by Bec Linder
The breakfast setup was impressive: the usual bagels and cold cereal, plus made-to-order omelets, oatmeal, pastries, and what smelled like surprisingly decent coffee. She got an omelet and a a little plate of fruit and went into the dining room to sit down.
Andrew was there, sitting by himself in a corner. He was hunched over a notebook, scribbling furiously, a cup of coffee beside him and a plate with a half-eaten croissant. Leah hesitated in the doorway, hovering, torn between the impulse to go back to her room and the guilty urge to clear the air.
You’re a grownup, she told herself sternly. Grownups didn’t avoid unpleasant conversations. They seized the bull by the horns.
God.
She crossed the room to Andrew’s table. “Mind if I sit here?”
He glanced up and saw her, raised one eyebrow. “Go ahead.” Then he bent his head to his notebook again and went right on scribbling.
Well. Okay. This was horrifically awkward. Sheer stubbornness led Leah to set her tray on the table and sit down across from Andrew. He kept scribbling. Leah’s face burned. She should have just gone back up to her room and avoided this entire situation. She forced herself to eat her omelet in slow, deliberate bites, like she had terrible, silent, tension-filled breakfasts every day of the week. If Andrew wanted to play power games, she wasn’t going to let him win.
After a few minutes, he pushed his notebook aside and set down his pen. “Sorry,” he said. “I wanted to get that all down before I forgot.”
Andrew, apologizing? Leah took a hasty sip of coffee to mask her confusion. “Uh, writing song lyrics?”
“Yeah,” he said. “The label’s already hassling us about the next album.”
“Wow,” Leah said, and then couldn’t think of anything else to say. She wished Luka were there. He always knew how to make small talk. Andrew leaned back in his chair, sipping his own coffee and giving her a flat, assessing look. Leah pushed a piece of omelet around her plate. “So, uh,” she said finally. “About yesterday. I wanted to apologize for—uh, losing my temper and storming out like that. It was really unprofessional.”
“I was out of line,” Andrew said, which was Leah’s second big shock of the last three minutes. Her limited interactions with Andrew, and everyone else’s warnings about him, had given her the impression that he was a grade-A irredeemable asshole, not even worth the effort of interacting with on a regular basis. But here he was speaking calmly with her, and even apologizing. Now she wasn’t sure what to think. “I was, uh. Sean likes to gossip. I was curious. I didn’t realize—”
“It’s okay,” Leah said, cutting him off. She didn’t want to go into the particulars. “No hard feelings. I know people are going to ask about it. I need to stop being so sensitive.”
“You were close with him,” Andrew said, his eyebrows indicating that he was asking a question. “Your lead singer.”
“Yeah,” Leah said. Close didn’t begin to describe her relationship with Corey, but she wasn’t about to spill all her dirty, miserable, heart-wrenching secrets over free hotel breakfast. And especially not to Andrew, who maybe wasn’t actually the devil but still didn’t strike her as a particularly reliable or trustworthy person. “Anyway. That’s all over now. Can I see what you’re working on? Unless it’s private—”
“It’s not,” Andrew said. “It’ll probably be on the next album, unless the label decides, again, that my lyrics need to be less ‘obscure’ and more ‘accessible.’” He made finger-quotes around obscure and accessible, and rolled his eyes in a way that made Leah think he had met with the same hard-eyed record execs who had come sniffing around wanting to sign Rung.
“Your lyrics are beautiful,” Leah blurted, and then winced. She didn’t want to come off as a fawning sycophant. He probably got plenty of that from his adoring fans.
But Andrew blushed and rounded his shoulders forward, looking shy. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “The label asked me to sort of tone it down on the album—some of it’s pretty trite—”
“I think they’re beautiful,” Leah said again, more firmly this time. “And I’d love to see what you’re working on now.” Shit, were she and Andrew making friends? Were they going to be friends? Weird, but better than being enemies.
