Page 61 of Down Beat
TWENTY-THREE
Rey
“Bullet” – Hollywood Undead
Ever seen a security guy relive his youth? No? Then I’m telling you now, it’s a fucking sight to behold.
When Toby realized that every step closer he took meant another inch I leaned out over the distant ground, he sent over Kris. Yeah, Kris. The guy who then asked if I’d like a cigarette when I got down.
I went higher—fuck them both.
And that’s when they called in the big guns. The security guard, Lenny, looked to be at least fifty years old and probably the same number of pounds over his optimum weight range. Didn’t stop the guy scaling that scaffolding like a motherfucking gorilla in heat, though.
Got to give the guy credit for how he managed to subdue me, all while ensuring we didn’t both fall and break our goddamn necks. Shoulder still burns a little, but I think I got my point across.
“Do you ever think of anybody but yourself?”
Or maybe not.
I sigh before turning to address Toby. We have thirty minutes until show time and he’s been aiming shots at me all fucking afternoon.
“Do you?”
Two simple words that leave him shaking his head. “Just grow up, Rey. I get it; you’re the baby of the family. But that’s not an excuse to continue to act like a fucking child.”
He storms off to the far end of our “VIP lounge,” the only section of this marquee they’ve set up for us that has huge industrial blow heaters to ward off the cold.
Yep. It’s fucking pissing down out there. Water pours from the heavens as a silent “fuck you” from life. Still, our fans are ready to go; the warm-up chants the crew has them making do their thing and build the buzz.
“Tell me you called your mom,” Emery asks. He chews on a stick of jerky as he waits on my answer.
He turned up right as Lenny pinned me to the grass, a knee to the middle of my back while everyone waited on me to promise I wouldn’t pull a stunt like that again. I agreed. I won’t climb the scaffolding again, but I hold no responsibility for whatever else I might attempt.
“Yeah, I called her.” Got the whole myriad of emotions from her: anger, worry, distress, and finally guilt.
Always the guilt.
“Good.” He pops the last of the meat in his mouth before asking, “Ready?”
I nod, rubbing my hands near the side of the heater. I made the mistake of standing too close to the front earlier, and promptly learned how fucking nuclear leather and studs can get in the space of seconds.
“Fifteen-minute call, guys.”
Toby waves off the crew member—Stuart, I think his name is—and goes right back to ignoring the rest of us. I eyeball the fucker as he taps his phone screen with his thumb, a small smile making his lips quirk up every so often. Who is he messaging? Café Girl? Nah—couldn’t be. Maybe?
My gaze drifts right, and I find Emery now doing the same. Only I know whom it is he messages. He thinks we’re all stupid, flicking his screen to eBay listings when we get too close. But it’s her—that fucking manipulative bitch back home.
Kris reclines on a beanbag, deep in his preshow ritual of listening to the set list one last time. I figure if the three of them want to be antisocial assholes, then I can too. My fingers wrap around my phone, deep in my pocket, and I pull it free to check the notifications.
How the fuck did I miss that? I don’t get message previews to my home screen anymore, not since we took off and the sheer number of old “friends” crawling out of the woodwork would clog my screen. I don’t even pay mind to the fact the tiny red circle always has a “99+” in it because I never clear them all. Nope. But I do try to open the app regularly so that I catch anything important.
Anything like a message from Tabby-cat.
T: How did your practice go?
Jesus. What do I say to that? Eventful? Depressing? Same old shit, different day?
R: Run of the mill. Get the rest of your food home safely? Or is there a Hansel and Gretel trail from where you dropped the milk to your door?