Along for the Ride

by Katrina Abbott

  “So are you going to go for him?” she asked.

  I screwed up my face. “What? No!”

  She glanced at me and rolled her eyes. “He’s no less hot than he was when you first hooked up with him.” She shrugged. “In fact, I’d bet money that he’s even hotter now. Plus, you’re not going on tour; you’re wide open to date him.”

  “Uh, need I remind you I hate musicians?” I said, not touching the part about him being hotter now because the last thing I wanted to do was have to agree with her and I couldn’t truthfully deny it. Not even a little.

  She smirked at me. “No, you don’t.”

  “Whatever,” I said, not wanting to get into an argument with her on 7th Avenue before the sun was even up. I was way too tired for arguments. Especially ones I wasn’t entirely sure I could win.

  “He is hot, though,” she said, an unnecessary reminder.

  Not responding, I answered in my head.

  Not that she needed me to participate in her conversation. “They all are, of course.” She sighed. “I just…”

  She seemed to stall out, making me look over at her. “What?”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she leaned in close and said, “I really don’t like Max.”

  “Why not?” Though I needn’t have bothered asking. He was so broody, which was attractive on the stage, I guess, but trying to have a conversation with the guy was like pulling teeth. Not that I’d been around him much, but it didn’t take long to figure out he would never win a social butterfly contest.

  With how busy they’d been, I still hadn’t gotten his story from my dad, but it was odd that he’d thought Max wasn’t really into being in the band. They must have spoken about it, and Max had obviously decided to stick around. He certainly seemed committed enough, if not overly social. Or friendly.

  Sandy shrugged. “He’s just such a downer all the time.”

  “Maybe he’s just not outgoing,” I suggested. “He’s got that broody thing going on, but maybe he’s just an introvert.”

  “I guess,” she said just as we came to the door of the deli and stopped to look over at me. “And usually I’m all into that smoldering broody thing, but he’s a jerk. I tried to get him to talk yesterday, and he just shut me down. He didn’t want to do the interview; like he looks down on me or something. Not to mention that he always has a sour expression on his face.” She made an exaggerated sad face. “Poor Max. did someone drown your puppy?”

  I opened my mouth to tell her to keep her voice down but never got the chance. An arm reached around us to grab the door handle.

  “Puppy?” My heart fell into my stomach as I recognized Max’s voice. “No. My puppy’s fine. It’s my girlfriend who’s dead, though she died in a car crash, not from drowning. Oh, and I was driving the car. Maybe that’s why I always have a sour expression, you spoiled little brat.” Sandy gasped, and I froze in horror, but he went on. “So yeah, how’s that for a juicy tidbit to go in your blog? That’s what you’ve been hoping for, isn’t it?”

  Not waiting for an answer, he muttered something about not even wanting to be there, pulled open the door and angled himself between us to go inside while Sandy and I just stared at each other, slack-jawed.

  “What just happened?” Sandy whispered.

  Two seconds later, before I had a chance to even formulate a response, Andres was there.

  He obviously hadn’t heard, though. “Going in?” he asked casually; we were blocking the door.

  I looked at Sandy, questioning her with my eyes, because the last thing I wanted to do was go in there now.

  She clearly felt the same. “No, I don’t think so,” she said, tears pooling in her eyes.

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw Darren, Dave, and Graeme walking up, laughing and chatting.

  I looked up at Andres, “Can you tell my dad Sandy isn’t feeling well and I took her home?”

  Andres looked between us and then nodded, though he looked confused. “You okay?” he said to Sandy, but without responding, she ducked away from him toward the curb, her hand in the air, waving for a cab.

  Without another word, I followed her to the street. We kept our backs to the deli, but I heard my name.

  I looked over my shoulder at Dave. “What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned. With all the street noise, as the morning rush hour was upon us, I couldn’t hear his voice as much as see his lips moving.

