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  “Ten minutes and we’re back to it,” Toby announces as he strides over to where we chill. “Think you can manage that?”

  I flip him the bird and then lean over for Kris’s light.

  “You’ve completely overshadowed the whole point of this goddamn tour,” he grumbles, thumbs hooked in pockets. “Do you even care?”

  “Of course I care,” I snap. “Would you like me to swallow a bottle of Valium again to show just how much I care?”

  He scowls at me. Granted, that was an immature jab, but still. This is my career too; I get it.

  “I’m sure old Wally-boy can get things back on track.” I hold my smoke out to gesture to the guy.

  The man in question finishes with Rick and then turns, eyes wild as they land on me. Shoot.

  “Point is, he shouldn’t have to,” Toby digs. “When are you going to get help?”

  “I don’t need fucking help.”

  “You need something.”

  “A bullet?” Kris mutters.

  Wallace advances at a pace I don’t like all that much. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to get half the cigarette down before I have to hot foot it to save myself. I chug like the little train that could, sucking as much of the legal hit as I can before I push to my feet and prepare to exit, stage right.

  “Rey!”

  Fuck. “Hey, Wallace.” I stick my hand out for the guy.

  He leaves it hanging. “What the ever-lovin’ fuck got into you, boy?”

  Guess it’s like that, then. I shrug, and then jam my hands in my pockets while Kris makes himself scarce. Toby watches like the fucking sadist he is.

  “Speak up,” Wallace booms.

  The guy is six-foot-plus of broad, German muscle. Rumor has it he moved to America to pursue a career in music himself, but when that didn’t work out, turned his hand to managing other people’s. The guy has one of the highest turnover rates for staff in the industry, so to say he’s heavy-handed with his leadership style would be an understatement. The fact he still carries a strong accent after decades in the country only adds to his menace.

  “It won’t happen again,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. “I promise.”

  He leans in, thick finger pointed between us. “Your promises mean jack shit to me.” The digit shunts me painfully in the chest. “I made you; remember that. I can just as easily unmake you.”

  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.

  TWENTY

  Tabitha

  “My Own Summer” - Deftones

  “What the fuck do you mean there are royalties owed?” I clutch my phone in a white-knuckled grip, drawing curious looks from passersby.

  “You played one of their songs, Tabitha. Without permission from the recording label first. If it was an older track, something they’d released five, ten years ago, then you might get away with it. But you played one that came out last year.”

  “Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me this before I did it?” I clutch a fistful of my hair, my grocery shopping at my feet.

  “I guess because we didn’t know?” John replies with nothing short of bitter sarcasm. “Are you sitting down, though?”

  “There’s more?” I cry in a pitch that borders on only being audible to dogs.

  What the hell else could he drop on me?

  “You used Toby in your performance.”

  “So?” I grimace at some nosy bitch as she makes faces at my volume. “Is he copyrighted too?”

  “He gets metered out by the hour.”

  I groan, slamming my free hand to my throat as I search the sky for a reason for this madness. “You have to be yanking my chain.”

  “Afraid not.” He sighs. “His minimum is an hour.”

  “He was on the fucking stage for less than five minutes,” I yell.

  A mother gives me a scathing glare as she exits the mini-mart with her young daughter. I snatch up my bags with a huff as John answers, intending to find somewhere more private.

  “I know, Tabitha, but they have to make it worthwhile for him, otherwise people would jerk him around for ten minutes of sweet fuck all.”

  “How much?” Surely we’re in the vicinity of fifty for Toby and the same or thereabouts for the song?

  “Seven hundred.”

  I’m dying. I’m fucking sure of it. Why else would breathing be this difficult? “What?”

  “Two hundred for Toby, and five hundred for single use of the song.”

  “Since when do people have to pay that much for a song?” Jesus—my chest. “You can’t tell me street buskers pay that much to do a cover.”

  He sighs. “Look. Wallace Bauer isn’t exactly known for his philanthropy.”

  I sink against the side of a shop, tucked in the start of an alley. “Who the fuck is Wallace Bauer?”

  “The guy who owns the band, essentially.”

  Damn. “Seven hundred?” I won’t cry. Nope. Not going to cry. “How much does that leave me, John? Break it to me sweet.”

  He chuckles softly. “Tabitha, honey—”

  “Not that sweet.”

  He huffs in amusement. “After costs, you get a little under three thousand.” That’s not so bad. “But you still owe me for the last three months, so if I deduct that before cutting you a check, you’re looking at sixteen hundred.”

  “Sixteen hundred?” Totally going to cry.

  My share of the rent alone is four hundred and eighty a month. My credit card has a debit balance larger than the figure he just gave me.

