Fulcrum (Dark Tide Book 4)

by Max Henry

  "Hold the tremolo at the end and carry that through to the next bar this time."

  Emery nods, repositioning his hands to start the section over. I let him get a full run-through before he signals me in and begins from the top. Hickory tips hit the skin, and once more, I find myself in that blissful state of between where nothing matters and fuck all registers. The synchronicity of music is what first drew me in, the levels and multi-faceted viewpoints one could take on what most might call a basic tune. Our fans probably hear rhythm lines such as these and fall in love with the steady beat, reminiscent of their eager hearts. But for me, it's finding the pocket, the way Em knows just when to add a little gas to the note or back off and let the drums take center stage.

  We work together well, and that's at the core of what makes Dark Tide so fucking addictive. Equally as much as my pretty boy brother being at the heart of what our fans love to see.

  Music is so much more than the song. Intrinsically deeper than a perfect lyrical line or the heartfelt emotion Rey pours into the words. It's the whole package: the people, the mood, the journeys that brought us to where we are. I could write a song and hand it off to a crew of clean-cut guys who trained at the best music school in the state, and they wouldn't have half the impact we do as a band.

  Performance is art of the soul. You have to be all in, or it shows.

  "Would it be an easier transition if we repeated the third phrase after the hook?"

  I shift my focus to Emery and chew the inside of my bottom lip. "We could try."

  He leans back on his sofa, easing the bass into his lap. "Everything okay with Rey?"

  As usual, the questions relate to anyone but me. "He's fine. They changed his meds up, and the tweak appears to have leveled him better than what the last concoction did."

  "He's got to be down with the progress, though," Em states. "Meds aren't the whole solution."

  "You don't think he fucking knows that?" I bury my face in one hand and sigh. "Sorry, man. Did you want to try it with the third phrase?"

  "Sure." He frowns, leaning forward to position his guitar again.

  I feel like an asshole when he simply wants to help, but I don't feel like discussing Rey unless he wants to ask what the real issue is. My brother isn't a problem. It's the woman whose latest message glides into place as a notification in the top right of my screen.

  She's tried daily to get me to talk, but I don't think a pow-wow with the woman is the right answer. Fuck—I never ran it past Rick. PR 101. Always let your manager know when you plan to chat with the media. She might be a journalist for some small online press, but she's a vulture all the same.

  I beat my way through four more runs of the bassline with Emery before lifting my sticks to signal I'm done. "I think I need to let this sit for a while. Everything starts to sound the same."

  "Yeah." Em sets his guitar aside. "I know." He extends a leg to knock his amp off and then reaches for the cigarettes beside him. "Rick been in touch with you?"

  I spin on my stool and reach for a cloth to wipe down the sticks. "Not in the last few days. Why?"

  I catch the crackle of Emery lighting up. "Wallace asked for a copy of our contracts to review."

  I snap my head around. "What the fuck? What else could he fucking want?" As it was, the fine print in our current contracts meant that Rey had to continue past what was goddamn healthy for us to remain on the label. They damn near killed my brother due to the inability to change our schedule, and now he wants more?

  "Rick said something about performance-based bonus system over percentage." The end of his cigarette glows a deep orange, smoke pooling around his face as he sighs. "In short, they want Rey to suffer every time he relapses."

  "That's fucking discrimination." My fists tighten on my thighs. "They can't do that."

  Emery shrugs a shoulder. "You know they can if they label it as performance-driven, not related to his state of mind."

  "Fucking asshole." I stand and take two steps to retrieve my towel. "Kick a dog while it's down, right?" Em grumbles in agreement while I wipe the cotton across the back of my neck and arms. I drag the towel down my bare chest as I turn back to the screen. "I wonder why Rick phoned you and not me."

  "Might have figured we'd talk, and it saved him the job of wearing your shitty mood." He smirks.

