by Sol Crafter, Diana Sheridan, Talya Andor, Lacie J. Archer, Angel Propps
He hated to quit the job, but how could he go on under the present circumstances?
He unburdened himself to Glam, telling her everything that had happened and why it necessitated his leaving her employ. "You can't quit now!" she screeched. "I'm still in the middle of my tour … and besides, we're going to L.A. in three days!"
"Three days? We're not due in L.A. for another month and a half!"
"Michael's booked me on Leno." Michael was her manager. "I absolutely need you. If you must quit working for me, at least stay through L.A."
It wasn't an unreasonable request. It was only fair that he give her time to find a replacement anyhow. He acceded.
That night, sleeping alone in a room of his own, Dale lay restlessly in bed for hours, awake and haunted by thoughts more disturbing than any nightmare. At times he forgot for a moment and reached for the comfort of Luis's absent body. When finally he fell asleep, that sleep was fitful and troubled. He wondered if Luis, too, was having trouble sleeping, if Luis, too, was reaching in the empty bed for a body that wasn't there, if Luis had had second thoughts and was wishing he'd told Roberto he was a few months too late to talk of a reconciliation.
In the morning, Luis looked as bleary eyed as Dale felt, but he said not a word of regret, re-thinking, or apology. They got through the day civilly enough. Luis had been consummately considerate all along, and Dale had no reason to expect any less from him now. It was awkward, however, being thrown together with Luis throughout the day and trying to play it off like everything was normal.
Glam, knowing the circumstances, tried to buck up Dale the best she could. At one point, she squeezed his shoulder and said, "How are you doing?" At another point, she gave him a hug and said, "Hang in there." At still another point, she kissed his cheek in a rare show of tenderness and said, "I appreciate your hanging with me under the circumstances. Thanks." All this only served to make Dale feel worse than ever about leaving her. But what else could he do? Working side by side with Luis under the present circumstances was insufferable.
Somehow he struggled through the three days and flew to L.A. with Glam—and Luis—for her spot on Leno. As usual, she spurned the show's staff hairdresser and make-up artist in favor of Luis, insisting that only he could ready her for her appearance. Dale quailed, wondering what stunt Glam was likely to pull on coast-to-coast TV, but she surprised him by being relatively well-behaved … at least, in comparison to her usual.
"What are you going to sing for us, Glam?" Jay asked her.
"'Love Slammed the Door'," Glam replied.
"Okay. Let's hear it. Here's Glam Gran with 'Love Slammed the Door'."
Glam took center stage and rocked out with a stirring rendition of an end-of-romance story, which was greeted with her usual acclaim by the studio audience. At the close of the song she rejoined Jay, who commented on how much of herself she had put into the song. "You sang it like you really felt it," he said.
"Well, I did!" she replied. "The song has meaning for me, you know?"
"You mean someone was actually foolish enough to leave Glam Gran?" Jay said, a mock-shocked expression twisting his face. "Well, maybe someone who couldn't afford to keep you in rhinestones …" His eyes swept her spangled jumpsuit. "But otherwise …"
"In fifty-eight years, it's bound to happen at least once," Glam said with a shrug.
"Fifty-eight … a lady who tells her age—and without even being asked first!"
"My age is no secret. It's not like you asked me the number of lovers I've had. Actually that's not a secret either—it's just that I can't count that high." Glam cackled.
"And the list includes one who left you? Now, who would be that short-sighted?"
"Well, Jay," she began, "it was some time ago. I was going out with a fellow who had been thrown over by another girl. We saw each other for a while, and I fell in love with him, but one day his old girlfriend called him up and told him she'd been doing some thinking, and she realized she'd been wrong to dump him. She wanted to get back together. Jay, he dropped me faster than a hot coal in order to get back with her. I was hurt, of course. I cried. But I got on with life—obviously. Here I am!" She stood up and threw her arms wide. The audience laughed appreciatively.