  “Nothing,” I managed, shaking my head in case he couldn’t hear me, and then pointed my chin toward the restaurant. “Go eat. We’re going back to the condo.”

  Thankfully, just then, a cab pulled up and we climbed in. Sandy managed to hold out until I gave the driver my address. That’s when she burst into tears.

  “I can’t go,” Sandy said once we were in the condo, well, barely in the condo; I hadn’t even shut the door yet. “I can’t go on tour. It’s as simple as that. I can’t. I guess we’ll just do the Hamptons thing after all. Like you wanted. Or maybe I’ll just go meet my parents in Italy. I don’t know, Nessa! But I do know I can’t go on tour!” She was in hyper-panic mode, now that she seemed to be done with the weeping-incoherently phase. I’d seen her like this before, but not quite as manic as this. This thing with Max had taken her freaked out babbling to a whole new level.

  “What do you mean, you can’t go on tour?” I tucked my keys into my bag and put it on the coffee table before I dropped onto the sofa. I patted the empty spot beside me. “Come sit down.”

  She ignored me and paced the living room, going from one end to the other behind the big leather sofa across from the one I was sitting on. While the pacing was annoying, I was thankful that at least she’d finally stopped crying and was now capable of speaking. “He hates my guts,” she blurted out. “I was a heinous, stuck-up bitch, and he totally hates my guts.”

  “So apologize,” I suggested. “He’ll get over it. You can’t bail on tour, Sandy.”

  She stopped pacing and faced me, incredulous. “Don’t you get it? I can—and will—apologize, but you heard him. He hates me. The whole point of going on tour was to get in tight with the band, be the behind the scenes, full-access girl. I can’t do that now.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but then her eyes widened even more.

  “What?”

  “Wait. Is he going to quit the band now?” she said in a whisper. “Because of me? Oh my God, I…what am I going to do? Your father is going to lose his mind.”

  The whole cab ride home, I’d worried the same thing about Max, especially after my father’d said he suspected Max didn’t even want to be in the band, but there was no reason to work her up even more now. “No, he’s not going to quit the band. Tony will talk to him.” I hoped. “And you’re not quitting, either. You’re tougher than that; don’t let what he said get to you.”

  She stared at me, blinking, before she said, “Are you kidding? Did you not hear him?”

  “Yes. But I’m sure he lashed out because he was insulted. You’ll smooth it over. I can’t think those interpersonal skills coaching sessions my father paid for have all been for nothing.”

  She failed to see humor in my joke.

  “Sandy,” I said, getting up off the couch so I could wrap her into a hug. “He was just upset. He doesn’t hate you.”

  “He should,” she said into my hair and then pulled back with a sigh as she wiped a stray tear off her cheek. “Did you know that about him? The part about the accident?”

  “No,” I shook my head. “My dad said he thought he’d been coerced into joining the band by his family, but he never mentioned any sort of accident. Though he had to know about it—he does full background checks, so there aren’t any surprises when the band breaks into the media.”

  “Well it was a surprise to me,” she said with a scowl. “If I’m supposed to be covering them, shouldn’t I have been told?”

  I didn’t blame her for her anger at being blindsided. I nodded, “We’ll talk to my dad about it. We’ll get this worked out and you�
�re going on tour,” I said, looking into her eyes intently. “Right?”

  “I guess.” She exhaled and nodded. “Okay, yes. But it would be so much better if you were coming, Nessa.”

  I pressed my lips together as she went on. “I know, I know. You aren’t going on tour, blah, blah, blah. You hate musicians and won’t date Andres for some baffling reason, even though you two obviously have a ton of chemistry.”

  I opened my mouth, but she held up a hand, stopping my response. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all already. Whatever, I’m zonked; going for a nap.” She waved me off and didn’t even give me a chance to say two words before she turned and disappeared down the hall toward her room.

