by Elle Greco
“Yeah?” Presley raised her eyebrow. “Doing what?”
“A little of everything,” he said. “Trying to see where I fit.”
“Sort of like an intern?” she pressed.
He turned crimson and kept his focus on my knee. “That’s how I started.”
“How’s the cut?” I asked, steering Presley away from the conversation. She was trying to play matchmaker. Every time she did that, it blew up in my face. Not her face. My face. “I don’t see any oozy pus.”
The edge of Presley’s lip lifted in a sneer. “You are gross.” She started preening on the other end of the couch, sitting delicately on the arm, composing her next selfie.
“No oozy puss,” Jordan said with a laugh. “Looks pretty good. It’s starting to scab up, which is what you want. I’ll replace the bandage now, but in a day or so, the scab will be all you need. Unless you’re a picker?”
Presley shuddered hard enough to shake the couch.
“Not a picker,” I said, circling my wrists. Little needle pricks shot up both arms at the movement.
Jordan replaced the bandage and then watched me for a second. “Your arms okay?”
“Yeah, just trying to keep ’em warm for the Rogue set.”
“You need any anti-inflammatories or anything?” he asked.
“I’m all good,” I said. “Thanks though.”
“Find me after your set if you need them,” he said. “Your arms take a beating out there. Kyle battled tendinitis at every damn studio session.”
Jett picked her head up from her book. “He did?”
Jordan looked up from packing his gear. “You didn’t know?”
“Why would we? We didn’t play with them,” I said.
“No, but you’d think we’d have heard something at home,” Jett said.
Presley shrugged. “I’m surprised Kyle felt a damn thing he was so high.”
“Presley!” Jett and I both snapped at her.
“What?” she asked, looking between the two of us with her blue eyes as wide as a doll’s. “Oh, like you weren’t thinking that.”
Jordan shifted his weight and looked uncomfortable. “Right. So I should go before Devlin hits the roof. Nik, have a good set with the Nation. Maybe I’ll catch you at the bar after.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Thanks for the checkup.”
He kind of tripped his way out of the room.
“Ugh. That was painful,” Presley said, and snapped another selfie. “I can’t believe I need to give you a lesson on how to talk to boys. You’re, what, nineteen now?”
“I can talk to boys,” I argued. “Just not that one.”
“He gives me the creeps,” Jett said, turning a page in her book.
Presley tossed an old Rolling Stone magazine at her. “You didn’t even look up from whatever the hell you’re reading. How can you say he gives you the creeps?”
“Easy, he gives me the creeps,” she said. She closed the book, saving her place by leaving her finger tucked in between the pages, and gave me her full attention. “Nik, I know you’re hurt and all, but I think it’s a little weird that he’s not a doctor but he acts like one. It’s like a power trip or God complex or something.”
“Oh my God, he does not,” I said.
“Come on, what was that anti-inflammatory bullshit?” Jett asked.
“He was talking about, like, Tylenol,” I said.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I just get a bad vibe from him, Nik. Something’s not right with him.”
“He’s hired to do this shit for the tour,” Presley pointed out.
“He’s hired as a roadie,” Jett said. “Anything more than a scraped knee, you go to a real hospital with actual doctors.” Jett narrowed her eyes at me. “Yeah?”
My eyes moved to the popcorn ceiling then followed the bloom of mold that crawled from one corner to the other, before circling back to look at my sister. “I don’t expect him to remove my appendix. But he totally saved my ass at Outside Lands.”
“Yeah, like you of all people need rescuing,” Jett said.
“I didn’t say he rescued me. But I avoided the ER—and stitches—because of him. We’d have had to cancel the gig, our first of the tour. Dion and Rafe would have murdered me. I’d be dead right now if it wasn’t for him. Like, literally. Dead.”
“He is cute,” Presley said. “In a nerdy sort of way.”
“Yeah, a cute geek,” I admitted.