Glam sat back down and continued her story. "But you know what? The guy went back to his old girlfriend, and four months later she threw him over once again. Met someone else and dumped him for a second time. He was heartbroken and came crawling back to me, but I'd moved on and met someone else, and I told him he was too late. I got a good song out of the experience, though—the one I sang for you a few minutes ago. I didn't write it till a couple of decades later, but it was that experience that inspired the song."
"I bet the guy was sorry he ever dumped you," Jay said.
"Obviously, the way he came back to me, but you know, Jay, if someone leaves you once, they could do it again. I wasn't going to give him a chance to do it to me twice … especially after I'd met someone else I really liked."
"Glam, hold your thought, but we've got to take a break here," Leno said. "Wow, you really do have a serious side," and then the show cut away to a commercial.
Glam's story resonated with Luis, as he explained to Dale when they were riding in the limo back to the hotel after the taping. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sure of that much. I'm confused about Roberto, but Glam's story made me see the light. Whatever residual feelings I have for him, or thought I had for him, I couldn't trust him now. He could dump me a second time, like that guy did to Glam. How can I give up something definite for a maybe. How could I even have thought about ending our relationship? I'm so sorry! Can you forgive me?"
Dale's answer was a searing kiss that heated up the back of the limousine.
"Spend the night in my room? Tonight and every night—stay with me. Please," Luis implored. He didn't have to ask twice.
"I'll pack my bags and be in your room fifteen minutes after we get back to the hotel," Dale promised.
He didn't really need fifteen minutes to pack his bags, but he wanted to stop in at Glam's room and tell her he wasn't quitting. She smiled knowingly.
"And by the way," Dale added, "whoever the guy was who left you that time was a fool."
"You're the fool if you believed that story. I was making a point—for your benefit."
At that, Dale stood in her doorway and howled with laughter. He laughed so loudly that Luis, in his room down the hall, opened his door and looked out.
"What's so funny?" he called softly down the hall.
Dale, caught short, could only answer, "Glam told me something funny."
"Well, come here and tell me," Luis called.
"I have better things to tell you … like, 'I love you.'"
"Well, come here and tell me that, then."
"I'll do better than tell you. I'll show you."
And he did.
A wall of bodies filled the arena, a sea of screaming fans facing the stage with their arms thrown up and waving. Luminous winks from a thousand phones cast their small, glaring lights like a field of stars across the dark sea of bodies as the crowd swayed to the music that thundered through the stadium.
Bailey Kravitz was in his element, pouring raw energy into his vocals as he clutched his microphone in one hand, balanced on one foot and clinging to the mic stand with the other hand. With the focus of the crowd upon them, all eyes turned on him, Bailey felt like a lens channeling their energy and reflecting it back in the radiance of the music. The instrumentals thrummed through his bones and swept him along toward the chorus.
He grinned fiercely during a guitar bridge, excited for the stage effects yet to come. They'd suffered through a shitty rehearsal and his stomach was bottoming out under the expectation that the effects would fail, again—but if they pulled it off, it was going to be spectacular.
The crowd roared, their bodies flailing wildly, and Bailey couldn't help but give back an excited little air punch, skipping across the stage and kicking a foot out as Tor's gui
tar crescendoed toward the next refrain behind him. He turned his head to grin at Gunner, who sent a sultry smirk his way, rocketing Bailey from simply high into the stratosphere.
Opening their brand-new single at the US Music Awards was a rush like no other, and Bailey was all too happy to seize it with both hands.
His heart quickened when he realized the bass had gone on too long and he'd missed his cue for the refrain. Instead of panicking, Bailey punched the air again and returned to his microphone stand, fitting the mic into the bracket and grasping it with both hands as he waited for the guitar and bass to circle back around to the right place in the rhythm for him to join in.
Inwardly, Bailey was seething. They'd only practiced it a million times; to draw out the song like that at the USMAs was galling. Pushing through, he leveled a brilliant grin at the front row, barely visible to him beyond the blinding lights, and sang his heart out.