  Fucker is dead right. "I bet that's exactly what it is." The guy might be good at heart, but he's a fucking coward and useless at what he does. Well, until Rey damn near derailed the end of the tour. A little pressure seems to have polished our rough diamond when it comes to Rick. "I'll give him a call later."

  "Don't mention I said anything."

  I chuckle. "Why the fuck not? That's probably what he expected you to do."

  "Yeah," Emery says. "But he's mad enough at me as it is. Don't need more fuel for the fire."

  "Stop giving him a reason to be mad, then." Another drunken stunt after he got Kris and his woman back together. Another PR nightmare when photos of Emery passed out at the airport surfaced. "How's Alice?"

  He lifts his middle finger and disconnects the call.

  "Must be good, then," I mutter, fisting the towel in my right hand.

  Fucking Wallace and his bullshit hard-nosed attitude. Sure, it's his place to ride us. Somebody has to keep us in line and on schedule, but I thought I did a pretty good job of that myself. Between our stage manager, Jericho, and myself, we managed to have every show run on time and without significant issues. Yeah, Rey might have said a few controversial things, and Emery was drunk more often than not, but that's rock and roll, right? Nothing out of the ordinary.

  If the fans are offended by anger and intoxication, they're at the wrong concert.

  After ditching the towel in the wash basket, I snatch up my phone from where it rests on the kitchen counter and head outdoors. The clouds shield most of the heat from the sun, and as a consequence, the air holds a definite chill. I savor the bite of the cold, welcoming the gooseflesh that pebbles my bare torso.

  Jeanie's latest message shows a notification on the lock screen, and I slide it to open the thread. Eight bubbles from her and not one from me. I can't ignore her forever, just like I can't forget how Rey's behavior affects our careers. All of us. I have a lot more patience for it since we're blood, but how long until Kris or Emery decide they need more stability in their job?

  Can a unique sound hold four people together when one is a goddamn dumpster fire? That's not fair. We all have our issues; it's just that Rey's are more visible than most.

  You know I won't give up.

  Not words that are anything new when it comes to Jeanie, but the simple sentence seems more personal than usual. I get the sense she speaks more of her character than her personality as a journalist. The only reason I haven't replied is that I don't know what the hell to say. I made it clear with her jackass boss that nobody will be giving anyone an interview. I expect him to back the fuck off, and getting the waters muddy with his little pet doesn't help anything.

  Although, it doesn't take a genius to figure out the real reason I stumble over what to say. For some fucked up reason, I don't want to hurt her feelings when I blow her off.

  What the hell is that all about?

  I set the phone down on the low garden wall and take a seat beside it. Face buried in my hands, I draw three deep breaths to clear my head before allowing myself to think on it some more. Emery didn't ask how I was. He didn't question what bothered me—he jumped straight to Rey. And what was the first thought when he did that? Jeanie would have asked about me. Boo fucking hoo. Do I honestly consider going against my bandmates, my management, because a girl shows an interest in me? A purely professional one. I can't ignore that. Her only angle is one that concerns her.

  So much for finding a woman who wants what's inside, jackass.

  Why, vulture?

  I type the simple reply and send it before thinking too hard about where I steer the conversation. She replies within minutes, rousing me from my s
hame-induced anger.

  Thank fuck – you are alive. You know, you haven't posted on social media for a goddamn week. Are you trying to give the world a heart attack?

  The world. More like her. I crack a half-smile at that little nugget of truth.

  Is that so unusual when I only just restarted my Facebook account?

  I despise the fake and toxic nature of social media. It took a hell of a lot just to get me on one platform; I won't relent with the others.

  The band pages had nothing from you.

  Phone between my hands, I sit slouched forward, elbows on knees, and stare at that sentence. Again, this feels so much deeper than a simple journo looking for scraps.

  You realize that shit is scheduled a month in advance and not by us?

  Her bubbles dance and then stop before restarting for a simple, Duh.

  You could have called. I toss the suggestion out there and wait to see how she takes it.

