Page 14 of Down Beat
“We had a chat.” I shrug, turning for the mini bar. “Just ring that fucker, Rick, and let me know what your old man says when you get a reply.”
I reach over and snag a whiskey, thankful the assholes in this pricey place include full-size bottles, and head for the balcony. Toby skids between the door and me, bare feet grazing over the plush carpet.
“Nope.”
“What the hell, man?”
He bars the slider with his arm. “Last time you went out on a balcony to drink, you tried to jump off it.”
“I was in a dark place,” I level. “Now move.”
“Mm-mm.” He shakes his head. “How do I know you’re not in a dark place now?”
I stare at the well-meaning asshole impassively. “Because I haven’t just finished writing lyrics for an album. I’ve had a break already.”
“A few months.” He stays rooted to the spot. “Is that enough?”
“If I wanted to jump, I’d do it when none of you cunts are here to stop me.”
“Good to know.” He lifts both eyebrows and snaps his fingers to get Kris’s attention. “We’re on Rey-watch.”
“I don’t need a babysitter, man. Now move. I’m dying for a fucking cigarette.”
“I’ll join you then.” Toby twists and opens the slider, gesturing for me to go first. “And for the record, we’re not babysitters—we’re caregivers.”
“So much better.” I roll my eyes as I set the bottle on the small table and retrieve my smokes.
“Plus,” he continues, “you bite the big one and we all suffer. Can’t play a fucking set without our singer, can we?”
“Kris can sing,” I point out as I spark my stick.
Toby grins. “He won’t fucking speak up around us, let alone do a goddamn solo interview. And you think he’d stand in front of five thousand people and sing?”
“Turn all the lights off.” I point my smoke at him. “He sings in the dark. You’ve heard him, right?”
Toby nods.
The slider scuffs as it opens, Rick poking his head out. “Dad wants numbers.”
“Numbers for what?” Toby asks.
“And for fuck’s sake,” I add, “call him Wallace. It’s just fucked when you call him dad with us.”
“Wallace sounds weird, though.” Rick curls his lip.
“Dad sounds like we’re playing a concert in your garage.”
He tips his head in assent. “I guess.”
“Numbers for what?” Toby repeats.
“Oh.” Rick checks the message on his phone. “How many tickets she’d sold.”
“One hundred.” I drag the smoke almost to the filter.
“Thanks.” Rick shuts the door behind him, tapping as he walks away.
Kris sits in the distance, head over the back of the sofa as he loses himself in the playlist. It’s a ritual of his: listen to our set list in order three times each day before the show so he doesn’t feel as though he’ll fuck it up on stage. Anxiety. Fuck knows how the asshole functions some days.