by Lauren Rowe
“Thanks. I just wish I could get unblocked.”
Ryan snickers. “If you play your girl any of those new songs when you track her down next week, I’m sure she’ll ‘unblock’ the living hell out of you, Lionel Richie Style.” Ryan’s phone buzzes and he looks down. “Josh and Reed are in the lobby, on their way up.”
“Josh and Reed?”
“They’re picking me up for Henn’s bachelor party tonight,” Ryan says. “Reed’s throwing Henn a poker party at his house.”
“Didn’t you party with Reed in Vegas a few months ago, too?”
“Yeah, unfortunately, partying with Reed on occasion comes with the territory of partying with Josh and Henn.”
“You haven’t warmed to Reed at all?” I ask. “Josh thinks the world of him.”
Ryan scoffs. “I’ll never be able to see past the way he salivated over Tessa in Maui. If we lived in a different century, I’d be challenging Reed to a duel.”
Colby laughs. “Tessa wasn’t even your girlfriend at the time. Dislike the guy all you want because he’s cocky or whatever, but I don’t think you can fairly hold it against him that he made a play for your wife before she was even your girlfriend.”
“Tessa was already mine in Maui. She just didn’t know it yet.”
Colby and I chuckle.
“All I know is, if I got hit by a bus tomorrow morning, Reed Rivers would be knocking on Tessa’s door tomorrow afternoon, offering her a shoulder to cry on.” Ryan’s upper lip curls. “So, fine, I’ll party with the guy now and again because Josh and Henn love him like a brother. But he’ll never be a brother of mine.”
There’s a knock at the door, which Ryan answers, and five seconds later, our brother-in-law, Josh, is striding into the room with none other than Reed Rivers.
After a bit of small talk, Reed notices my acoustic guitar leaning against the couch. “Have you been writing?”
“No, I’m still blocked. I was just playing my brothers a few of the songs I wrote at the beginning of the tour, when things were still flowing.”
Reed asks me to play him the songs I’ve got, but I balk, saying I want to fine-tune them before playing them for the head of my record label.
But Reed insists. “So play me your top two. I was just being polite by asking like you’ve got a choice in the matter. I own your ass, Golden Boy. Play me some fucking songs.”
I exchange a look with Ryan. Yeah, he’s a kind of a dick. But since Reed is right—he currently owns my ass—and, to be fair, he’s a genius at what he does—I dutifully grab my guitar and play him the two songs my brothers said they liked best: “Fireflies” and “Ultra Violet Radiation.” And thank God, Reed declares them both future smash hits. Plus, for what it’s worth, my brother-in-law, Josh, says he loves the songs, too.
Reed rubs his palms together, his face aglow. “How many new songs you got?”
“Five or six that are totally finished and really good. Four that are finished and highly mediocre. And, thanks to the worst bout of writer’s block I’ve ever had, three unfinished songs, one of which could be the lead-off single, if I ever finish it.”
“Sounds like we’re set without the unfinished songs,” Reed says. “Why don’t you come down to my office on Saturday to play me whatever you’ve got? I’m leaving for New York on Sunday for some business, and I want to get the ball rolling with the team before I go. We’re going to release your second album in six months to keep momentum going, and I want the team to get going on promo and artwork and booking the tour dates as soon as possible.”
I’m shocked. “You want to send us out on tour again in six months?”
“Six to eight. But as the headliner this time, obviously.”
I don’t speak.
“The real money is in touring, Dax. You know that.” He pauses. “Why do you look like I just punched you in the balls? You love performing.”
I’m not sure how to articulate my competing thoughts. Reed is right: I do love performing. With all my heart. That forty-five minutes onstage every other night is what’s given me life, more than anything else, these past eight months. And once 22 Goats is the headliner, not the opener, when we’re no longer confined to a forty-five-minute set, I’ll love performing even more. But, on the other hand, I’m exhausted. So fucking exhausted... And lonely, if I’m being honest, even though I’m constantly surrounded by people. And, oh God, if I’m still blocked six months from now, going into the next tour, I’m gonna have a legit nervous breakdown.
