Page 50 of Down Beat

And I have no doubts that he would. “I’m sorry, Wallace.”

“You’ll be sorry, all right. Even more so when this tour ends.”

I frown at the guy. Toby crosses his arms, brow pinched, clearly waiting on the explanation also.

Wallace grins as he leans back to stand tall once more. “Rehab, Rey. You want to continue with me, you get help, boy.”

Rehab. Amy Winehouse cycles through my mind. “What? What sort of rehab?”

“The kind for destructive, arrogant alcoholics.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I grit out.

I binge when I do drink, sure. But I don’t drink daily, and I can certainly say no when I want to. Can’t I? Fuck. Still—not an alcoholic.

Wallace slices his hand through the air at my protest. “No negotiations, kid. Rehab, or it’s the indie life for you.”

Fuck.

I stand mute as the big guy spins heel and marches toward the stage area. Toby steps closer beside me, watching Wallace leave also.

“Told you that you needed help.”

Hair, meet trigger. I spin, clutching a fistful of Toby’s sleeveless tee as I do. “You fucking set this up?”

He leans back, eyes narrowed as I get right up in his traitorous face. “Nope. But wish I had thought about it now.”

I release him with a shove and head for the relative quiet of the stands. Fuck sound check. If they want to test a voice, then Kris can live out his dreams by playing pretend to an empty stadium.

Rehab.

Makes me sound like I have a problem.