“Well, here,” Andrew said, and slid the notebook across the table. “It’s nothing much—a few scribbles—”
It was so strange to see him, Famous Rock God, acting like a bashful teenager. Well, everyone had their weak points; now that she had seen his soft underbelly, maybe she didn’t have to worry about him being a jerk.
She bent her head to the notebook. Andrew’s handwriting was surprisingly tidy, but it still took her a moment to decipher his cursive scrawl. I know they say that grace will lay its golden hand upon your brow, she read, and that will be your comfort when the storms begin to rage. But here on earth—and then a few lines scratched out with thick black lines—here on earth we only speak in words, and love reveals its tongue by crying louder than the squall: the pulse, the beat, the pulse of rushing blood.
“It isn’t a song yet,” Andrew said, apologizing now for something he had done right.
“It will be,” Leah said. She saw what he meant; some of the phrasing was awkward, and the meter broke down in the second-to-last line. It needed work. But still. “Keep going. I want to read the rest of it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Soundcheck was, to put it bluntly, a disaster.
James and O’Connor both showed up at the arena a few minutes ahead of time, looking pissed. A knot of tension tied itself around the base of Leah’s spine. Jeff, who was crouched on the stage beside her, fiddling with the connection to her guitar, murmured, “Bad news.” He sighed, and glanced up at Leah. “Don’t let them derail soundcheck. This is for you. You haven’t played with the band before. Tell them to put their dicks away and stick to business.”
“Right,” Leah said, thinking that Jeff was seriously overestimating her chutzpah. “Okay.”
She had walked to the arena with the roadies for load-in. They wouldn’t let her touch anything—said she didn’t know where anything was supposed to go—so she had sat in the shade and called Luka, and watched the stage taking shape on the field below. She had thought the band’s crew would do everything, but instead a small army of local arena employees had descended on the field to set up barriers and seats, wire up the sound booth, and help with the rigging. Stage construction had begun several days ago, and only the finishing touches remained. The whole production was choreographed as carefully as any ballet. It was pretty impressive.
She and Jeff were friends now, maybe. He seemed to think she needed guidance and wisdom, which she was happy to accept. He had spent the last hour working with her to get her guitar to play nice with the sound system. She felt better knowing that her instrument, at least, wouldn’t let her down.
She wasn’t so sure about the other humans involved in the process.
James and O’Connor climbed the steps onto the stage and bee-lined for their respective instruments. O’Connor met her gaze and flexed his mouth in a tight, humorless smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
Leah let out a low whistle. No sign of Andrew, and the other two were pissed—she could put two and two together.
“Don’t sweat it,” Jeff said. “This happens a lot.”
Great. So she could look forward to this level of tension for the rest of the tour.
Several minutes passed. O’Connor’s guitar emitted a terrible squeal of feedback, and the roadies erupted into good-natured shit-talking. The back of Leah’s neck itched. Her T-shirt, damp with sweat, clung to the small of her back. It was hot as hell. She couldn’t wait for the sun to go down. O’Connor was wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts that kind of stretched the limits of what Leah thought it was appropriate for a man to wear. He had good legs, though: muscular and not too hairy. His shoulders were lightly freckled. She remembered what those muscles felt like beneath her hands.
Oh, God.
Jeff
adjusted her amp again, played a few notes, and nodded. “You’re all set.” He stood up and cracked his knuckles. “I’m going for a cold one. See you later. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Leah said weakly. Most of the other roadies had already bailed, except for a few of the sound and lighting people.
James rattled his drumsticks against his snare. Leah turned to look at him, and he raised his eyebrows at her. She rose from her crouch and crossed the stage to the low platform where his kit was set up. “Are we starting?”
He nodded toward O’Connor, who was talking with one of the roadies. “FOH’s chatting with O’Connor. We’ll get started pretty soon.” He raised his eyebrows again. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” Leah said. She would never admit to being worried. That was unprofessional. “I had an interesting afternoon.”
James grinned. “Yeah, load-in is intense with these arena shows. Not like playing at a little club.”
