by Casey, L. A.
I focused on Angel, switched a blank drum sheet and placed the notes I heard along the staff on the sheet. Because he wasn’t playing on actual drums, I couldn’t hear the music the way he could. I’d know which key he was hitting when he drummed his instrument, but because drumming wasn’t a talent of mine, I strained a little to hear it the way he did.
“Angel,” I said. “Fifth note, floor tom or mid?”
“Neither, high.”
This was exactly what I was talking about, had he been playing on his drums, I’d have heard the difference. Angel turned around in his seat and peered down at the sheet I was writing on and said, “Bro, no. Rest for four beats on the whole, and that,” – he pointed to the tenth note – “is supposed to be a snare, not a hi-hat.”
I scowled down at my sheet. He plucked it from my hand, grabbed his own Sharpie from his bag, turned around in his seat, and fixed the drum key.
“Sorry, man.”
“Don’t be,” Angel said. “You’re much better at hearing the right notes now compared to a few years ago, you use to suck.”
That was a backhanded compliment if I had ever heard one.
I focused back on May, he restarted his piece and I made the additions on to the staff that I missed before. I smiled as I wrote, Hayes got involved and told May which chord to add in and where. I made the additions, then used a separate sheet for the bass that I could hear even though it wasn’t playing. In my head, I could hear it like it was behind May’s guitar. When I wrote it down, I showed May and he nodded, “That’d be sick.”
I showed it to Angel who held the sheet out for Hayes to glance at.
“I hate that we can’t just lay this right now,” he grunted. “I can hear this already, bro. Shit’s gonna be fire.”
“Right?” I beamed. “As soon as we get can get back to Southwold this evening, we’ll lay what we’ve got and see what we think.”
“I thought you had a date with Frankie tonight.”
I capped my pen and put the sheets of paper back in Angel’s bag while May put his guitar back in its case and then over his shoulder and into the boot. The fucker nearly took my head off again with the movement.
“I’m going to see her very ill mum,” I reminded him. “Not a date. I told you, we agreed on being friends.”
“How in the hell are you going to be ‘just friends’ with the person you write about like she is the only woman in this world who ever made you feel worth a damn?”
I didn’t reply to Angel because I had no fucking clue how I was going to be ‘just friends’ with Frankie. No clue at all. I had asked her to be my friend because I couldn’t leave her cottage without having reassurance that she would be in my life in some sort of capacity. I went there to apologise, and for the short time we spent together I knew I couldn’t continue to live a life that didn’t involve her.
I missed her too much.
“Leave him be,” Hayes glanced at our friend. “Let him figure this out himself.”
I was glad of the interruption when my phone rang, but when I saw who it was I groaned.
“It’s Chris.”
Chris Harrison was our manager and talking to him was sometimes draining. By sometimes, I mean all of the time.
“I’m not talking to him,” Angel blurted. “He stresses me out when we’re close to a performance. The guy is a wurryburt.”
“A wurrygut,” the three of us corrected.
Angel had picked up on some of our slang over the years because he thought the words sounded funny, but he still needed a little nudge here and there whenever he messed a word up.
“Whatever.” Angel grunted. “His anxiety gives me anxiety.”
“I’m putting him on speaker.”
Before anyone could argue, I answered the call.
“Hey Chris,” I chirped. “You’re on speaker.”
“Where the fuck are you guys?” he shouted, the volume of his voice startling me. “You were supposed to be live on Rock Stop twenty-five minutes ago.”
I cringed. “We’re on the way, man.”
“We’re literally only ten minutes away,” Hayes said. “Stuck in traffic.”
London was known for many things: rubbish traffic was one of them.
“You all should’ve left for the interview earlier!”
“Chris.” May exhaled a deep breath. “Remember your breathing, in and out.”
“Bite me, May,” Chris griped. “There’s only so many excuses I can make for you guys. I know people love bad-boy rockers who scream ‘fuck you’ to the world, but your fans have this shit trending. They’re waiting for you guys to go live. You know the media will run with this.”
“Mate, relax,” I urged. “I can fix this with one little tweet.”
I grabbed May’s phone from his hand, logged out of his Twitter account and signed into mine and tapped on the screen a few times and voilà. Crisis averted.
“What tweet?” Chris’s voice rose an octave. “Risk, don’t you fucking tweet anything—”
“Too late.”
“Motherfucker!” Chris snapped. “You’re the reason I have high blood pressure, asshole.”
I snickered. “I’ve fixed the issue.”
Chris continued to curse, then he read out the tweet I just tweeted.
“London, we love you, but fuucckkk. This traffic sucks. Rock Stop, we’re on the way. Adult lady Sinners, stay wet for us. Every other Sinner, keep refreshing the page. Hang tight, we’re coming!”
Angel snorted. “I’ve just retweeted it.”
I laughed and so did the other two.
“Risk,” Chris grunted. “When you get there and they ask if you’re dating Nora, make sure you make a joke about it, but also make it clear you’re single. The Sinners loved how you shut down the paps who cornered you last night. Shit was trending on Twitter for five hours straight.”
