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Chapter Three
“There’s a stylist who picks out my clothes. They’ll be delivered at the rehearsals,” Remy said when Celeste lifted an eyebrow at his largely empty bag. There was one pair of jeans, two T-shirts, boxer shorts, undershirts, and a handful of store-brand toiletries.
“They pick yourclothes?” Val said, shaking his head. “For fuck’s sake. Are they going to dress you like a piece of Laffy Taffy to match the set?”
“I don’t think so,” Remy said, but he didn’t really know. They weren’t going to literally dress him like a piece of candy, he figured, but they could very well want him in some sort of bright-pink tank top or banana-yellow shorts or whatever. He involuntarily grimaced at the thought. His sense of self wasn’t as tied to shades of black as Val’s was, but banana-yellow still wasn’t exactly his vibe.
“You’re going to regret this,” Val said, sighing—he’d traded in anger for parental-brand disappointment. He smiled sardonically. “At least I’ll get a picture of you dressed as a piece of candy as a souvenir, though.”
“I’ll buy the frame as repayment for springing it all on you,” Remy offered and grinned. It was an attempt at a truce, and it seemed to work—a little, anyhow. Val nodded and looked around, like he was thinking of where he’d hang the candy photo.
“If you need any information on stuff in my name, it’s in my room. Red folder,” Remy said, more to Celeste than Val. She nodded, understanding that Remy meant more than old copies of power bills—he meant information on Val. The therapist, the counselor, the people at the treatment facility Val had been at for a few weeks, all details he’d taken her through last night.
“We’re taking your room while you’re gone, cool?” Celeste cut in.
“Yeah, fine,” Remy said. “Don’t smoke in my bed.”
“How’re you gonna stop us?” Val answered and grinned wickedly.
Remy sighed. “Whatever. I need to head out,” he said, stooping to swing his bag—an old orange camping backpack—over his shoulder. Remy danced around the wordleaving.He washeading out. He wasgoing to work. He wastaking a gig. Taking a gig was something easily understood, something that made sense, something temporary, dictated by contracts and signatures rather than emotions and music.Leavingwas something else entirely. They’d left before, six years ago, when they crossed the Florida state line and made a vow to never look—or write, or call—back, the van seeping with cigarette smoke and the scent of sweat and hunger andfreedom.
This wasn’t leaving. Leaving meant never coming back. This was just a vacation, not a split, not a break, not forever. They could do this.
“Right. Later,” Val said then reached for Remy’s shoulder and pulled him close into a hug that, had it lasted one moment less, would have been little more than a clap on the back. As soon as Val released Remy, Celeste swooped in, hugging him tightly in a way that made him certain she was hugged as a child. She was stronger than she looked, and up close she smelled like coconut and lemongrass.
She pulled back and left her hands on his shoulders, looking him square in the eye. “And remember—being an anonymous source pays well. I won’t stiff you just because you’re basically my brother-in-law, okay? You’ll get the five grand like everyone else.”
“How generous,” Remy said, smirking.
A half hour later, he’d arrived at the arena loading docks, which were largely empty save for two semitrucks, both of which had already been wrapped with giant pictures of Vivi Swan’s face peering at him over big sunglasses. VIVI SWAN—SWEETHEARTS WORLD TOUR was splashed across it in a cheery, neon-pink font. Maybe Val was right, Remy thought, and hewouldbe dressed as a giant piece of Laffy Taffy.
“Hey, man,” Remy said, tilting his chin at a man sitting in a lawn chair flicking at his phone aimlessly. “I’m Remy Young. I play the drums.”
“You got clearance?” the guy—Phil, according to the name tag on his beaten Microsoft Theater polo shirt—asked, lifting his eyebrows.
“I’ve got nothing. They just told me to be here at nine,” Remy explained. He still had fifteen minutes, which was less time than he liked, given that he didn’t know if Vivi Swan was the “where the hell is everyone, we’re supposed to start at nine” sort or the “wait, we had rehearsal at nine?” sort.
Phil eyed Remy, then his camping backpack, then sighed and grabbed for a walkie. In a few moments, a sunny guy with movie-star slick hair and an enormous coffee stuck his head out one of the side doors, balancing to keep it open with his foot.
“Come on in!” the guy—thishadto be Walter, the tour manager he’d talked to on the phone—called. Remy thanked Phil, who didn’t respond, then hurried to the door.
“Hey, Walter Cunningham?” Remy said, smiling and offering his hand.
“Nope. I’m his assistant,” the guy said. He shook Remy’s hand briefly then turned and started down the hallway, neat leather shoes clicking on the concrete floor as Remy struggled to keep up. “Walter’s on the phone and probably will be all morning, but I can get you started. Did you get a copy of all the music?”
“Got everything printed out in the bag,” Remy said.
“Perfect. She likes to do covers every now and then, but it’s usually nothing difficult, especially for the drummer,” Walter’s assistant said. “We try to get music out, but you probably want to make sure your tablet is always charged in case we can’t get a printer.” Remy opted not to mention that he didn’t own a tablet.
The hallways were labyrinthine, bare save for the occasional piece of neon paper labeledTo StageorTo Talent DressingorCrew. Walter’s assistant sipped his coffee loudly and sped up, moving so fast that Remy was both amazed the guy could walk so quickly and struggling not to pant as he hurried behind.
“You need coffee? Water? Anything? Say so now, since they’re about to start,” Walter’s assistant called over his shoulder.
“I’m set,” Remy said, and they finally reached the hall that circled the bottom floor of the arena. Tunnels popped up every dozen yards or so, giving Remy a few moments to glimpse inside. The seats roared to the ceiling, ghostly for their vacancy. The musicians already onstage were tuning, plucking, and sound checking, while a handful of people wearing headsets were scurrying back and forth, dodging dancers as they did so. Walter’s assistant finally turned right, down one of the tunnels, and the arena unfolded above Remy’s head.
“Toss your bag anywhere for now, it’ll be safe. I’ll get your paperwork,” Walter’s assistant said, motioning to the area on the edge of the stage, already messy with water bottles and sweatshirts and cell phones. Remy obeyed, ran a hand through his hair, then took a deep breath. It was time to drop the worry over leaving Val on his own for so long, the wariness over knotting himself to someone like Vivi Swan. It was time to work, and Remy had always, always been a professional.
“Alright, so, here’s all the basics,” Walter’s assistant said when he returned, the pen between his teeth muddling his words. He had yet another clipboard now and pushed it into Remy’s hands. There were highlighter marks at all the places Remy needed to initial, sign, or fill in information. It was standard—length of contract, expectations, the whole shebang. There was, of course, the nondisclosure, just as Remy had told Celeste there would be. Along with this there was a place for Remy to fill in information on any “close friends or family significantly involved” in the entertainment business, along with the names of their bands or shows or websites or YouTube pages, presumably so Vivi Swan’s people could scour them for anything potentially damaging to the Vivi Swan machine.