“No,” Leah said. She was used to hauling her own gear, and making do with whatever sound and lighting equipment came hard-wired with the venue. The elaborate rigging the crew had erected around the stage was like nothing she had ever seen.
“Fuck,” James said for no apparent reason, his eyes catching on something past Leah’s shoulder.
Leah turned, following the direction of his gaze, and saw Andrew climbing onto the stage, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Rushani was a few steps behind him. She didn’t look happy.
“Soundcheck in five,” yelled the roadie who had been talking to O’Connor—the front of house engineer. Leah couldn’t remember his name.
O’Connor leaned forward and spoke into the microphone set up in front of him. “Nice of you to join us, Andrew.” His voice reverberated through the stadium and ended in a feedback whine.
“Shut up until I get into the booth,” the FOH yelled, clattering down the steps onto the field.
O’Connor covered the microphone with one hand. “Rushani?”
“Andrew is very sorry,” Rushani said. “He’s going to do his job now.”
“Andrew is standing right here,” Andrew snarled.
Leah shot an inquisitive glance at O’Connor. He shrugged and shook his head: later.
“I’m, uh, I’m looking forward to running through some of these songs,” Leah said, hoping to derail the drama train.
“What a good little worker bee you are,” Andrew said, poisonously sweet, and Leah flinched back. She had thought they’d developed a rapport over breakfast, but obviously not. Okay.
“Shut up, Andrew,” James said, sounding weary.
“Okay, James,” the FOH guy said from the mixing booth, “give me a run on your kit.”
Checking everyone’s setup didn’t take long. The roadies clearly knew what they were doing, and once Rinna fixed the problem with O’Connor’s monitor, the remaining tests went smoothly. Leah’s ear monitor didn’t fit quite right, but it was too late to do anything about it for that night’s show. Rinna said she would see about a repair or replacement before the next show. Leah spent a while zoning out and staring at O’Connor’s shoulders, until he caught her looking and winked. She blushed and looked away.
Andrew stood slumped in front of his microphone, staring at the stage between his feet. When the FOH cued him to play something, he strummed a single, desultory note and then refused to play another, even after the FOH asked him several times. Only when Rushani took a menacing step in Andrew’s direction did he comply and play a few chords.
Fuck. This just kept getting better and better.
“Okay, why don’t you run through a full song,” the FOH said.
Everyone looked at Andrew, who didn’t look up or react in any way.
James cleared his throat. “Let’s start at the top of the setlist,” he said, raising his voice so they could all hear him. He didn’t have a mic. “First song.”
Leah glanced down at the laminated page taped to the stage at her feet. “A Blow to the Head” was the first song on the list. O’Connor counted them off—one, two, three—and James set the beat on his toms, and they were off.
Andrew finally came to life, took his mic in one hand, and sang like he meant it. He had a good voice, low and heartfelt, and Leah could see why the fans loved him. He sang with a sort of intensity that couldn’t be faked—like every word mattered to him.
But Leah couldn’t afford to spend too much time thinking about Andrew’s appeal. She needed to focus on playing. She still didn’t know the songs as well as she would have liked, and she flubbed a few notes here and there. She was able to cover it up, and she didn’t think anyone would notice during the show, but she didn’t like making mistakes. She would have to speak with Rushani about getting some more practice time.
The song drew to a close. O’Connor played a final chord. Leah let out a long breath. That had gone pretty well.
Then Andrew took off his guitar and dropped it on the stage. It bounced once and slid backwards toward Leah. The strings scraped along the surface of the stage, releasing a discordant squeal that echoed through the stadium.
“Hey, what the fuck,” Rinna yelled.
“I’m going back to the hotel,” Andrew said.
He didn’t storm off the stage. He slouched, hands in his pockets. Nobody moved to stop him. They were all frozen, stunned by the sudden violence of his action.
The guitar came to a stop at Leah’s feet. Without thinking, she reached down and picked it up.
Rinna came loping over. “Is it damaged? Fucking Andrew, it’s not like these things grow on trees—”
“I think it’s fine,” Leah said, handing it over.