Behind him, an explosion of golden stars blossomed across the latticework fixed to the stage, and Bailey kept singing even as the crowd's reaction made him want to grin, so hard.
"You tried," he sang, "but is it good enough—it's up to you; though the way is tough … you tried …"
The screams from the crowd were so loud they pierced the bubble of music he was enclosed in, thanks to his in-ear monitors. When he finished up the last line, the euphoria swelled his chest to the point that Bailey was barely tethered to the ground. He swept a bow and bounced off the stage as the lights cut, leaving everything in sudden darkness.
"We've got another instant hit," Bailey declared, pulling out one of his in-ear monitors as he moved past the wing of the stage into the narrow corridor beyond it. His brow furrowed and he cast a glare over his shoulder at Gunner, their usually-reliable bassist, but current target of his ire. "Would've been better for our first live if you hadn't fucked up my cue."
Gunner's brows rose. "Excuse me? Who missed their cue, Bailey?"
"Guys," Tor interjected, his tone low but carrying. "Press."
Bailey clamped his lips shut. Whatever problems they might be having, he wasn't stupid enough to air it in front of the press. And, of course, they could be expected to be on camera at any turn of the corner at the USMAs.
The reminder came just in time. "Hi! How's it going?" inquired a perky blonde who materialized in front of them with an oversized yellow microphone with 'USM' on it in large, bubble-font letters of three different colors, denoting she was a US Music network personality. "I'm Angela; does Courage Wolf have a moment to do a spot with me?"
Bailey put on his pleasant professional smile. "Of course we do!" he said, matching her enthusiasm level.
"Fantastic!" Angela gushed, gesturing for the four of them to line up beside her. There were tape blocking marks on the ground, as there had been on the stage, and Bailey lined up beside her, checking the camera's position relative to himself to ensure he was in an advantageous spot. "So I'm standing here with Courage Wolf, backstage at the USMAs—"
She pronounced it 'us-mas,' and Bailey kept his smile fixed on his face, giving a slight nod to the camera as it panned in his direction.
"Guys, can you introduce yourselves to our fans who may be less familiar with Courage Wolf's rising star?" Angela invited.
"Sure!" Bailey said gamely. "I'm Bailey Kravitz, our singer and lyricist …"
"Any relation to Lenny?" Angela asked, earnest or deadpan.
Bailey couldn't tell which, but gave her a wide smile and treated it like a legitimate question. "Unfortunately for me, not related, though people keep asking. I can't even play the guitar … " He was about to continue, but Tor spoke up beside him and Bailey resumed his smile.
"I'm Victor, Tor Macleod, guitarist and songwriter," Tor supplied. He dug a thumb into Gunner's ribs.
"Gunner Lansing, bassist," Gunner said briefly, jerking his head in Sasha's direction.
"Sasha Guzina," Sasha said. "Drums for Courage Wolf. You know, heart of the band."
"Great!" Angela said. "Thank you. So, Courage Wolf. That's a fun name for a band; where did it come from?"
"Everyone asks us that!" Bailey said with a dazzling, dimpled smile that in no way showed how tired he was with the question. "It's an Internet meme. A lot of our songs are mash-ups of Internet memes, actually."
"That's right!" Angela interjected. "In fact, your homemade video, self-titled Courage Wolf, went viral and that was what brought you crashing into the music industry, is that right?"
"Well," Bailey said with a deprecating gesture. "More or less? We got signed by a major label, and we've been selling well enough that we've been able to do what we love ever since."
"And those sales seem ensured by a rabid fanbase online," Angela supplied with a grin.
"Oh, stay away from the Internet," Sasha said, straight-faced. "I wouldn't poke it with a stick. It bites back."
"Seriously though, we love all of our fans," Bailey said, returning to safer territory. "We're so grateful to them for all of the voting they've done, all of the support they've given us, that has allowed us to come this far."
"So, what do you say to the people who are less than fans, your detractors who call you out as hipsters, manufactured, or—the horror—a misfired boyband?" Angela said, making a face.