“You know that phrase ‘Don’t shit where you eat’?” Jett asked, flipping open her book. “Just be careful.”
“I mean, maybe he’ll buy me a beer or something after the set tonight. Doesn’t mean I’m going to marry him.”
“Oh my God. Are you talking to us about a boy?” Presley squealed.
My eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You never date,” she said.
“I date.”
“I don’t know why,” she continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’re pretty. Quirky, but pretty.”
“Quirky?”
“Your hair is blue,” Presley said. “Quirky.”
I ceded to that, but added, “I’ve had boyfriends.”
“You haven’t been on a date since…” Presley paused, and her eyes rolled up. “What was his name?” She snapped her fingers at Jett. “Remember, the one with the emo hair?”
“Emo hair?” I asked, jerking my head back. “How the hell is hair emo?”
Presley ignored me. “You know, real skinny. Nik had just started doing CrossFit, and she looked like his bodyguard.”
“Oh, you mean Steven,” Jett said, chuckling. “Sad Stevie, we called him.”
Presley’s laugh rang through the room. “Right, Sad Stevie. Remember him?”
I closed my eyes and leaned back on the filthy couch, torn between anger and humiliation. Steve Prescott had come a few months after Connor Lordes, and he was exactly as my sisters described. His mom was a big-time agent, and he got into NYU without even applying. He wanted me to go to New York with him, but there was no way in hell I was leaving LA.
Steve was nice. But that was about it.
“Maybe she’s pining for someone else,” Jett murmured. “Unrequited love.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as my mind immediately shifted to Dion. Then my thoughts betrayed me again and flashed back to last night, discovering him in bed with that nearly naked groupie straddling his back. He hadn’t even tried to hide her. But why wouldn’t it be okay to do something like that? Other than there had been next to no privacy, and it was kind of gross? What were we to each other?
I squirmed around an uncomfortable truth.
Catching Dion with Missy hurt. A lot. It was like an invisible hand reached into my chest and squeezed. If I thought about it too much, it was hard to breathe.
Dion was my bandmate. We were on tour together. He was my stepbrother. He was also a first-rate asshole. Whatever was going on between us had to stop.
“Unrequited love?” I asked with a snort, ignoring the ache building in my heart. “Are you reading Wuthering Heights again?”
“Love in the Time of Cholera,” Jett said.
Presley shuddered. “How can there be any love with that many bodily fluids around? And they aren’t the fun kinds.”
Jett’s sigh was filled with exasperation, but before she could chide Presley for her ignorance, Devlin popped his head in.
He had to raise his voice over the crowd’s chants, which were loud enough to fill the room when he opened the door. “You ready for your second Rogue Nation gig, kid?”
I snapped up my drumsticks and made a beeline for the door. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for the gig, but I was ready for a break from my predicament.
“Knock ’em dead, Nik,” Presley yelled after me as I scooted out of the room.
9
“Jeez, Vince, watch it!” Jett yelled as she ducked down, coming dangerously close to the filthy cement floor of Studio Seven’s greenroom. Vince
popped open the champagne bottle, and the cork ricocheted around the room, narrowly missing my sister’s head. We had just finished the radio interview, and the club was just down the road, so we stopped by the venue. Vince had arrived in Seattle while we were on the air, and since we had the night off, he decided we should celebrate in style.
“Sorry, Jett,” he said, handing her the bottle. “You get first swig.”
She waved it away. “Nope, I’ve gotta study.”
“For your one online class?” Presley asked. “Come on, sis, live a little.”
Jett looked at me for support, but I just shrugged. “Jett, it’s not every day bands field offers from labels like Pop Art.”
She sighed but took the bottle. When the gulp made it down her throat, we all cheered. She passed it over to Presley.
“Congratulations, ladies, on a phenomenal start to this tour and an excellent radio interview,” Vince said. “I fully expect Grimm to come up with a serious offer now.”
