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“I told you I’d stop smokingin front of you,” Noel answered as he passed the band’s dressing room door.
“You know what I meant—” Vivi went on, and now she was in the doorway. Unlike Noel, though, she stopped and looked inside, eyes falling to Remy. There was no pretending he hadn’t overheard the conversation. “You all signed a nondisclosure agreement,” Vivi said stiffly, though her lips were curved into a forced smile.
“Sorry?” Remy asked.
“A nondisclosure. Everyone signed it. I don’t want to see anything about my and Noel’s discussion online, alright?” Vivi said, voice becoming lighter, as if she were saying something kind rather than something threatening.
“I’m just here to play the drums,” Remy said reassuringly, burying the desire to scoff deep within his chest. Vivi gave him a curt nod then vanished back down the hall.
They moved from the arena hotel into the tour buses that evening after a lengthy lecture on bus etiquette from Walter’s assistant: “Always wear a seat belt while sleeping unless you want to go flying at every pothole. No fish in the microwave. If you snore, find a solution, now. The drivers will tidy up, but they’re not disposing of any biological hazards.” Despite the warnings, Remy struggled not to look awed by the bus he’d be sharing with Michael, David, and Parish—the bus slept six but wasn’t packed out as tightly as it could be.
“You two are stuck with us old-timers,” Michael said to Parish and Remy. Parish laughed a bit but didn’t seem to think it was all that funny; he looked a little longingly out the window at one of the coed dancer buses.
“This one is a nicer bus, kid. Tour long enough with Vivi and you get some perks,” David said wisely. “Theirs is a twelve-sleeper. Which is ironic, given that they never actually sleep. Party all the time on the dancer bus.”
“Twelve?” Remy said, impressed, wondering what the bunk configuration was.
“Yep. And trust me, not one of those kids will follow the no-solids rule,” Michael said, jerking his finger toward the bathroom.
“True,” Parish said. “Last tour I did, everyone was on the same bus, save the talent.”
“Whose tour?” Remy asked, curious. Probably some neo-rock outfit, given that Parish was styled more like a rock star than anyone else, with jet-black spiked hair and thick eyeliner. Remy would never have said it aloud, of course, but Parish looked like the intentional version of what Val was naturally.
“Nick Maddon,” Parish said, rolling his eyes.
“Oh,” Remy said. You couldn’t be in music without knowing at least one horror story about Nick Maddon. He was a former child star, having melted twelve-year-old hearts everywhere on a show calledLunch Bunch. He aged and, as many a child star did, wanted to make sure the world noticed: full sleeves of tattoos, a weirdly affected tough attitude, and a series of DUIs and drug arrests and vandalism charges. And a record contract, of course—like all child stars, he landed a record contract.
“Yeah,” Parish went on. “I like to party as much as the next person, but that guy…he just…damn. He made everyone drink or smoke or whatever with him, always, which was fine, but when the cops showed up, he wasn’t going to pay for everyone’s lawyers, you know? After fines I basically ended that tour right where I started, as far as my bank account goes.”
“There’s a reason he burns through bands,” David said, nodding. “If the talent’s reputation has gotten shitty enough that even the gossip sites know they’re the worst, it’s not worth taking the gig no matter what the pay is. Take that advice to the bank, kids,” he added, looking pointedly at Parish and Remy.
“Noted,” Remy said then jutted his chin toward the bunks. “Whose is whose?”
He waited as the others chose their beds; it didn’t need to be said aloud that being the new guy, he’d need to pick last, and thus he wound up stuck in a top bunk. It was, however, a nicer mattress than the one he had at home.Everythingabout the bus was nicer than he had at home. There were hardwood floors and buttery-leather couches in a living area, a small kitchen with a sink and a refrigerator stocked with sparkling and still water. The windows were covered by wooden blinds, and there were two small granite-topped tables sticking out from the sides. The bus gained even more space when parked—the living area could be extended, an additional couch folded up from the floor, and a sunshade extended on the opposite side so they could sit out with lawn chairs and beers, if so inclined.
An hour before they started off, Walter’s assistant was rushing between the buses, handing large coffees to the drivers. David was asleep, Michael was smoking, and Parish, for all his talk of the pressures and pitfalls of drinking, was on the dancer bus, seemingly enjoying strong cocktails just as much as the rest of them, if the sound of laughter was any indication.
Remy wandered outside and leaned against the bus. The sun was setting, the air warm and gentle, lavender streaks making their way across the sky. After so many days in the arena, he’d become disoriented—where was Venice Beach? Toward his right, the east, he thought, though he wasn’t certain. If it weren’t for the scent of sweet olives and salt in the air, he might have even been convinced he was no longer in LA at all. He turned his phone around a few times in his hands. Celeste and Val would probably be headed to watch someone’s gig, and he didn’t have anyone else to call.
A black SUV pulled up to the curb on the other side of the sidewalk then slowly went up and over it—no one said anything, which was how Remy knew it had to be Vivi returning from her dinner with Noel Reid. She got out of the car, lipstick still flawlessly red, tailed by one of her security guys. There was no one here to ward against, but he kept his eyes sharp, passing over Remy with a cool confidence that told him he’d memorized the tour crew and already knew Remy’s face.
“How was dinner?” Walter’s assistant’s voice rang out from between buses.
“Perfect,” Vivi said brightly, with the simplicity of someone answering an interview question. “Are we all set?” She came to a stop by Walter’s assistant and surveyed the buses, one hand still clutching the designer purse slung over her shoulder. With her heels, she was taller than him—probably taller than Remy too.
“We’re good to go,” Walter’s assistant said, looking pleased.
“I’ll go settle in, then. I want to fall asleep before we start moving. If I can. First leg still makes me nervous,” she said, and to Remy’s surprise, it looked like she really meant it.
“You could just meet us in Seattle,” Walter’s assistant said in a singsong voice that implied they’d had this conversation before.
“It’s tradition,” Vivi said playfully and knocked his shoulder before starting toward her bus—which would take her past Remy. Her heels clacked softly on the pavement, a confident tempo despite their height. When she saw Remy, she smiled again in that practiced way.
“Hey! Thanks again for joining us so late. You’re all ready to go?” she asked, as if she hadn’t snapped at him about a nondisclosure just a few hours ago.
“Yep. I’m looking forward to it,” he said, lowering his phone and turning the screen off.
“Awesome,” she said and grinned even wider. “Have a nice night with the guys on the bus! Let David know I had the galley stocked with Nutter Butters just for him. If he hasn’t found them already.”
She was gone nearly as soon as she’d appeared, a whirl of vanilla-scented lotion and blond hair, imaginary and artificial as a fairy-tale princess.