Bailey couldn't tell if it was apologetic, or if she was trying to slip the question in on her own agenda. They'd dealt with a lot of two-faced interviewers over the past few years.
"I'd say they're jealous," Tor replied when Bailey held his breath, stewing. It was Tor's turn to flash one of his rarer, but no less dazzling, smiles at the camera. "And it's pretty telling that a so-called 'one-hit wonder' band has had over twelve songs debut in Billboard's top ten."
"Enough said!" Angela said brightly. "Thanks for your time."
Bailey stalked down the hallway, keeping a grin fixed firmly in place that was more like a rictus now. The moment they reached their dressing room, he shoved the door open hard enough for the knob to crack against the wall. Storming into the middle of the room, he swung around to glare at Gunner. "You dropped a note, and I missed my cue!" Bailey accused, leveling a finger at him.
Gunner swelled up, his face going red.
"No, he didn't," Tor interjected, quiet but forceful. "Fair's fair, Bailey. You were crowd-dazzled again; it's understandable, performing a new song at such a big show."
Bailey turned toward Tor, compressing his lips. He was still angry, but didn't dare unleash its full force on Tor the way he did with Gunner, who always fought back. "I wasn't dazzled," he protested.
"Okay," Tor said, accepting it. "Let's make our quick change, all right?"
Bailey took the hint and dropped it, but not without a dire sidewise glance for Gunner. Although he was a perfectionist, he wasn't petty enough to want to ruin the high for everyone. Fresh off a stage show, he tended to nitpick and be critical, and Tor kept the peace when Bailey would otherwise blow up at everyone just because he was angry at himself.
He frowned over his shoulder as Tor left the room while he scrambled into his second outfit for the evening. His attention turned quickly to his own appearance, though, because he didn't have much time and everything had to be perfect. He was tall and lanky, some might say too reedy, and used fashion to clothe his figure to advantage. He had black hair that varied in length depending on the year and his mood, currently long enough to style up or keep loose around his face as it was that night.
Tor emerged from the closet sized bathroom pulling his sandy ponytail out of his form-fitting shirt as Bailey was smoothing a hand down the front of his immaculate charcoal blouse with its silver threads, casting a critical eye over Gunner and Sasha.
"Band T-shirts again, really?" he said disdainfully. They were both good looking enough: Gunner had a long sweep of hair reminiscent of hot bassists from other eras and a tight well-muscled body, and Sasha had a plain broad face but the sweetest rare smile as well as a stocky physique that earned him his share of admirers. Yet despite those good looks, they refused
to let him improve their choice of dress.
"Chill, Bailey," Sasha replied. "You're never going to get us into haute couture, so may as well stop trying."
"Yeah, you can't turn us into Bailey clones," Gunner added.
"Don't you both wish—" Bailey began.
"Enough," Tor said, taking Bailey's elbow and steering him toward the dressing room door. He, at least, dressed to a standard Bailey couldn't complain about, in a clinging blue shirt that went well with his hazel eyes, and slacks over motorcycle boots. "We've got an award to lose, am I right?"
"I know, right?" Bailey quipped, shifting himself forcibly into a more upbeat mode. It was nerves, he told himself, but it was more than that. Gunner was so oblivious. He just didn't get it, and it was driving Bailey wild. He had to put that aside for now.
For every award they'd been nominated, they had a kind of ritual, treating it as a sure loss rather than a sure thing. From their humble beginnings, Courage Wolf had been a long shot. Their fan-driven wins had been a surprise to all of them, pushing them so far up into USM's visibility, along with VidTube, that they'd ultimately drawn the attention of some important players in the music production world.
Within their group, they never believed in the win until their names appeared as the winners. It was like a dream, and even though they'd come so far, Bailey still thought it could all end overnight. That wasn't so terribly implausible, after all. They tried to present themselves as fresh rather than cynical, though. Bailey was certain the fans responded better to that approach.