“I just want to make sure the next tour is a more manageable experience for me,” I say. “I want things to be more tailored to my personality.”
“The tour can be whatever you want it to be. Headliners are gods. You want to bathe in Evian? Fine. You want nothing but green M&Ms in your dressing rooms? No problem.”
Colby says, “Reed, I think what Dax wants is more quality-of-life stuff. More downtime between shows. Full days built into the schedule where he’s got no commitments and can shut himself away with his guitar and recharge, or hang out with visiting family. Dax is an extroverted introvert, Reed. He loves to perform more than life itself. But he can’t be ‘on’ all the time, day after day, or he starts to crack.”
I flash Colby a look of gratitude.
“Did I get that right?” Colby asks me.
“Exactly right.”
Colby returns to Reed. “Daxy’s been grateful for this tour. He knew going in the goats needed to prove themselves, and he was grateful to get the chance. But if you want him as your headliner, if you want the entire tour resting on his shoulders—because, let’s face it, Dax is the reason those arenas are going to sell out—then you need to make damn sure our boy’s got the space he needs—physically and mentally—to be at his best at all times.”
“Absolutely,” Reed says. “Half my artists are sensitive, like Dax. I totally get that personality type. Not all artists can command the kind of schedule you’re asking for, because it elongates the tour and increases costs. But for Daxy, we’ll structure the tour any way he wants it.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Ryan pipes in, “You’ll also need to get Daxy tighter personal security than he’s had on this tour. The way he’s groped and clawed is ridiculous, Reed. That shit would start to wear on anyone, but especially a guy like Dax. Even in kindergarten, he felt the need to sit three girls down and tell them to chill the fuck out.”
I smile at Ryan, thanking him for jumping in. For being the fixer, as usual. And also for referencing that particular story—a family favorite.
“I admit security was far more focused on Dean’s needs this tour than Dax’s, and that was a mistake,” Reed says. “Dax had security, obviously, but, clearly, it wasn’t tight enough for what he needs.” He looks at me. “I’ll tell Barry to give you his very best guys on the next tour. We’ll make sure you’ve got all the space you need at all times.”
“I don’t care what color M&Ms are in the dressing rooms,” I say. “I just don’t want to have a nervous breakdown by the end of the tour. That wouldn’t be good for any of us. Reed, I want to make obscene amounts of money for you and me and all of us, for years to come, by creating music I’m proud of. What I don’t want to do is sell my soul to the devil to do it.”
Reed smiles at me reassuringly, like I’m his golden goose and he doesn’t want my feathers getting the least bit ruffled. “I’ll talk to your manager and get everything nailed down. You just keep writing me hit songs like those two you just played me, and I promise, Golden Boy, whatever you want, literally, whatever it is, it’s perfectly fine by me.”
Chapter 22
Dax
When I stride into my dressing room after soundcheck, flanked by Fish, Colin, and two new bodyguards, my family is here, hanging out and enjoying the Mexican food and margaritas my tour manager arranged at my request. When they see me, my family members bombard me with a torrent of hugs and tears and kisses. One by one, as I hug and kiss the ones I love the most, I apologize
and grovel, asking for forgiveness for all my recent sins. And, thankfully, no matter which family member I’m talking to, or how I’ve dropped the ball, forgiveness is always mine.
After a while, my mother’s voice, singing the birthday song, cuts through the din in the large room. I turn around to find my mother walking toward me with a cake, its candles ablaze. I make a wish and blow out the candles: Please, let me track down Violet and feel those fireflies again—and, please, let her feel them, too. Champagne is poured and distributed in plastic cups, although, given my promise of sobriety, I pass on the bubbly in favor of a bottle of sparkling water.
As cake slices are passed around, the guys from Red Card Riot pop their heads into the room, just to see what all the ruckus is about, and they’re met with cheers and hugs and offers of cake and champagne, which they graciously accept.
It’s not the first time the RCR guys have met the Morgans. It’s actually the third. But both prior times were extremely brief hellos—backstage in New York and Seattle. Plus, my family members were star-struck as fuck on those occasions. This time, though, the vibe feels better to me—more like old friends reuniting than an official meet and greet.