  That seemed a little too invasive. Jeanie adds a flat-lined smiley face emoji. I didn't want to be yelled at.

  Our first conversation springs to mind. Fair point. I reread my response, not satisfied with how short and non-committal it is. The two words don't show that I want to continue this back and forth; I don't want her to have an opening to stop. Do you own a car?

  I roll my bottom lip between my teeth while I wait.

  Um, no. Why?

  I almost hammer out a message saying I'll pick her up for another chat, but there are two things wrong with that scenario. One, I'd trap her; she can't leave when she feels incensed to without relying on me to get her home. And two, I've gone and decided somewhere along the line that to hell with the rules, I want these talks for me.

  Got plans this weekend?

  Does eating my weight in marshmallows count?

  I chuckle at her response, noting that my skin isn't quite as pebbled anymore. It seems my vulture knows how to warm a man. Message me your email. Don't ask why.

  She doesn't hesitate. You know that's not in my nature, so … Why?

  Just do as you're damn well told.

  I set the phone down, ending the thread with a smile on my face and a deep sense of relaxation in my muscles I haven't found in a while. The tension in my neck is less, and I realize that my jaw isn't as stiff as usual. I carry a lot of stress in my body—something my physio was quick to point out pre-tour—but I always figured it to be one of the ways that I'm wired.

  What if it's not? And even freakier, what if my mortal enemy is the remedy?

  TWENTY-TWO

  Jeanie

  “Just Started” – The Iron Eye

  “He booked me a flight.” I pause for effect. “A first-class flight.”

  “What?” Kelly screeches, leaning across to snatch the smartphone from my hands. “Holy shit.” Her eyes widen as she reads the evidence in my email. “For this weekend.”

  I nod.

  “Would it be rude to take a travel buddy?” She gives me a pained smile, handing the device back.

  “You want to come too?” I laugh, expecting it to be a have, but she nods, eager and serious as can be. Fuck. “Probably a bit rude, don’t you think?”

  My sister shrinks in her seat, pout twisting her full lips down. “I guess.”

  “Besides.” I reach out and nudge her knee with my socked toes. “I don’t want a first-row witness to my humiliation when he undoubtedly cuts this whole connection.”

  “You think he’d do that?” Her gaze flicks to me. “Buy you a ticket to see him so that he could do it in person.”

  I shrug. “Artists are creative types. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “What did he say when he left last week?”

  “Not much. He just walked out after Charles arrived.”

  A playful smirk crosses my sister’s lips. “You think he was jealous?”

  My shoulders drop, and I fix her with a hard stare. “For real?”

  “Meh.” She shrugs, kicking both legs over the arm of my sofa. “Figured the most logical reason. I mean, you said he was here for hours before that, and then Chuck turns up all sexy and stuff like he is, and Toby bolts.” Kelly lifts one eyebrow. “Think about it.”

  I throw a cushion at her head. “I think you’re delusional.”

  “A girl can dream. So, what are we watching tonight?”

  “Hadn’t decided.” Wednesdays are our movie night. A tradition that started when we were both in high school and one we picked up a few years back after a short hiatus. She loves horror, and I love action. Together, we pick some interesting flicks. “Nothing new lately has grabbed my attention.”

  “I know,” she groans. “It’s like the movie houses are on a comedy and documentary kick. So much stuff about dead people, or some cheesy couple who nobody in their right mind would be a thing like.”

  “Right?” I snort, setting my phone aside. “You want to do a rerun then?”

  “Why the hell not.” She settles even further into the cushions. “Grab the lights, yeah?”

  “Lazy-ass.” I push out of my seat and head for the switch. “How are things with what’s-his-name?”

  “History.” Kelly sighs. “I think it’s time to swear off men again.”

  She does this every year—dates intensely for six to nine months, and then has a three-month stay of celibacy until her hormones dictate that she seeks out the first eager dick at the bar. It’s unhealthy, but after years of trying to change her, it seems to be the way she operates.

