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“Don’t worry, Jules,” she told me. “I’ve got it. It’s in the bag.”
Sweat trickled down my neck, my temples. Princess’s strap was stuck to my back through my shirt. The air was thick with sweat and the smell of bodies pressed together. My temples pounded. Past the earpiece in my ear, I could hear the crowd.
In front of me, facing the crowd, Denver lifted his arms, and the lights silhouetted him against the darkness. His shirt was soaked. We were forty-five minutes into our set, and he was flying high. He had the entire place in the palm of his hand.
I glanced down at the setlist taped to the amp in front of me, then locked gazes with Stone, a few feet away. He nodded. We were going into “Starshine” next, then “Fuck You, California.” The music wasn’t even in my head at this point—it was in my body, my fingers, my blood. I was in the zone. All I needed to do was play.
Denver addressed the crowd. “We have a new bass player,” he said, and cheers rose up. “We begged her to play with us, and she finally said yes. Everyone, this is Juliet Barstow.”
He gestured to me, the lighting guy put a spotlight on me, and the room lit up with cheers. I leaned over to speak into my microphone. “Hey, Seattle,” I said.
Denver gave me one of his asshole grins, then turned back to the crowd. “Neal is chilling out for a bit,” he said, “but I’m getting itchy feet. I don’t know. I’m thinking about a little trip down the coast in our bus. Maybe further. It’s been a while.”
The roar was rising so loud it got harder to hear him. Or maybe that was the roar in my head.
“What do you think, Stone?” Denver asked.
“I’m in,” Stone said into his mic, and that was when I knew for sure that they had talked about it. Those assholes had already talked about a tour and agreed amongst themselves. Without me.
What did I expect? It was in the name of the fucking band, the Road Kings. They had built their reputation by touring live. They had done it nonstop for over a decade, their entire twenties. The albums were great and the rehearsals were fun, but live shows were what the Road Kings did. They whipped up a sweaty crowd, gave them a good time, and sent them home. Like tonight.
“Well, Juliet?” Denver looked at me again, grinning. Of course they had planned it. And he was asking me onstage, in front of everyone. I really should dick punch him one of these days. All of them.
“Want to take a vacation?” Denver asked when I paused too long.
“I want to play the rest of this show,” I shot back into my mic. “But, fine. If you’re taking a ride in that bus, I guess I’ll go.”
“I knew you would,” he said over the crowd. Then Stone played the intro to “Starshine,” and we weren’t talking anymore.
TWENTY-FOUR
Finn
The show was amazing. I could have watched from backstage, but I preferred the view from the audience with everyone else. Juliet wore a black shirtdress over tights and lace-up Doc Martens, like she’d escaped the nineties, and she’d put on her dark eyeliner. The only pop of color on her goth look was her bright red lipstick. She played like a badass and was as sexy as a dream under the lights.
The Road Kings were going to tour. It wasn’t surprising. If the Road Kings didn’t bring Juliet on tour, they would be much stupider than I thought they were. The vibe was different without Neal Watts onstage, but Juliet changed the energy, made it crackle and spark. She was in her element, playing with musicians who gave her every chance to do what she was capable of. They were already better than they were the last time I’d seen them in Portland. Of course they’d go on the road.
The Road Kings didn’t do long tours anymore, but any tour with Juliet would be a success. So they’d do another. And another. If I had to guess, they’d keep her even after Neal came back, switching off bass and rhythm guitar between the two of them. It’s what I would do if it were me. She was already going to play on the next album. Juliet had always been good enough to deserve the spotlight, and it was finally happening. She was getting it.
She’d get new opportunities. Money. Celebrity. She’d meet guys who weren’t me.
I looked at the woman onstage and I wanted every piece of her, the wild pieces and the difficult pieces and the soft, sexy, vulnerable pieces. I wanted her angry pieces and her bitingly funny pieces. But I’d had her for only a weekend, and I didn’t know if I would ever have her again. Was I supposed to try and tie her down, keep her close to me? Was I supposed to tell her not to go? I didn’t have it in me. Juliet had waited so long, worked so hard, and this was what she wanted.
After “Bad Night” ended and the show emptied out, I made my way through the crowd toward the security guard manning the backstage exit. I stopped when someone tapped my shoulder.
The guy was in his twenties, with light brown skin and curly hair tied back in a man bun. “Sorry,” he said politely. “This sounds crazy, but are you Finn Wiley?”
I smiled. I hadn’t been recognized here in the dark, wearing a black baseball cap. The No One Expects Finn Wiley effect. The fact that this guy had picked me out of a crowd was actually flattering.
“I am,” I said to him. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, my god. My god. I knew it was you. This is so exciting. You need to make another album!”
The request was surprising. My fan interactions were always about nostalgia, about how old they were and where they were when they listened to “Ice Cream Girlfriend.” No one ever talked about my other albums or assumed I had a future music career.
I signed an autograph for him and took a selfie. His name was Nathan, and I thanked him and moved on before the people around us could get curious about whether someone actually famous was in the crowd. Then I made my way to the security guy and showed him the pass I’d picked up at the will call.
Denver, not Juliet, had put me on the list. I had the feeling that Denver either suspected I was involved with Juliet, or he wanted me to record something at Road Kings Studios so he was buttering me up, but it didn’t matter. I hadn’t been backstage anywhere in years, and the smell of sweat and floor cleaner floating down the low, dark corridor brought back visceral memories in my head. I had been backstage in stadiums in Paris, Rio, Tokyo. I had been seventeen, excited, terrified. Sometimes Dad was with me. Other times, I was alone. I had played shows when I was sick, exhausted, recovering from a hangover, or sweating out last night’s coke high. My childhood and formative years had happened in dressing rooms, green rooms, buses, airplanes.