“Got it,” I stretched. “Don’t worry so much, man. We’ve done a million interviews.”
“Until it’s over, let me stress.”
I snorted.
“If rehab is mentioned, be as honest as you want to be. The support for your recovery is huge.”
That was nice to hear.
“Will do. Is everything in order for the gigs next week?”
“A sold-out concert, one of three, in Wembley Stadium is more than a gig, you dopey Brit.”
We laughed, not offended in the least.
“But, yes,” Chris continued. “Everything is in order; the crew is already in London. Set-up started this morning since your stage is awkward as fuck and needed time to be set up and tested for safety. What date is it today . . . it’s Thursday the eleventh. Show one is on Monday the fifteenth, you four are due in the stadium at noon on the fourteenth for soundcheck, costume check, full rehearsal and so forth.”
“We’ll be in London on the fourteenth,” May offered. “We’re staying at Risk’s house, right?”
“What do you mean, right? You don’t know?”
“Of course I know . . . I think.”
“This is why I stress!” Chris exploded. “You dumb asses are slowly killing me.”
I bit my lip so I didn’t laugh.
“They’re all staying in my townhouse rather than a hotel,” I cracked my neck. “You know we hate hotels.”
“Yes, I know, trust me.” Chris sighed. “I know you all know the dates, but for my own peace of mind, I’ll have Nolan email it to the four of you. He takes care of your itinerary. You know he’s having a worse breakdown than I am because you four forbid him from accompanying you to Southwold. He gets chest pains because you refused Jacob, and the rest of your security team, tagging along too.”
“Southwold is ours.” I repeated what I told Chris before we even came home. “That town is just for us. We’re safe there.”
“Until crazy Sinners travel to Southwold and kidnap you all.”
May shrunk low in his seat because that was an actual fear of his, which amused me greatly.
“He�
�s joking, May.”
My friend nodded, but didn’t look like he really believed me.
“We’re about to pull into the building’s underground car park,” Hayes said to Chris. “We’ll call you after the interview.”
“Just announce the new album and tour, making it exciting . . . and don’t say shit you can’t take back.”
With that, Chris hung up. I pocketed my phone, cracked my neck again and cleared my throat.
“Why do I feel like he was directing that last part at me?”
“He was,” my friends said in unison, then chuckled.
I looked at May, held my fist out. He bumped his against mine.
“We have to be cute,” I told him. “You know our Ray shippers eat our bromance up. And you, Angel,” I said. “The Rangel shippers die when we interact with each other. Be nice to me, princess.”
“Suck my cock, asshole.”
“Hell, if you did that,” May clapped me on the shoulder. “You might kill the Rangel shippers altogether.”
We all burst into laughter as Hayes parked the car and we climbed out. I straightened out my clothes, so did the others, then we headed to the entrance. There was a brown-haired woman waiting for us who looked like she was relieved to see us walk towards her. She put her phone to her ear and into it she said, “They just arrived, be up in five.”
She ushered us into the building, into an elevator then up to one of the top floors in the building. As soon as we got out of the elevator, there was a guy pointing a camera at us. Podcasts were pre-recorded but they went live sometimes too; this interview was live. They put them on platforms like YouTube where a broader viewership could hear, and see, interviews. I winked at the camera when he turned to me.
“Fannies quiver everywhere with a single wink from Risk Keller,” May mumbled behind me, but I heard him and laughed. We followed Katie, the woman who greeted us in the car park, down a few hallways then into a room full of people who cheered when the four of us walked inside.
“Blood Oath is in the building!”
Rock Stop was a huge podcast with twenty million monthly listeners around the world, this meant they had a big operation with different staff members. There were normally two hosts per episode and that was the case today. I had never met the man, Brian, who stood up to greet us, but the last interview we had done with them over a year ago had the same woman, Toni Marlow. I fucked her in an empty room not long after that podcast ended, she was cool and she knew her shit when it came to rock. It was sweeter that nothing came of us having sex, no nasty episode on Rock Stop where she dragged me through the mud like Chris thought she would.
She stood up to hug each member, but I was the only who got a kiss on the cheek when I bent down.
“How are you, gorgeous?”
“I’m good.” She smiled and returned to her seat.
The four of us got in position in front of a microphone and put headphones on.
“Morning, everyone,” I said into the mic. “Sorry we’re late. London traffic, ay?”
“Tell me about it, Risk,” Toni said. “How are you all? It’s great to see you guys again.”
We exchanged pleasantries then the interview started naturally.
“Back in the motherland, lads,” Brian grinned. “How does it feel to be home?”
“Amazing,” May answered. “We love the States, but home is where the heart is and that’s in England. Isn’t that right, lads?”
“Yeah,” Hayes and I echoed.
“No,” Angel answered, his tone flat. “Not for me. Stop excluding me, May. Our band is so fragile, this could be the tipping point if you don’t make me feel loved like these two. I’ll have a mental breakdown unless I’m treated exactly the same on camera just so everyone can see you three actually love me.”
Angel, unblinkingly, stared into the camera as he spoke then rolled his eyes up to the heavens and said, “I’m being extremely sarcastic before any of you dumb fuckers think I’m serious.”