Presley nearly choked on the champagne. “Serious offer?”
“Like, as in we had an offer before?” Jett asked.
“Yes, you had an offer,” he said.
“From Grimm?” Presley asked.
“Yes, from Grimm.”
Presley smacked him in the arm. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because, like I said, it wasn’t serious.”
“And now it is?” I asked.
“You don’t think Grimm would let Pop Art jump in and snatch you out from under him?” Vince asked with a laugh. “Not when you’re out touring with one of his bands!”
“Is that why you showed up in Seattle?” I asked, slinking down into the butt-ugly but at least not moldy couch. Studio Seven was a step-up, somewhat. “Grimm sent you to woo us?”
“Maybe,” he said, flashing his famous Vince Charming smile. Most women found it irresistible. I found it smarmy.
I crossed my arms and looked him straight in the eye. “What if we don’t want to sign with Grimm?”
“Nikki,” Presley said, her voice edged with warning.
“Well?” I said. “What can Grimm offer us?”
Presley’s eyes were still wide. “Money? A gigantic marketing machine?”
“Your Instagram selfies are the best marketing we have,” I said.
Jett nodded. “Seriously. Your bikini shots break the internet every damn time.”
“You want to make the right choice here, absolutely,” Vince said, his smile directed at me. “Pop Art is a well-respected indie label, and if you want indie cred…”
My “totally” and Presley’s “nope” overlapped.
“But Grimm is a hit factory and a marketing machine, Instagram bikinis aside,” Vince continued, winking at Presley, who beamed. “Grimm will get you the right press coverage, and your album will chart. Grimm’s artists always get at least one top ten hit off their first album—”
I didn’t bother to point out that Rogue had yet to hit the top ten.
“He’ll match us with the best producers,” Presley interrupted.
“We’ll lose our autonomy,” I hit back.
“Will the label want you to do it their way?” Vince asked. His smile, I noticed, disappeared. “Yes. But they’re banking on their decades of experience in the marketplace, experience that is priceless. How many multi-platinum albums have you released?”
Presley voiced her agreement with a sultry “Mm-hmm…”
“I’m not compromising,” I said with a definitive headshake.
Presley pouted. “What do you think, Jett?”
“I think we should wait until we hear the actual offers,” she said. “Otherwise, it’s just a lot of noise. A distraction.”
“You always were the sensible one,” I said.
“She was always the killjoy,” Presley huffed.
My eyes narrowed at her. “You’re saying that just because she didn’t side with you.”
“Sisters, please,” Vince said, holding up one hand and the champagne bottle in surrender. “It’s like you’re all teens again.”
“Well…” Presley motioned towards me.
I followed up with a middle finger salute.
“Jett’s not wrong here,” he said. “We need to let the suits battle it out and then decide based on their offers. Having two options is better than one. We stand to get a better contract if there’s a bidding war.”
I planted my hands on my hips. “Who is this ‘we’?”
“Is it the royal one?” Presley asked, and I swear to God the woman batted her eyelashes.
“I’m here to help,” he said.
I groaned. “But you’re like an agent for Grimm.”
“Not on this, I promise,” he said, adding, “And no management fee.”
“Well, that’s refreshing,” Dion said as he and Rafe stormed into the room. “He’s taking, what? A twenty-five percent cut of our income?”
“We’ve been through this, Dion,” Vince said, turning to his son. “Anthem made me more money than I can spend. That twenty-five percent goes into an investment account for you boys. It’s near impossible for bands to have longevity these days. You blow through your dough now, you’ll have nothing later.”
“You’re loaded,” Dion said, snatching the champagne bottle and taking a long pull. “You can’t take it with you, Dad.”
“Shit happens,” Vince said. “Don’t count on Anthem’s money.”
“Song royalties—”
“Split between five band members?”
“You got hosed,” Rafe said. “You were the primary songwriter.”