  Pineapple Does Belong on Pizza

  “You’re right,” Dad said to Sandy who sat across the glass dining room table from him. It was that night, and we were in the condo at the dining room table eating dinner, which was pizza I’d ordered for the four of us (Sandy, him, Linda, and me). The boys had been given the rest of the afternoon and evening off after the long day that included the photo shoot, practice, and more pre-tour prep.

  Dad said they were exhausted and deserved some time off, but by the look of the bags under his eyes and the way he was moving so slowly, it was obvious it wasn’t just the boys who were run down. Still, he’d brought Linda with him so they could debrief the day and get ready for the next.

  “I should have told you when you signed on,” he went on, getting a slice of pizza from the box and putting it down on his plate before he looked pointedly at my best friend. Except he wasn’t looking at her like she was his teenage daughter’s best friend; he was looking at her like she was a professional—someone on his team that he’d wronged. “If it helps, I was going to tell you before tour started; I was just trying to find the best time and the right way. I’ve been consulting with legal and my publicity team on this since it’s something of a sensitive issue and we were figuring out how to handle it. But I am sorry to have kept you in the dark.”

  I looked at Sandy, who looked slightly less murderous than she had even a few minutes ago, but was still pissed.

  Linda must have read that, too. “We need to figure out the right angle with Max,” she said, and then added, “One that he would agree to. This is very hard for him, understandably.”

  That last part said a lot. “He doesn’t want any of it out there,” I said.

  My father shook his head. “No. And I can hardly blame him; it’s still very fresh—the accident was only a few months ago. But it’s going to come out whether we want it to or not. Best we manage it out of the gate so the media can’t spin it their way.”

  “So what’s his deal?” I asked. “If he doesn’t want to be in the band, why is he?”

  Dad pulled chunks of pineapple off his pizza and made a pile on the side of his plate. “At first, when he auditioned, he was completely into it—enthusiastic, if you believe it—and accepted the spot right away when I called him to make the offer.” He took a deep breath as he looked down at the food in front of him, grimacing at it like he’d suddenly lost his appetite. “He was a nice kid, if a bit quiet, when he auditioned. But really talented and of course, what I was looking for. Anyway, he and his girlfriend were out celebrating when they were hit by a drunk driver—t-boned on the passenger side. She was killed instantly.”

  Sandy gasped. My heart ached as I pressed my palm to my chest. What a horrible thing to have happened to her. To him. I said so.

  Dad looked up at me and nodded. “It is. A terrible tragedy. After that, Max didn’t want to join the band. He felt responsible for what had happened to her—if they hadn’t been out celebrating that night, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Had he been drinking?” I asked.

  “No,” Dad said. “He wasn’t responsible for the accident at all. He didn’t do anything wrong—I’ve even had my own lawyers look into what happened and everyone is confident that he’s not at all culpable, except in his own mind. It was just a terrible thing caused by some irresponsible jerk who decided to drink and drive.”

  “Is the other guy in jail at least?” Sandy asked.

  Dad nodded. “He’s admitted to everything. It probably won’t even go to trial.” He finally picked up his pizza and folded it like a taco before he took a bite.

  “I feel so horrible,” Sandy said. “I should have been more sensitive. I’m sure he hates me.”

  Neither Dad nor Linda disagreed with her, but at least Linda said, “We’ve spoken to him and it’s not going to be an issue for you to continue as planned.” Not exactly the warm and fuzzy endorsement Sandy was probably hoping for, but at least Dad wasn’t changing his mind about her following the band. Not that I ever thought he would, but if Max had put up a really big fight…

  Sandy nodded, reaching for her Perrier bottle. She took a sip from it and then said, “What about the interviews? I was hoping to do those in the next couple of days before tour.”

  “You can do the rest of the boys’. But for Max, give us a few days; we’re going to work on that offline,” Linda said. “We want to manage this in a way that will get the story out ahead of the media and we need to really make sure that even if he feels responsible, he can’t ever say that publicly or he’s opening himself up to a whole host of legal issues. We’ve also explained to him that the sooner we get the story out, the sooner it will fade into the background, so we might convince him that doing a candid interview with you is a good idea.”