Hayes and I snorted, May laughed and so did the hosts.
“I take it you read some of the more . . . interesting headlines about the band as of late, Angel?”
“Pretty hard not to when they’re linked everywhere on social media,” Angel answered Toni. “But it’s all garbage. We read some of these headlines and we honestly just laugh. We rip into each other constantly but trust me when I say these guys are my brothers. Just because I’m Mexican doesn’t mean they treat me differently, it’s all love between us even when we’re mad at each other. These articles are made just for clicks and likes for companies to gain revenue, that’s it.”
“Like most articles,” Brian nodded. “Hard to tell what’s real and fake these days.”
“What’s real,” I said, “is our three sold-out gigs at Wembley Stadium on the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth.”
The crew around us cheered, making me grin.
“Wembley packed with over one hundred thousand Sinners per night?” May shuddered. “I can’t fucking wait.”
“You’ve had a mini tour over the last year,” Toni said. “A dozen dates in the States and now the three dates in Wembley . . . how come you guys didn’t decide to visit other cities while in the U.K.? Was it all down to your stint in rehab, Risk?”
The woman was smooth the way she slid a heavy topic into a casual conversation.
“Yes,” I answered. “The tour was always going to be small, but Wembley being the only dates we scheduled was down to my stint in rehab.”
“I can see your coin hanging around your neck from here,” Brian said. “What’s the number say? Five?”
“Six,” I corrected. “I’m six months sober.”
I received congratulations and smiles from everyone.
“We know that Risk’s sobriety has the full support of our Sinners but we understand many were left disappointed not to have a gig in a city near them,” Hayes took over. “But this mini tour was just a practice run for our new stage with our new crew. It’s all part of our preparation for our next tour.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Next tour?” Toni repeated. “What next tour?”
I looked at the guys. “Did we not tell them we have a world tour coming up for our new album?”
“What?” Brian blinked. “New album, world tour . . . what the fuck, lads?”
“I knew we forgot to do something,” May facepalmed. “We were supposed to announce our new album, Lost in the Darkness, and the accompanying world tour for it.”
“Right,” Angel snapped his fingers. “The album drops next month, right? On the sixteenth?”
“Yup,” I nodded. “You’ve got it in one, bud.”
“Look at the comments,” Brian pointed to a monitor on the wall. “One hundred per second, I think you broke the live stream.”
The comments on the stream were coming in so fast it was impossible to read them. I flicked my eyes to the number in the left hand corner. Just over eight million people were watching the stream . . . and the number was rising.
“I think our Sinners are excited we have a new album and tour on the way.”
“Not just any tour,” Toni said. “A world tour. Your first, right?”
“Yup,” Hayes answered, beaming. “North and South America, Europe, Asia, Africa, Oceania. We’re hitting six of the seven continents. Two hundred shows broken up into twelve legs. We’re going global this time, baby.”
“Two hundred shows,” Brian said and took a sheet from one his crew members. “We have an official email from your management. Holy hell, guys, you’re going everywhere and most of these venue are stadiums and arenas. This tour . . . this might be one of the highest grossing tours of all time.”
Our team had calculated that the upcoming tour could earn anywhere between seven hundred and nine hundred million. So yeah, it’s definitely going to be one of the highest of all time if that proved to be correct.
“We hope so,” Angel chuckled. “That’d be pretty sweet.�
�
“So your new album, Lost in the Darkness, releases on the sixteenth of March, next month, and the tour kicks off exactly a year later on the sixteenth of March 2021 in Paris, France. Leg one is for Europe.”
“Yup,” I nodded. “The exact press release you’re reading is being uploaded on our website right now, so, Sinners,” I looked at the camera. “Go and check out when we’ll be in a city near you.”
“I can already hear the screams and roaring of your Sinners.” Toni chuckled. “But speaking of tours. We heard a rumour that you guys worked out a really sweet deal for upcoming tours . . . is it true?”
“What’s the rumour?” Hayes asked. “There’s a shit tonne of them.”
“This rumour is about money . . . apparently you guys own all the earnings from merchandise sales on top of your sixty per cent earnings on ticket revenue per show.”
That was public knowledge, but since Toni wanted an answer, I gave her one.
“Yeah, that’s true. We’re very anal about our contracts, we go through them with our solicitors with a fine-tooth comb. Singers, and bands, have been ripped off because they didn’t read their contracts thoroughly and know their worth. We know how much money we make people, we just make sure we earn more on our careers than anyone can earn off us and by that I mean the big companies that are likely to take advantage of artists like us.”
Tony laughed. “And that’s the way it should be.”
We spoke in depth about the tone of the new album, the writing and recording process for a solid thirty minutes before Southwold was brought back into the conversation.
“It all over Twitter that you guys returned home to Southwold to attend an old teacher’s retirement ceremony, is there truth to that? I mean, we’ve all seen picture evidence and there’s video footage of the paps questioning you, Risk, but that could have been in any location. Like in London, where Nora Maxwell happens to be.”
I snorted. “Nora is shooting a new film. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in months. I’ve said it a million times but we really are just friends. That’s it.”