The RCR guys tell my family the best G-rated tour stories, until, finally, it’s time for the Morgans to head to their seats in the arena. When the last of them has left, I plop myself down in a sitting area with Fish and Colin and the four RCR guys—the six dudes I’ve seen every day these past eight months—and we all laugh about my loud and boisterous family.
“Your mom is hot,” Clay says.
“Dude, watch yourself,” Fish says. “That’s what I always used to say when we were kids. And Dax wasn’t pleased.”
“I wasn’t pleased,” I confirm.
Fish continues, “Daxy’s mom used to come out to the garage while we were rehearsing. Sometimes, she’d bring us sandwiches. Other times, she’d be getting clothes out of the dryer. And whenever she was there, I couldn’t play.”
“Hard to play bass with a boner,” Colin says. “Right, Fish Head?”
“Dude,” I say, grimacing.
“Dax finally threatened to beat me up if I said another word about his momma being hot,” Fish says. “So, I cleverly transferred my crush to his sister—who, by the way, is the spitting image of her mother, so it was a genius loophole.”
Everyone laughs, except me.
“Enough,” I say. “No more drooling over my sister or momma, unless you wanna get pummeled.”
“You know,” Clay says, looking at Fish. “I couldn’t help noticing Dax looks exactly like his sister and mother. You think maybe this crush of yours is actually on Dax?”
Fish shrugs. “Quite possibly. I’ve loved that boy since second grade. Maybe, somewhere deep, my love for him has transferred to his mom and sister, since they’ve got the working parts I’m wired to desire and also the face I’ve always loved so much. It’s a sound theory, man.”
God, I love Fish. The dude is straight. I know this for a fact. But I’ve always loved the fact that he feels no need to prove it to anyone. The fact that he’s just so comfortable in his own skin—and so not homophobic—is why these sorts of questions and innuendos over the years have never fazed him.
Fish adds, “Unfortunately, over the years, the entire Morgan family has become my second family, so I can’t pop boners for any of ’em anymore. It would just be too weird.” He pauses. “Except for Dax’s momma. She’s still hot to me.”
Everyone laughs, including me.
“Speaking of family,” C-Bomb says, “my little sister is coming to the show tonight.” He looks at us three goats. “And no drooling or popping boners allowed. She’s hot, guys, same as Daxy’s momma and sister.” He winks at Fish conspiratorially. “But she’s off-limits.”
“I think that goes without saying,” Colin says. “We’ve been on tour with you for eight months, C-Bomb. None of us would ever be stupid enough to make a move on any woman you care about, least of all your sister.”
That’s for damned sure. Behind C-Bomb’s back, Colin, Fish, and I lovingly refer to him as The Caveman. Sometimes, The Hothead. He’s the best guy in the world. An awesome mentor and surrogate big brother. But it’s one of those situations where it’s like, yeah, he’s an asshole, but he’s our beloved asshole. C-Bomb’s not shy about being a dick if he thinks you deserve it. Oh, and he has anger management issues. And... he’s super protective of his best friends and ready to fight at a moment’s notice if he thinks someone is disrespecting them or himself. Turn the other cheek? Not Caleb Baumgarten. Nope. He’s just too fixated on protecting the “honor” of the people he loves, whether that’s his mother, sister, past girlfriends, or bandmates. I don’t know specifics on some of C-Bomb’s past bullshit, but the stories he’s told about fist fights he’s had in his youth always seem to have origin stories in somebody disrespecting someone he cares about, or somebody unwittingly poaching on a romantic interest of C-Bomb’s or one of his friends’. But, hey, whatever. Now that I know the moral code C-Bomb lives by—now that all three of us goats do—we know exactly how to stay on his good side, so there’s never been, and never will be, a problem.
To my surprise, Fish responds to Caleb’s warning by saying, “Sorry, C-Bomb. I make no promises regarding your sister.”
C-Bomb lowers his plastic cup and stares at Fish like, Excuse me?
Fish continues, “If your sister finds me irresistible, I can’t control that. Get in line, sister.”
