Indigo Rain

by Elise Noble

  “Whoever that woman on the phone was, she’s a genius. Red Bennett turned up with four Ghost masks and a fake cast, we sat him behind Dex, Twitter’s gone crazy, and even Gary’s happy because we’ve scored some publicity that didn’t involve us breaking shit.”

  “Nobody noticed Red wasn’t Travis?”

  “Nah, the woman couldn’t take her eyes off JD, and Gary couldn’t take his eyes off her legs.”

  “So what’s with the ‘mostly’?”

  “Reagan walked in just as Red was taking off his mask.”

  Travis groaned. “Will she keep her mouth shut?”

  “Not sure. We had to tell her where you’d gone, and she got real funny after she realised Alana went with you.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Why would that matter?” I asked. “It was just work.”

  Well, apart from the falling-asleep-in-Travis’s-arms part on the way back, but I didn’t even want to think about that because it confused the hell out of me. Thankfully, I’d come to my senses and crept back to the main cabin before he woke up.

  Rush and Travis looked at each other.

  “Do you want to tell her or should I?” Rush asked.

  “I’ve been trying to erase it from my mind.”

  “Me then. A month ago, Travis accidentally slept with Reagan, and since then, she’s been pushing for a repeat.”

  My stomach dropped faster than a runaway freight elevator. “He what? How do you accidentally sleep with someone?”

  Travis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jack Daniels. Haven’t touched alcohol since. I don’t remember a thing about it except waking up with her on top of me, and my… Well, one part of me was still functioning properly.”

  “And you didn’t encourage her?”

  “Might be hard to believe, but I have to like a girl to fuck around with them, even if I’ve been drinking. And I’ve never liked Reagan. Gary hired her, for one thing.”

  “But… But… If you didn’t participate, or consent, then surely that’s assault?”

  Rape, even. And if he’d forgotten everything, maybe it’d been more than just alcohol. What if she’d slipped a roofie into his drink or something? I wouldn’t have put it past her. I’d poured out my secrets to Travis, and he’d been bottling this up inside.

  “And who would believe me if I told them?” he asked.

  “You should…”

  I trailed off because Travis was right. Who would believe him? He’d spent years cultivating his reputation as a womanising party animal, and unless you knew the real him, which I liked to hope I was starting to, you’d assume he’d stick his dick into anything with breasts.

  “Exactly,” he said, following my thoughts. “And can I be a hundred percent sure I didn’t encourage her? No, because I don’t remember. But I’m ninety-nine percent certain about what she did.”

  And now he had to see her every day. Work with her every day.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  He gave me a sad smile. “Nothing you can say. This is my mess.”

  “And now it’s even messier,” Rush said.

  “I’ll rip her bloody nails off,” I muttered.

  Travis paused to flick a pesky bug off my shoulder. “No, you won’t, blue-eyes. I’ll fix it. Placate her somehow. Better to do that than to have Reagan take her jealousy out on you.”

  “You shouldn’t have to make a single concession to that bitch.”

  “For the next two years, my life doesn’t belong to me. I’ll do whatever it takes to get through it. I’m a survivor, Alana. We all are, and we always have been, even if JD does his best to self-destruct on a nightly basis. In a few weeks, you’ll leave, and I don’t want you to go back home tainted by the stench of Indigo Rain.”

  “He’s right, babe,” Rush said. “This is our world, and we’re used to it. Let Travis do his thing.”

  “If I argue, will it make any difference?”

  Travis shook his head.

  “For the record, I hate this.”

  “So do we all, blue-eyes. So do we all.”

  “You’ll need to help Courtney on Monday,” Reagan told me as we waited for the boys to finish their soundcheck at Glastonbury.

  “Why?”

  Helping Courtney wasn’t in my job description. Not that I actually had a job description, but Rush hadn’t mentioned anything about doing PA work when he sort-of-hired me.

  “Because on Monday, I need to buy a dress in Paris, and Courtney can’t do everything by herself.”

  That I could believe. Courtney seemed to spend most of her time staring vacantly into space, just as she was doing right now. But why did Reagan need to go shopping?

  “What’s the dress for?”

  She puffed out her chest and gave me a smug smile. “Because Travis has invited me to go to the Euro Rock Music Awards with him, and I don’t have anything suitable to wear.”

  This? This was how he placated the little witch? By asking her on a date? Boy, sometimes Travis could be a real idiot. Surely leading her on like that would only make the situation worse?