  Sandy cringed.

  “He understands that we need to frame it our way and in a way that he doesn’t make him look guilty of something he isn’t—we need to keep him protected, but also our own butts, too,” Dad added. “We just need some more time with him. It’s obviously very difficult.”

  No one could argue with that.

  After we all chewed in relative silence for a few minutes, Sandy said, “It’s going to make him more attractive, you know.”

  Dad nodded, not bothering to pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about. “Yes. Not that we would ever wish for something so tragic to happen, and I’m so sorry it did, but yes, it will arouse sympathy in the media and in fans. That’s another thing we’re preparing for.”

  “Has he been to a shrink?” I asked.

  “We’ve offered,” Linda said, her eyebrows bunching together into a frown. “So far, he hasn’t wanted to talk to anyone, but he knows the offer stands. That includes mid-tour, too. We want him to be well. And even if that means…” she frowned and looked at my dad.

  “We have a backup bass player, if necessary, but we hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said.

  “I need to apologize to him.” Sandy suddenly pushed her chair back from the table. “Are they in their condo?”

  “I don’t know,” Linda said, looking at my dad again.

  He shrugged. “I think they were going out to let off some steam.”

  Sandy grabbed her pizza slice and took a big bite of it before she headed to the door and slid into a pair of sandals. “I’ll go check. I need to get this off my chest, or I’ll never sleep tonight.”

  Once the front door clicked closed behind her, I looked at my dad. “She really does feel bad.”

  “I know. Sometimes she speaks before she thinks, and I explained that. Still, there was some truth behind her response to him, and I suggested he take it constructively—he can come across aloof and like a jerk sometimes. He needs to be aware and manage that because appearances are very important.”

  “And even though we’re going to get in front of the media, he’s going to have to deal with a lot worse than Sandy’s criticism,” Linda said, reaching for the bowl of salad and transferring some to her plate with the tongs. “They’ll be fine, though. He is a nice kid underneath it all.”

  I had yet to see that part of Max myself but trusted that Linda and my dad knew what they were doing.

  Dad let out a long sigh all of a sudden.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I
meant to get out a bottle of Chianti, but I’m actually too tired to get it.” He gave me a tired smile. “These long days get harder as I get older.”

  Linda put her hands on the table and started to push her chair back. “No,” Dad said before she could get up, “don’t worry about it.” Although maybe it wasn’t his words that stopped her as much as the hand he’d laid over hers.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, popping up out of my chair, pretending I hadn’t seen that he’d touched her. And that his hand had seemed to linger even after she’d adjusted back into her seat.

  Hmmm. That’s an interesting development, I thought. Or maybe he was just tired and didn’t realize what he was doing—they had worked together forever, after all, so they were definitely comfortable with each other. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but smile as I turned toward the kitchen and took my time getting the wine and a couple of glasses.

  An hour later, I was in the bath when my phone sounded that I had a text message. Sandy still wasn’t back (which was either very good news or very bad news), so I was a little surprised to see it was from Dave and not her.

  I wiped my hands on the towel that hung on the rack beside the tub and wondered what he’d think if he knew how many times I’d texted him from the bathroom. Not that I was about to tell him, it was just kind of funny that he seemed to get me when I was bathing. Or maybe I just took a lot of baths.

  The smile on my face dissolved when I read his message: Are you avoiding me?

  The question caught me so off guard that I blinked down at the phone, checking the name at the top of the screen, just to be sure. Nope, it was definitely him.

  No, I sent back. Why?

  You and Sandy took off after the shoot. I was worried it was weird between us.

  I snorted and typed back a message immediately. The shoot was weird. But no. not avoiding you. Sandy was avoiding max. they had words on the way to the deli.

  Ah, explains why she showed up here.

  They still talking? I asked.