  “I know it was a big show, love, but you have to remember the few bums on seats who paid to see you were upstairs. The only reason you get so much is because they agreed to cover the full venue costs.”

  What did I expect? That Dark Tide would cut me in on the total ticket sales? Of course it would have been kept separate. It was just a spur of the moment deal, after all.

  “Thanks, John. Message me when the transfer has been made, please.”

  “It’ll be a few days, Tabitha.”

  Stab me while I already bleed out, why don’t you?

  “I have to wait for their PR company to wrap it all up and release our share.”

  “Fucking jailers, you know? That’s all they are; holding our money captive.”

  “It’s standard business.”

  “Yeah, well nothing about this is standard for me. Not when the cash literally means whether I eat or starve.” I slam End on the call and pocket my phone.

  I am
so up shit creek without a paddle.

  In a moment of petty rage I whip my phone back out and hammer out a quick message. My gut churns as it makes the sound to confirm the words have been sent. Probably wasn’t such a smart idea. Oh well.

  T: You can have your damn flowers back.

  The reply is instant.

  R: Why?

  Was he sitting on the thing? I gather up my bags and hail a cab, giving the driver directions to the theater before I respond to Rey.

  T: Why didn’t anyone tell me I’d have to pay to use Toby on stage? Let alone that it costs to play your recent tracks in a paid performance?

  R: What choo talkin’ about, Willis?

  I chuckle, earning a glance in the rearview from the cab driver.

  T: I’ve just been informed it cost me $700 to play that cover last night.

  R: Fuck off. Who by?

  T: Your label.

  His replies cease, not even a dancing dot or three to indicate he’s formulating one. I give up waiting as the cabbie pulls up outside the theater. He takes the bill I hold out for him, my frugal grip on the note meaning he has to tug a little hard to release it from my grasp.

  I can’t even look at the building without wanting to go on a murderous rampage and smash every pretentious light that still spells out Dark Tide’s name. The time on my phone reads 11:36. I pocket the device and head for the brass-handled doors, surprised to find that the damn things won’t budge. I try the other side just in case, and find the same.

  Breathe, Tab. They’ve probably kept it closed to the public. Look for a stage door.

  Like a homeless woman staking her claim for the night, I head down the adjacent alley with my bags of groceries in hand. Sure enough, a black stage door sits two-thirds of the way down the building.

  It’s also locked.

  Totally okay. Maybe I misheard the guy last night when he said come back tomorrow. Maybe he meant Monday? I retrieve my phone and thumb through to the theater’s number. To my horror I can hear the line ringing out as I approach the front of the building again, right before the answering service picks up.

  This isn’t happening. Seriously—how shit can the day get?

  As though rising to the challenge, the universe decides now is a good time for one of the plastic handles on my shopping bags to snap, spilling my bagged milk all over the dirty sidewalk.

  My ass hits an upturned crate at the head of the alleyway. Kill me now. They say there’s no use crying over spilled milk, but in that moment I goddamn crack a right ripper of a tantrum. There is every reason to cry over the puddle of creamy gold that trickles toward the drain.

  I try to bring order back into my chaos by reminding myself that this isn’t the first time I’ve wondered how I’m going to eat, but all that does is make the tears come faster when I realize how useless I have to be at this career if I’m back at square one for what, the seventh, ninth time?

  How long before I crawl back to Mum and Dad with my tail between my legs and my dignity on fire behind me?

  I gain a few stares from passersby, but at this time of the day the area where the theater is remains quiet. It’s tucked between the business district and the industrial side of town; not much foot traffic sees these streets.

  I use the hem of my shirt to dab away the remnants of my temporary lapse in sanity. An irritating trill sounds from close by, and first instinct is that I’ve inadvertently set off some building alarm by trying to get in. Yet my reason kicks into gear and reminds me that I’ve been sobbing about my spilled groceries for several minutes now, so if the alarm was to go off, it would have done it straight away.

  It takes another solid minute before I realize the sound comes from somewhere on me. The trill stops as I reach for my phone, only to restart again. What the hell? I don’t recognize the alert at all. Did I set an alarm without realizing it?

  Rey Thomas – calling from Messenger ...

  Well I guess that explains that then; I’ve never used Messenger to call someone. That just goes against my natural instinct to avoid actual human interaction wherever and whenever possible.

  I touch the green icon to accept the call, careful not to nudge the video icon. “Hi.”

  “You sound like you’re answering even though you know it’s probably a scammer on the other end. Cheer up, cupcake.”

  “Sorry.” Words fail me.

  I’ve always marveled at how different people can sound on the phone as opposed to in person, but nine times out of ten they sound terrible down the line. Rey, though? Holy fuck, that man could make a woman weep.

  “What’s your bank account number?”

  I scoff. “Sure. Let me just recite that from memory.”

