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Remy shook his head and grabbed a bottle. “Not a studio. Touring. I’ll be gone for six weeks.”
Then he tossed his brother the bottle of water, which Val almost missed despite his eyes being particularly wide at the moment.
Remy hadn’t meant for the words to clunk from his mouth like that. He’d meant to get through the show tonight, to perform big and proud and go home, then tell Val in the morning, which was the responsible and adult thing to do. The show, however, was such a damn convenient distraction—it meant Val wouldn’t have all that long to rage about the news, since they had to be onstage in ten.
It also was a pretty cowardly thing to do, and Remy knew it. He ducked his head, pretending to be distracted by the broken zipper on his jacket.
“Six weeks? Did you just say six weeks?” Val said. His voice was even, but in a dangerous sort of way—the steady drone of a growling dog before lunging.
“Yeah. It’s a last-minute thing, the other guy broke his arm on a skateboard,” Remy said, trying to make his voice bouncy and light.Oh, I had no idea this would be a problem! I have no idea why you’re angry, Val! I’m just the drummer!
“What kind of punk-ass idiot gets on a skateboard before a tour?” the keyboardist said, and it was a real question and a much-needed one—the keyboardistdidn’tknow just how angry Val was, which meant his question carved out at least a few layers of tension.
“I know, right?” Remy answered. “Dumbass.”
“Six weeks,” Val said again, flatly. “Six weeks, seriously? You just take a tour for six weeks without even talking to me? You’re in our band, dumbass. How am I supposed to replace you on such short notice?”
“I have a buddy who drums—” the keyboardist began then stopped when he saw the fire in Val’s eyes. The keyboardist looked like he had many regrets, including but not limited to: speaking, meeting Val, and being born.
Remy lowered his voice. “It’s just a pretty great opportunity, Val. I’m sure we can find a drummer who can play our stuff. I’ll even head up the search if you need me to.”
“I don’t wanta drummer, Remy. You’re my brother, you’re the producer, and you’re one of the original members. I wantyouplaying with me. I know I can finda drummer,” Val said, shaking his head. “You aren’t available. We have gigs lined up. And besides, what’s the point? Why go on tour to play drums when you can play drums here?”
Remy opened his mouth to respond—though, even at this point, he hadn’t worked out what exactly he would say—but Celeste jumped in, diffusing as best she could. “Who’s the tour with?” she asked.
“Vivi Swan. I played on her album, so I already know the songs.”
The room went still. Then the keyboardist snorted and shook his head in something between jealousy and wonder. Celeste’s mouth curled into a smile. “Okay! Finally you know! It all got announced online this morning, but I couldn’t tell you sinceyoudidn’t know about the job yet.”
“Wait, what?” Remy said.
“Everyone in pop culture knew you were getting offered the job. That producer Skipper leaks like a sieve, Remy.”
“Huh. He did say he’d already told Vivi’s people I’d take it,” Remy said thoughtfully.
“Can we focus? Who the fuck is Vivi Swan?” Val asked. “Do we know her?”
“You know her. Everyone knows her,” Celeste said and immediately opened her laptop. She typed at the speed of light then began to rattle off the names of Vivi Swan’s exes—musicians and actors and models and sons of politicians who had populated her screen. There were more people than Remy had dated, period.
“That girl hasproblems, you hear me? Daddy issues,” the keyboardist said.
“Her parents are great. They live in Tennessee. One’s a dentist,” Celeste challenged.
“How do you know they’re great? Have youmetthem?” the keyboardist answered.
“I’m just saying that you can’t claimdaddy issuesjust because someone dates lots of guys. And then writes songs about them. That make her insanely popular. Look—my money comes from gossip articles, and I know it. Her money comes from breakup songs, and she knows it. I can respect that. She’s ridden the breakup song thing into platinum records and commercials and a freaking traveling Grammy Museum exhibit. She’s dating Noel Reid right now, and I amso excitedto hear whatever breakup song she writes about him.”
Val looked disgusted, like Remy had told him he was taking a part-time job as a sewage inspector. He peered at the photos Celeste had pulled up. “Six weeks ofthat? Look at the stage in those concert pictures. What the hell is that?”
“She had a candy-themed set in her last show,” Celeste said and narrowed the search field to include only concert photos. Dozens of photos of Vivi Swan appeared, leggy and blond, with pointed eyeliner and cherry-red lipstick. She was posing amid brightly colored palm trees and lollipops and sunshines with faces. It looked like she’d been dropped into an animated painting. Behind her, dancers wore giant, goofy smiles. And behindthemwas the band, including the drummer Remy suspected he was replacing, who was playing a kit with neon pink-and-yellow swirl covers.
Val busted out laughing, but it was cold. “It looks like he’s playing on a drum set made out of an acid trip. You’re better than this shit, man. Come on. This isn’t an opportunity, it’s a punishment.” If he couldn’t get Remy to quit with guilt, he’d try basic shaming.
“Val. She’s playing an arena of sixty thousand,” the keyboardist said, pointing to the shot of Vivi Swan taken from behind her so that rather than the stage, you saw the audience—a dark stadium with a billion tiny lights from cell phones and cameras and glow sticks. Vivi Swan looked like she was about to be swallowed by them but had her shoulders back and head up like it wouldn’t hurt, or maybe like it would but she didn’t care.
Val rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever, man. It’s not just that I hate pop music—it’s that she’s not even a musician. She’s a product.” He was right, of course. Vivi Swan had a perfume line and a deal with Diet Coke, and Remy was pretty sure she’d been in some CoverGirl commercials at some point. She was manufactured in a way Quiet Coyote had never been—which was, perhaps, why she’d outlasted Quiet Coyote. She was custom-made; they were a happy accident.
“Seriously though, Remy, tell me what she’s like,” Celeste said, sounding hungry. “If there’s any insider information…”
