Page 29 of Down Beat
ELEVEN
Rey
“Fell On Black Days” - Soundgarden
I stayed. Tabby-cat thought we all bailed on her, but truth is I got into an argument with Rick and shoved him out the door onto the sidewalk before I let Kris know that if he so much as opened his mouth to cough he’d be dead.
All I wanted was a minute’s fucking silence so I could listen.
Holy shit.
I felt it.
In. My. Fucking. Soul.
“I think we’ve got a problem,” I murmur to Toby as I flip Rick the bird in response to his glare.
“Like what?”
I tug on my brother’s sleeve so he drops back behind the group. “You heard her, right?”
Rick gets in the front seat of the vehicle, Kris and Emery clambering into the back. Toby frowns at them before shifting his focus back to me. “Nope. I was out here reminding Rick why we need a fucking vocalist.”
Okay. So I may have pushed him a little hard.
“She’s good, man.”
“So?” He leans in the SUV and gives Emery a shove, gesturing for our bassist to get in the back.
“So, she’s supposed to be awkward and shit. She’s supposed to bore everyone half to death so they’re gagging for it by the time we come on stage.”
“You were using her to amp up our performance?” He scowls at me as he slides into the middle seat.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I had her pegged as good publicity: Charitable Dark Tide Give Solo Artist Golden Opportunity. But with a performance like that, she could damn well rival the shit we’ve got planned to steal the show.
“She’s classical.” Toby states the obvious while I get in behind him. “The only thing our fans will care about is how long she hogs the stage before they get to see us.”
“True.” I tug the door shut behind me, and then hang on as our driver reenacts his youth. “Easy on the pedal, man.”
“We’re late,” Rick clips. “No thanks to you.”
Fuck off. So we’re ten minutes behind his perfect schedule. It’s not that much of a big deal, is it?
It is. By the time we get through reception at the radio station and are directed to the studio, the murderous stares we get from behind the soundproof glass could strip paint.
The DJ wriggles around animatedly as he announces the next song, smacking the button at the exact same time as his fake smile falls clean off his face. He shunts the chair out from underneath him, and stalks to the door as Led Zeppelin plays.
“I can’t fit you in now.” He tosses his hands in the air. “My show wraps up after this song.”
“Can we shift across to the next one?” Rick asks hopefully.
I shrink into the shadows, suitably guilty. Fucking traffic. Our ten minute late departure became a twenty-five minute late arrival.
“The next show is a fucking preprogrammed countdown,” the guy grits out though a stiff jaw. “We don’t do live slots again for another eight hours.”
He’s tall with curly hair. Kind of reminds me of Jeremy Clarkson. I look around to see if the Stig is hiding somewhere nearby.
“Come on.” Toby rests his hand on my shoulder, jerking his chin at Emery to turn him around. “Leave Rick to it, hey?”