  The ERMAs were being handed out in Paris next Tuesday. The band was due to travel there on Sunday, record a segment for a TV show on Monday morning, play a private party for some obscenely rich socialite in the evening, sit through interview after interview for the whole day on Tuesday, then walk the red carpet and smile for the cameras. Hopefully, they’d win Best Rock Band too. I’d already made my travel arrangements, but now I wasn’t sure I wanted to go at all.

  But I knew damn well Reagan would prioritise her outfit over everything else, which meant the band would suffer because of Courtney’s shortcomings. Dammit. Adulting sucked.

  “We’ll see,” I said through gritted teeth. “Part of my family lives in Paris, so I need to fit in a visit while I’m there.”

  In reality, I’d rather have drowned myself in the Seine than spoken to my mother and my new stepfather, the French salaud she’d gotten hitched to after she divorced the pervert. But Reagan didn’t need to know that. And speaking of family, I had to call Zander. Emmy was right—I couldn’t keep skating around the truth with him, because he’d find out eventually.

  Might as well do that now. It was less painful than talking to Reagan, anyway. So far, I’d been keeping both him and Tessa at bay with texts, but that wouldn’t work forever. If he decided to pop into the office and track my phone…

  Okay, Alana, get it over with.

  The tour bus was empty, and I set my camera on the table and dialled, hoping I’d go through to voicemail so I could delay the inevitable by another day. But no such luck.

  “Lanie? You’ve stood us up for dinner again. Dove made spaghetti bolognese.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you at Tessa’s?”

  “Uh, not exactly. I sort of got a job.”

  “You already told us that.”

  “I may have skimped on the job description, but I’m having a good time.”

  “I’d congratulate you, but your tone says I’m not gonna like it. Is this why you’ve been avoiding me all week?”

  “I haven’t been…” I totally had. “Sorry.”

  “Go on, spit it out. How bad is it?”

  “I’m working as a social media coordinator for Indigo Rain.”

  The silence was broken only by Zander sucking in a breath.

  “They’re a rock band, and they’re on a UK tour at the moment.”

  “I know who they are. I also know they’re bad news. Blackwood does some work for them, and I’ve heard the stories. They take drugs, Lanie.”

  “Only JD does that.”

  “Fucking hell, that doesn’t make it okay.”

  “Please don’t be mad. I tried applying to other places, and I only got that one offer where they wanted me to run the entire company and make the coffee too. This is much easier, and it’s fun.”

  “Fun until you get slung in jail for possession.”

  “I’m not touching any drugs, I p
romise. I’ve literally had one drink since I started, and most of that got spilled when I tripped over somebody’s feet.”

  “And where are you now?”

  “Glastonbury. Please don’t make me come home.”

  “You’re an adult, Lanie. I can’t make you do anything.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, you’re asking for my blessing to carry on hanging around four men who dabble in every illegal substance known to man, ruin women on a nightly basis, and think they’re above answering to anyone.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, and you know that for certain, do you?”

  “Most of it’s an act for the public. It helps them to sell more records.”

  “But some of it isn’t an act?”

  “Don’t twist everything I say, Zander. Like you said, I’m an adult. Let me form my own opinions.”

  “Fine. But I want you to call me every day to let me know you’re okay.” Zander sighed. “I’m only pissed because I care.”

  “I know. And I appreciate that you care.”

  “Max and Bry are around at most of the gigs too. If you see or hear anything that worries you, tell one of us immediately.”

  “I will. I’ll do all of that. And Zander?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks. Not just for this, but for everything you’ve done.”

  “You’re my sister, Lanie. I love you, and I’ll always take care of you. Sometimes, you just make that difficult.”

  “I won’t do anything stupid, I swear. I’m just taking photos and writing social media posts and one news article.”

  “And enjoying yourself, but not too much.”

  “I love you too, Zander.”

  “Go listen to some music.”

  I didn’t realise how fast my heart had been beating until I hung up the phone. I’d done it. I’d told Zander what I was doing, and he hadn’t been as upset as I thought. Once again, Emmy had been right. Next time I saw her—if there was a next time—I’d have to thank her, although words were inadequate for everything she’d done. She hadn’t even let me pay a penny towards the flight back from LA, just told me to donate a few quid to the local dog shelter instead. Wow.

  The call to Tessa should have been easier, except it turned into more of an interrogation. A cross-examination that would have made any trial lawyer proud, asked with the urgency of a rapid-fire quiz show host.

  “Is Rush Moder as hot in person as he is in pictures?”

  “He’s nice. A bit flirty.”

  “OMG, he flirts with you?”

  “He flirts with everyone.”

  “Fanning myself here. What about the others? Do they talk to you much?”

  “Travis and JD do. Dex is quieter.”

  “I heard a rumour he’s dating that red-headed model. You know, the one who wore the strawberry cheesecake dress on the catwalk for Ishmael last year. Is it true?”

