the entrance; one hand clamped around the edge of the heavy door. Loose sweatpants hug his hips before falling wide across his legs, pooling on the tops of his feet. A snug wife-beater contours the body that he sculpts with long hours behind the drum set, sweating it out with nothing short of passion. I drag my gaze up the length of him, vaguely taking in the ink that spreads from beneath the tank, to the smug smile that rests on his lips.
His goddamn mohawk is gone. Instead, he sports a relatively normal cut despite keeping length on the top. I thought I’d be disappointed in that, but he’s proven he looks good no matter what.
“Found me okay, then?”
He is more than okay. “Clearly.” I clutch the strap of my bag and smile.
He jerks his head, stepping aside to let me in. “Before I lose all the heat.”
The man doesn’t kid around. An open fire crackles in the enormous living area, spreading warmth like tendrils through the rest of the house. I was right in my assumption that the property’s bulk extends lengthwise. The foyer leads past the garage and stairs before it opens into a lengthy living space that culminates with doors onto a private courtyard. The ceiling has to be double-height, the walls smooth and uninterrupted to add to the feeling that you’ve stepped into an intimate cavern. A fucking awesome cavern.
“Are you happy doing this here, or would you like to get a feel for things in the session room?”
My feet won’t move. I don’t feel right walking into this home straight out of the pages of a magazine. Toby’s cologne wraps around me as he passes by; the intoxicating scent is one that I couldn’t describe if my life depended on it other than masculine heat. Shit.