Andrew’s feet touched the plastic flooring that covered the field’s turf. As if that were the cue she had been waiting for, Rushani snapped out of her stupor and followed after him. James got up too, threw his drumsticks to the stage in disgust, and went after them both.
“Guys,” the FOH said from his booth. “Guys?”
O’Connor snorted and turned to face Leah, who was standing slightly behind him and to his right. “They won’t be back.”
“Well,” Leah said. She thought of the notes she had missed, magnified to an entire album’s worth of songs. She stood there near middle of the stage, her guitar strapped to her body, and looked up at the blank Jumbotron screens and the glass-walled tower of suites, the washed-out sky overhead. In a few hours hours, the entire stadium would be filled with screaming fans, all of them watching the stage, watching her, expecting something out of the ordinary. Something worth remembering. There was no way the fans wouldn’t notice if she consistently made errors throughout the concert. “So what do we do?”
“Keep practicing,” O’Connor said. “We’ll go through the whole setlist, if we have time before Timory’s soundcheck.”
“Right,” Leah said. “I still haven’t met her. Timory.”
O’Connor nodded. “She’s cool. We’ll have dinner with her and her band, probably. If Andrew gets over himself by then.”
“What happened?” Leah asked. She didn’t want to know, but she also didn’t want to step on any land mines.
“Stupid bullshit,” O’Connor said, and rubbed his face. “We had a phone interview with a local radio station. Andrew melted down on-air. He’ll pull it together for the show tonight.”
“Okay,” Leah said.
“Probably,” O’Connor said.
“Guys?” the FOH asked. “What’s going on?”
O’Connor leaned forward and spoke into his mic. “We’ll finish the setlist, Dave.” He nodded at Leah. “Ready? ‘Mise-en-Scene.’”
Leah returned his nod. She placed her fingers on the strings, and she played the first chord.
* * *
The sun sank toward the horizon. Leah stood backstage and watched the audience trickle slowly into their seats. Security guards directed traffic and cast quelling glances at rowdy teenagers. The floor in front of the stage filled up quickly, and Leah had to admire the dedication of fa
ns who would stand there for hours until the Saving Graces performed.
“What do you think?”
Leah turned and smiled at Rushani, who had come up behind her. “A little overwhelming.”
“Yeah. You should have seen the guys during their first arena tour. Constant freaking out. Don’t let them fool you with the way they act all nonchalant about it now.” She pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen. “Right. Food’s here, if you’d like to eat.”
“I guess I should,” Leah said, although she was too nervous to be hungry.
She followed Rushani into the subterranean concrete maze of corridors that lay beneath the stadium. The “dressing room” was actually a suite of connected rooms that opened off a sitting area comfortably appointed with leather couches and armchairs. Catering had set up long tables against one wall and laid out an impressive spread of sandwich fixings, salad, chips and dip, fresh fruit, granola bars—enough food to feed an army for a week. Most of the roadies were there, stuffing their faces, along with James, and a few people she didn’t recognize.
One of them, a tiny red-haired woman, approached with a smile and an outstretched hand. “You must be Leah,” she said. “I’m Timory.”
Right: the opening act. Leah shook hands with her. “It’s great to meet you. I’m looking forward to watching your set.”
Timory laughed. It didn’t sound very genuine. “You’re so sweet. Rushani, she’s just the sweetest thing!”
Leah decided she didn’t like Timory very much. Sweet?
She made herself a plate of food and sat down beside James, who looked up from his food only long enough to grunt a greeting at her. Fine with her; she didn’t feel like talking, either. She ate mechanically, tasting nothing. It was 7:30. Timory’s set started at 8:00, and the Saving Graces would be on stage at 9:00. Not long now.
O’Connor came into the room just as she was finished eating and getting ready to leave. He came over to her, smiling, holding a bag of chips in one hand and a beer in the other. He was still wearing his tank top and those stupid shorts. Leah felt better about her own outfit—her usual uniform of a T-shirt and slouchy jeans. If O’Connor was going on stage wearing that, she had nothing to worry about.