by Lane Hart
Wishful thinking.
“I take it that’s Bennett Hale?” I ask, pointing to the sleeping man.
“Yep.” Clarke walks over and gives the guy’s shoulder a shake that does absolutely nothing. “Sorry,” Clarke says with a cringe. “He just had a little to drink after we got backstage.”
“It sounded like he was drunk on stage. It sounded like you all were two sheets to the wind up there, except for Davis. What’s going on, guys?” I ask them.
They all remain silent, so I gather my courage and continue on my rant, hoping I look more confident than I feel in this new role. “The record label is losing its patience. You’ve got seven months to come up with some new songs and record them for the second album, or they’re cutting you loose.”
“Good,” grumbles Davis before he meanders over and flops down on an empty leather sofa, taking up the majority of it.
“No, no, no. This is not good!” Clarke mutters as he reaches up with both hands and starts tugging on his short blond hair. “Ugh. Now I can’t breathe.” Reaching into his jeans pocket with a shaking hand, he pulls out an albuterol inhaler and puts it between his lips to take a few puffs.
Well, at least someone is taking this seriously. Maybe too seriously.
“Calm down. You guys still have plenty of time to buckle down and do this,” I assure him before he passes out.
Ford gets to his feet and strolls over to me, all sexy male confidence and attitude. “Sorry to tell you this, babe, but I haven’t been able to write shit in years. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I can’t. So why don’t you go back to your high-rise and tell those fuckers that unless they have a magic wand that they can wave, a new album ain’t gonna happen within a few months.”
With that proclamation, Ford goes over to the door, jerks it open, and leaves, slamming it shut behind him.
“What he said,” Davis grumbles before he gets up and is out the door too.
“Clarke, I know you’re the most reasonable one,” I say, since he’s the only one who hasn’t been an asshole, an arrogant prick, or unconscious during my pep talk. “We have to figure out how to make that magic Ford was talking about, or you’re all going to have to get normal people jobs, myself included. I can’t imagine the four of you have much money left from the first album, right?”
“No, we don’t,” he says when he sits down on the sofa and bends over, placing his head between his legs. His words are muted as he continues, “Ben’s been borrowing from me for weeks now. Davis probably isn’t far behind. Ford will be okay for a while because he’s the front man and has some other promotional shit going on.”
“So tell me, what do you think you guys need to start writing? How can we make the four of you productive and successful again?” I ask.
“I dunno,” he answers from between his legs.
“Anything, Clarke. Just name it, and I have the power to make it happen.”
Lifting his head to look at me with worried but beautiful deep green eyes, he asks, “Anything? Really?”
“Yes. Ask away,” I say, taking a seat beside him. “That’s what I’m here for. Think of me as your very own personal genie. Instead of three wishes, though, you get as many as it takes to get this group back on the path of success.” I rest my palm on his thigh in a show of comfort to calm him down, not just because I wanted to touch him to make sure I’m really sitting here, talking to one of the members of my favorite band.
“Wow, okay,” Clarke says, and his broad, tense shoulders seem to relax a little. His elbows dig into his knees, and he rests his head in his hands. At least that’s better than having his head at his ankles.
“Anything coming to mind?” I ask, giving his thigh a squeeze when he continues to remain silent. “Let’s start with you. What do you need, Clarke?”
Finally, he looks over at me, right in the eye again, and says, “I need things to slow down. Every day, I wake up in a new city, and it’s impossible to think when we’re always on the move. If I’m gonna help Ford write music to new lyrics, I need to be able to catch my breath once in a while.”
Great, now we’re getting somewhere.
“You want to cancel the remaining stops on the tour?” I ask for clarification.
“Yes. And I know that’s not possible, but—”
He pauses midsentence when I pull out my phone from my purse, hit the contact in my favorites, and put it up to my ear.
“What are you doing?” he asks with his light brows drawn together.
“Yes,” Joseph Cole answers the call.
“Hi, Mr. Cole. It’s Tessa. Sorry to bother you so late, but Malus would like to cancel the tour as of today, so you should probably have someone notify all the venues and issue refunds for ticketholders.”
I clench my teeth to brace myself for the silence that follows, wondering if I’ve overstepped my boundaries for this assignment he’s given me.
“Give me a moment,” Mr. Cole tells me.
I’m holding my breath, worried he’ll come back on the line and tell me I’ve lost my mind and that’s not possible. If he does, then I don’t know what we’ll do. The tour doesn’t end until a month before the deadline.
“Okay,” Mr. Cole says, when he finally returns to the phone. “If that’s what they need, then we can cancel, effective today. It’s not like tickets are selling all that great anyway. We’ll make more on the new album and tour than the measly sales over the next few months.”
“That’s great!” I reply. “We’re already making progress, sir.”
“Yes, you are, Tessa.” He pauses briefly. “Do whatever it takes,” he reiterates. “My ass is on the line here too, you know?”
“Thank you, sir, and I understand,” I say, before ending the call.
“Wh-what was that?” Clarke asks, his eyes bulging and mouth gaping.
“I canceled the tour,” I explain with a broad grin. “You’re right, you all need some time to think if you’re gonna produce another great album, and that means getting off the road.”
“Just like that?” he asks. Looking toward the door and then over to the sleeping man, he says, “Shouldn’t you have asked the other guys first what they want to do? Won’t we all lose money?”
“It won’t be much money. Besides, everyone looks like they could use a break more than the cash. Why? Do you think they’ll be upset?” I ask him. From what I’ve read about them, he grew up playing with these guys since they were in high school together.
“No, but…but, the arenas, the fans…” Clarke stammers.
Reaching over to give his knee another comforting pat, I tell him, “They’ll all be taken care of. And believe me, the loss will be worth it once you guys come out with new hits.”
“Yeah, well, what if we can’t?” he asks.
“You will,” I say confidently, even if I have my own doubts. “Whatever it takes, okay? Just ask me, and I’ll take care of it.”
“If you say so,” he replies, as he looks down at my hand and then licks his lips.
“Now, tell me how to get the other three gentlemen where they need to be?”
“Hmm, good luck with that,” Clarke says as he eases back against the cushion, relaxing a smidge more. I’m glad to see the two of us are at least making some progress. “You need to divide and conquer, get the guys alone where they can’t bolt, and make them start talking. That’s our biggest problem. None of us actually talk to each other anymore, even though we’re forced to share a small space on the bus most of the time.”
“Okay, who should I start with?” I ask.
“Ford, then Bennett,” he says with a nod to the sleeping man. “Save Davis for last because he’s gonna be the most difficult. If he knows the others are talking to you and that you’re making improvements, he’ll eventually cave.”
“Okay, great,” I state with a smile, thankful that he’s being helpful. “Where can I find Ford?”
“Well, after we get off stage, he likes to…get off, as you witnessed, a
nd then he always gets high.”
“He uses drugs?” I ask with a wince.
“No, he gets high,” Clarke says, using his index finger to point up to the ceiling. “The ladder is on the far left side of the stage.”
“He likes heights, huh?” I ask with a frown because I absolutely hate them.
“At least he won’t be able to run from you up there,” he replies with a small grin.
“Very true,” I agree as I get to my feet. “Do me a favor? Try and wake up Mr. Hale,” I say, gesturing with my thumb over at Bennett.
“I’ll try my best,” Clarke agrees.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author Lane Hart was born and raised in North Carolina. She continues to live in the south with her husband, two daughters, and several pets named after Star Wars characters.
When Lane's not writing or reading sexy novels, she can be found in the summer on the beaches of the east coast, and in the fall watching football, cheering on the Carolina Panthers.
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