  He huffs. “You do realize you can use your phone while retaining a call, huh?”

  Some of us clearly don’t spend as much time doing this as others. “What do you want it for?”

  I swear I hear his palm hit his forehead. “Does seven hundred ring a bell?”

  “You sorted that?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He stays silent, presumably waiting on me to retrieve the details.

  “Just a minute.” I press the home button and navigate to my banking app, praying that I have enough data left to complete both this and his call. “Ready?”

  “Born ready, baby.”

  I ignore the swimming sensation those words ignite low in my belly and recite my account number for him.

  “Sweet. Got it.”

  “Thank you for this.”

  He huffs out a heavy breath. “Just wanted you to keep the damn flowers is all.”

  And just like that I ride the roller coaster of crazy from absolute low mere minutes ago, to a blissful high. I laugh, struggling to kill the lingering giggles as Rey chuckles in response.

  “I’ll keep the flowers.”

  “Good,” he says with mock seriousness. “Because I didn’t have a fucking clue how I was supposed to return them semi-used.”

  “How are you feeling today?”

  His end of the line falls deathly quiet before he whispers, “You saw that, huh?”

  “Kind of hard to miss.”

  “Yeah.” Both of us hang in amicable silence before he adds, “I didn’t know with your last message if you knew or not.”

  “Knew what? That you behaved like a cliché rock star?”

  “One way of putting it.”

  I’m sorely tempted to smack the video icon now, just so I can see his face. My gut tells me it’s much the same as he looked after he belted out “Descent of My Mind” last night.

  “Are you decent?” I ask the question before my nerves get the better of me.

  He scoffs. “Sure. Why?”

  I tap the icon. The image takes a second to pixelate and become clear. “Because you don’t sound like you’re okay.”

  He drops his head so all I can see is his wild hair and jaw as his shoulders rise with his sigh. “You were the one with the issue, Tabby-cat, not me.”

  “I call bullshit.”

  His face lifts at my whispered words. Our eyes connect, and no words seem relevant. It’s all there, laid out in his pained, tired gaze: he’s not okay.

  “Are they giving you a hard time about it?”

  He nods. The movement draws my focus to his surroundings.

  “Are you in bleachers?”

  “Supposed to be doing sound check.” He spins the phone to give me panoramic views of where they’ll play tonight.

  “Why aren’t you, then?”

  “I’m sulking.” He returns the phone to his face and grins.

  Any frustrations I had at the guy melt away. That, right there, was a genuine smile. I’d put my seven hundred on it.

  “Tell me what happened. From the horse’s mouth.”

  His gaze flicks past the phone, yet he holds it steady as he shrugs. “I derailed.”

  “Have you always had an issue with alcohol?”

  “Apparently.” He laughs before setting those intense grays
back on me. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Who the hell am I going to tell?” I roll my eyes.

  He shrugs again. “Anybody who’ll pay you enough.”

  “Gee. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Rey smiles again, only this time it’s a lazy quirk of his lips. “I’m cracking the shits with them because our label boss told me I have to do rehab after the tour if I want to keep my career.”

  I should be sympathizing with him, but, “Cracking the shits?” I laugh. “That doesn’t sound very American of you.”

  He chuckles. “Like it? I looked up Australian slang.”

  “I’d love it, except I’m from New Zealand, remember?”

  He pulls his lips back in a grimace. “Shit. Sorry.”

  “Forgiven.” I’m still seriously swooning that he’d do something like that just for me.

  Calm down, Tab. He probably did it out of boredom. Or not.…

  “How do you feel about rehab, though?”

  “Bummed.” He frowns, seeming to search for the right words. “I don’t think I have a problem that serious, but it’s not as though I’m always right, is it?”

  “You did smash up some cars.”

  “A car,” he corrects with a raised eyebrow. “And I did that on my way to see you.”

  Wait. What? “To see me?”

  He nods, lips twisted.

  “Why?”

  “Why not? You’re way more fun than these clowns.”

  “Fun isn’t a word I’d associate with me,” I level.

  He inclines his head in agreement. “Genuine, then.”

  “Sounds better.” I give him a small smile. “I could have used the pick-me-up today.”

  “Because of the money thing?”

  “Because of this.” I spin the phone to show my milk river.

  His laughter echoes from the device as I turn it back around. The loud twang of a guitar sounds in the background. “What the hell is that, Tabby-cat?”

  “My milk for the week. Let’s just say Kendall will be pissed when she can’t have cereal in the morning, or her cocoa at night.”

  “Chin up, babe. You’ve got seven hundred coming your way.”

  The deafening notes of their music crackle through my speakers. Rey frowns to the left of the screen, presumably at the stage. “I better go.” He hollers to be heard over the noise. “Talk later, kitty.”