It’s a joke only Matthew Fishberger could get away with. And it slays. Everyone, including C-Bomb, laughs and laughs.
Just as our laughter is abating, there’s a soft rap on the door, followed by our stage manager sticking her head inside the dressing room. “Hey, goats,” she says. “Twenty minute warning.”
“Hey, Greta,” C-Bomb calls to her. “Can you do me a favor? My little sister just texted me. You know her, right?”
“Of course. I’ve met her a couple times on the last tours.”
“She’s standing at the VIP door and the dumbshit guard doesn’t recognize her. She says she forgot to bring her ID and the dude thinks she’s full of shit. Can you grab her for me and bring her here? I wanna introduce her to the goats.”
“No problem, Caleb.”
He calls to Greta’s back. “And tell that dude guarding the door ‘Caleb said fuck you.’”
“Not gonna happen.”
When she’s gone, C-Bomb leans back in his chair, chuckling. “Wow, our last show of the tour. I gotta say, watching you three goats skyrocket into the stratosphere has been a gas. What a ride.”
“And it’s all thanks to you guys,” I say.
Dean scoffs. “Nobody gets two number ones and two Top 20s off a debut, simply because some other band said to their fans, ‘Hey, check these guys out.’”
“Yeah, well, having Red Card Riot’s stamp of approval certainly didn’t hurt our chances,” Fish says.
“As far as we’re concerned, you guys are our brothers for life,” Colin says.
“Amen,” I say.
“Word,” Fish adds.
But C-Bomb shakes his head. “You guys captured lightning in a bottle with that album. We were just pumped to be able to light one of the matches that maybe helped light the fuse to the dynamite.”
Dean says, “But the dynamite was of your own creation.”
“All we know is you guys have been amazing and we’re forever grateful,” I say. I raise my water bottle. “To brotherhood.”
Bottles of beer and water are raised and clinked... and then Dean asks me something that makes my heart stop.
“Hey, are you down to write a couple songs with me?”
I can barely choke out the word absolutely fast enough.
“It’s for an indie movie Reed’s invested in,” Dean says. “He said they need a couple big anthems for the opening and closing credits. Apparently, the movie’s set in the seventies, so that ought to be a cool vibe. We can write something really retro for it. I’m
thinking super crunchy guitars. Maybe a Hammond organ.”
My heart is racing now. “Sounds amazing.”
“We’ll be writing the songs, but probably won’t perform both. Reed said Aloha Carmichael might sing one. You and I will probably sing the second one together, billed as ‘RCR featuring Dax Morgan.’”
I look at Fish and Colin, who are so obviously being left out of this invitation, and Colin winks at me, telling me he’s cool. “Yeah, sounds good. Just happy to be a part.”
“Caleb’s coming to my house sometime next week, once we’ve all had a week to decompress and stop hating each other. Why don’t you come with him and the three of us will jam and see what comes of it?”
“Cool.”
C-Bomb says, “Do you need a place to stay, Daxy? I heard you telling Emmitt you’re homeless, and I’ve got plenty of room. There’s no sense in you staying at a hotel.”
I’m electrified. I’m gonna write songs with Dean Masterson and bunk with C-Bomb? Ha! Life made. But seeing as how I’ve been around the block a few times at this point, I force myself to reply calmly, “Awesome, thanks.”
There’s a knock on the door behind me, and then a female voice says, “Caleb, your little sister is here.”
“Booyah!” Caleb booms, popping off the couch.
I turn around, curious to see this supposedly “hot” little sister of C-Bomb’s... the one whose honor he’s defended repeatedly... and my heart... physically... stops.
No.
How is this... possible?
C-Bomb’s little sister is...
Violet.
Chapter 23
Dax
Violet is gorgeous. Even more so than I remembered.
I feel like my brain is short-circuiting. Physically jerking and jolting and smoking inside my skull. After all the times I’ve thought about Violet over the past eight months, she’s finally here in front of me, in the flesh, instantly inciting fireflies in my belly again. And it turns out she’s C-Bomb’s little sister?