“We were a band, a team, even split. We decided that from the start,” Vince said. He leveled a pointed look at Presley, Jett, and then me. “That’s how a band stays in it for the long haul.”
Dion snickered. “This sudden poverty have anything to do with a second wife?”
“Wives are expensive,” his father said through thinned lips.
“Dead ones not so much,” Dion muttered.
Ouch.
Pain flickered over Vince’s face for an instant. Bringing up Claudia, Vince’s first wife, was a low blow. By all accounts, Vince was a different man with Claudia. Losing her to ovarian cancer had nearly destroyed him.
The pain lifted, and Vince’s face slid into a blank mask. He stared at Dion, who refused to meet his eyes.
It was Presley’s melodramatic yawn—truly, her timing was impeccable—that broke through the silence.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said. “I am just exhausted.”
“Touring’s tough,” Vince said. With his attention now on Presley, he slid back into Vince Charming mode. “The schedule’s brutal.”
“The schedule is fine,” she insisted. “I’m exhausted because I’m sleeping like shit. The beds in that bus are awful.”
“My bed is fine,” I said.
“Of course it’s fine for you,” she said.
I crossed my arms. “Yes, for me. And for Jett. And for Devlin, and he’s not young.”
“You just don’t get it,” she said. “You like camping. You don’t mind sleeping in terrible places. I just—ugh.” She shuddered with her entire body.
“You have dark circles under your eyes,” Vince said. His hand went to the back of her neck, and he began pressing into her muscles with his fingers. “You’re tight.”
“Here we go,” Dion griped.
“What?” Vince asked.
“Nothing,” he said, though he didn’t bother hiding his sneer.
Presley’s lower lip trembled. “Dark circles?”
God! She was a master.
“Oh, come on, Pres,” I said, looking to Jett for a little backup.
But Jett just hiked her shoulders. “Presley’s a foregone conclusion, Nik. I’m surprised it took this long.”
“It’s been four nights on the bus,” I argued.
“Exactly,” Presley sniffed. “And after four nights, I already look haggard.”
“No one said ‘haggard
,’” I corrected her.
“Not that exact word, no,” she said. “But Vince may as well have. And that first night, we were up for hours.”
I glared at Dion. “That situation will not repeat itself, right?”
“I cannot lose any more sleep. My body won’t function. My voice will blow out. The tour will be over,” she moaned. A single tear slipped down her left cheek, followed by another down her right. Presley would win an Oscar someday.
Vince released his hand from the back of her neck. “Didn’t want to bring this up now, but—” He looked to Presley. “Grimm asked if you would record some backing vocals for Killing Hayley. While we have a few days in Seattle, we can rent studio space and lay down the tracks.”
That stopped Presley’s tears right quick. “Killing Hayley? I get an album credit, right?”
“And payment’s doubled, since you’re on the road,” Vince said with a nod.
“How many songs?” she asked.
“Seven.”
“That’s a lot of recording in a few days’ time, plus the gigs at night,” she said. Her Barbie-doll eyes went wide with concern.
I saw where this was going.
“I’ll get you a room at my hotel,” Vince offered.
“Why don’t you get us all rooms, then?” Dion asked.
“Because the label isn’t paying for you guys to trash the Four Seasons.”
“But you’ll let the girls stay there?”
“No, I didn’t say that,” Vince said. “Presley’s pulling double duty, and she needs the rest. She’ll get the room.”
“We’d take Motel 6,” Rafe grumbled.
“Speak for yourself,” Dion countered, and then he looked at me. “Come on, Nikki, don’t you think this is bullshit?”
I opened my mouth, but Vince responded. “Nikki and Jett are doing fine on the bus. With everything going on, we can’t risk Presley’s voice blowing out. Too much is riding on this right now.” He looked at Jett and me. “You both understand, right?”
Jett and I exchanged looks, but I responded with an “I guess” and a shrug.
“Thank you, Vince,” Presley whispered, resting her head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”