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Chapter Eleven
Remy inhaled. The air smelled like coffee—the good kind of coffee, the sort he picked out after paydays. He turned over, reaching instinctively for the strap that would release him from his bunk. He felt groggy, like he’d been woken in the middle of a sleep cycle, but like hell was he missing out on good coffee.
There was no belt. Remy frowned then creaked open his eyes.
He wasn’t in his bunk. In a flash, he remembered—he’d lain down on Vivi’s couch, she was on the phone, it was after midnight, he was going to listen to her play while he worked, and then—
Well. Then it was seven o’clock in the morning, according to the clock on the sleek miniature microwave just visible if he craned his neck correctly. Also visible: Vivi herself.
“You’re awake,” she said, like he’d accomplished some great feat.
“Oh, god,” he said, sitting up too fast. He fought dizziness by running a hand over his head. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t even know you came in.”
“Well, I’m wearing flats,” Vivi said, motioning to her feet as if this fully explained how he’d managed to sleep through her security team sweeping the bus, her entrance, the shuffle of putting down bags, and the brewing of coffee.
“I’m so sorry,” Remy said, a swell of guilt building in his stomach. He was a professional—and professionals didn’t fall asleep in the talent’s bus. He should have left, should have let the line disconnect if that’s what it meant. His worry wasn’t helped by the fact Vivi wasn’t smiling or laughing or even teasing him; she was just somewhat stonily making coffee. She looked pleasant, the way she always did, but there was nothing forgiving in her face. She said, “It’s done. You’re here, and there’s no way people will miss you getting off my bus, so we’ve just got to deal with it. But I’m not dealing with anything until I’ve made coffee. So just give me a minute, okay?”
Remy licked his lips, breathing through his mouth to quiet the sound of air, like he used to do when playing hide-and-seek with Val. Vivi moved intentionally, one scoop of sugar, a little half-and-half, her face expressionless, almost robotic. When the coffee was done, she turned and leaned on the counter, without looking at him, then took a few careful sips.
“Okay,” she said, exhaling. “Okay. The band will have missed you on your bus, so even if you get out of here without a photo, someone will figure it out.”
“I’ll say I booked a hotel or something—”
“No, no, if you make too many excuses, someone willreallyknow something’s up,” Vivi said. How was her voice so frightening when it was so calm? Perhaps it was the threat of that calm breaking, becoming a shouting match? Remy pressed his lips together. “People will think we were here together, and that’ll just make everything happening with Noel right now worse…” Vivi said.
“Are you sure? Aren’t there pictures of you in New York to prove—”
“Remy, I’ve done this before, okay?” Vivi said, voice commanding. “Let me fix this.”
“Sorry. Right. Sorry,” Remy said, hating himself harder than he thought possible. Who the fuck fell asleep on their boss’s bus?
Vivi nodded to herself then pulled out her phone. She laid it on the table, on speaker.
“Hey, Vivi! What’s up?” a cheery female voice asked—though there was a groggy undertone that made it pretty clear she’d been woken up.
“Hey, Aspen. I want to get ahead of something.”
“On it, on it, on it,” Aspen said, and there was a shuffling of papers and sheets. “Go.”
“My drummer, Remy Young, has been working on some production stuff with me, but we haven’t announced it. He fell asleep on my bus last night, while I was in New York.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Who does that?” Aspen asked.
“Me,” Remy muttered.
“Oh, he’s still there?” Aspen said unapologetically.
“I’m waiting for a plan. I’m thinking we just announce that we’re working together?”
“That’s big. Is there time to do a check?”
“Not really. We did one before the tour that came up clean.”
“Remy—Remember Young, right? Quiet Coyote…” Aspen muttered. Remy found Vivi’s eyes for a scattered second but couldn’t discern if Aspen was talkingtohim or through him. “Alright, Remy, listen—is there anything we want to know about you? Anything not on your record check? Crimes? Anything? Tell me now. Right now. This is your only chance to come clean before shit gets real.”
“Um—” Remy said, voice strangled. “Nothing. I mean, nothing that I think is a big—”
“Let me be the judge of that. Tell me anything that the media might like.”