  “You need to find a guy whose intensity is spread over the long term.”

  “Says my spinster sister.” Kelly biffs the cushion back at me the second my ass hits the chair. “When was the last time you went on a date?”

  “Dates are overrated.” I like to cut to the chase, get deep and dirty straight away. I want to know a person’s flaws and vulnerabilities and decide from the get-go if they’ll play nice with mine. Why commit to several hours of beating around the bush when one honest conversation could speed things along? Consequently, most men don’t appreciate this approach—especially not from women.

  Twenty-first century and deep down, most males still prefer their lady with a gentile filter straight from the factory.

  “Are we going eighties? Nineties? Or newer?” Kelly navigates the TV, remote in hand, where it hangs lazily off the side of the seat.

  “Hit me with the eighties.” I’m in the mood for a classic.

  Eighties hair bands were what made me first fall in love with rock. The enthusiasm and passion they brought to the stage, coupled with the fact songs back then actually told a story—I was hooked. Studiously listening to my dad’s records after school, finding whatever old news stories I could on these seeming gods of lyrical genius. I fell hard and fast, addicted to the need to know everything I could about each one of them.

  Most girls my age had cute diaries filled with the names of boys they liked and what girl acted like a bitch that day. Me? I had a hardcover journal stacked with facts and timelines about my favorite musicians. I could tell you at what age Slash met Axel Rose, what strange pre-show ritual Keith Richard had, and how Angus Young met his wife.

  Even now, I know there’s a system to the numbers, a pattern. I promise to figure it out before my sight and ears fail me. The path to the top isn’t cut and dried, a simple step-by-step. It’s curated and molded to fit the individual, but I swear that through the lessons of the artists who went before, the young generation could avoid a lot of mistakes and traps. Our favorite creators could lead a happier and more purpose-filled life. Maybe it’s a pipedream, but I won’t know if I give up before I’ve properly begun.

  “Terminator?” Kelly presses her lips together. “Or Running Man?”

  “Feel like a bit of Arnie, huh?”

  She huffs. “If I’m watching action for your sake, it at least needs to have one of the greats in it.”

  “Running Man.” I move to make us some popcorn and knock my phone to the floor in the process. It clatters against
the leg of the coffee table, screen lighting up to show a new message.

  Snatched in my hand, I ferry the device to the safety of the kitchen and swipe the screen open with my right hand while reaching for the kernels with my left.

  Get the email?

  It didn’t occur to me he’d want confirmation.

  Sure did. First-class? Flashy.

  He takes a moment to answer, my screen lighting up as the popcorn turns in the microwave.

  “Throw some extra butter in, please!” Kelly’s request precedes the trumpet and drums of the movie’s intro.

  I wanted you to be comfortable.

  It’s only a few hours, I send back before realizing how ungrateful I sound. Thank you. Do I need to bring body armor? A helmet? Something to defend me?

  He sends a laughing emoji. Uh, no. What the fuck do you think we’re doing?

  I decant the bag of popcorn into two bowls and bin the rubbish. I honestly have no idea. I didn’t think you trusted me. Maybe I don’t trust you? I punctuate with a grinning emoji to show I just want to give him a wind-up.

  His reply comes through right as I deposit Kelly’s bowl of popcorn in her lap. Great.

  “Who’s that?” Her question doesn’t fool anyone.

  “You know.” I get settled in my seat, knees up to hold my bowl, and keep my nosy sister at bay.

  “Do I need to pause this?” She waggles the remote in the air. “What does he want? Your lingerie size?”

  “For fuck’s sake.” I throw my head back. “Quit while you’re ahead, huh?”

  “But it’s so much fun seeing you all hot under the collar.” Bitch grins.

  “I am not.” My voice comes out way whinier than I’d intended. “This is strictly work.”

  She snorts, turning back to the TV while muttering under her breath, “And I’d like to work him.”