  Ah, the strawberry cheesecake dress. The fashion designer had made headlines last year when six male models licked the dress off at the end of the show. Hashtag censored.

  “I haven’t seen her around.”

  “Is Travis still sick? I heard he cancelled an interview, and he was real quiet yesterday. They dressed in Ghost masks. Did you see those?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  Just not on their faces.

  “Are you staying to see the last day of the festival tomorrow?”

  “We’re all going to Paris in the afternoon.”

  “Can’t. Breathe.” Yes, she could. In fact, she was hyperventilating. “Paris? That’s so freaking romantic.”

  “It’s work, Tessa. Trust me, there’s nothing romantic about it in the slightest.”

  “Do they walk around shirtless on the tour bus?”

  “Wait. How did we get from Paris to shirtless?”

  “I have a list. I’m working my way through it.”

  Good grief. “Uh…”

  “How about naked?”

  “Tessa! No, they don’t.”

  “Shame. The Red Hot Chili Peppers performed on stage with only socks on their—”

  “Enough!”

  The opening wail of Rush’s guitar saved me from further questions.

  “Gotta go. They’re just starting their set, and I have to take pictures.”

  “Don’t hang up, don’t hang up. Let me listen. Pleeeeeease.”

  “Sure, I’ll let you listen, at least until the battery runs out.”

  “Love ya, Lanie.”

  “Love you too, Tessie.”

  CHAPTER 12 - ALANA

  IT TURNED OUT that when you were literally the only person in the whole crew who spoke fluent French, and the band’s self-proclaimed number one assistant swanned off on a shopping trip for almost the entire day—allegedly with Gary’s blessing—you ended up really, really busy.

  I spent hours scheduling transport, arranging for laundry to be done, explaining where instruments needed to go, sorting out meals—including Courtney’s vegetarian option, which the hotel chef just laughed at—and doing my very best not to shout at Gary or Frank or Ian. I even went to the hospital with Travis and waited while he got his cast removed. The joy on his face at being able to scratch his arm after eight weeks in plaster was something to behold.

  Finally, seven p.m. came around, and I collapsed onto a chair in the lobby while we waited for the cabs to take us to the party the band was playing. Tonight, their show would be different, a stripped-down version with a few acoustic numbers because most of the equipment was already en route to Leeds for Thursday’s show. It was the only way they could play the Paris party, and Gary was determined to squeeze every last drop of blood from the band. How much was the label making compared with what they paid out? It had to be a fortune. What did it cost to put on a show? To hire a venue? To pay the support staff? Tickets started at fifty pounds for the cheapest seats, so someone was clearly raking it in. I made a note to do a little research on that. It might make an interesting addition to my article if I ever managed to get it written in between hauling racks of stage clothes.

  “You’re coming with us, right?” Rush asked.

  “I just want to go to bed.”

  “Sleep’s for pussies.”

  “Meow.”

  “Want me to carry you?”

  No, because I’d probably end up slung over his shoulder, caveman-style. “I can walk.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “Not your girl, Rush. Not anybody’s girl.”

  “Not even Trav’s?”

  Rush looked sideways at his friend, which was just as well because my cheeks heated.

  “No, not even Travis’s. If I have to come tonight, I’m leaving straight after you’ve played the last song. You may be able to keep going twenty-four-seven, but I need a rest.”

  “You can come back with Dex. He never stays out late either.”

  At least I knew why now. The longer Dex spent on his feet, the more his knees hurt. At Glastonbury, he’d headed straight back to the tour bus after Indigo Rain’s set, pausing only to pose for a handful of grumpy-faced selfies before he staggered up the steps. Then he spent the rest of the evening lying in his bunk with bags of ice packed around his legs.

  Gary? He seemed oblivious to the pain he caused the boys, both physically and mentally, although tonight, he appeared to be distracted by a blonde wearing a belt for a skirt. I overheard one of the crew say he’d invited the blogger back to his hotel after the interview at Glastonbury, so Rush had been absolutely right about Gary’s motives, except the woman had declined then slapped him when he got pushy. Gary should have gotten together with Reagan. They’d have suited each other perfectly.

  “Okay, I’ll come back with Dex.”

  I was glad I went to the show, even if I couldn’t stop yawning. I got to hear a different sound from Indigo Rain, rawer, more intense. That was the way I imagined them playing when they first met all those years ago in LA, back when they played for lo
ve rather than money.

  The women—and it was mostly women—at the party seemed to like it too. Travis had barely started his second song when they started throwing underwear at him. Lacy thongs and frilly satin—at one point, he had to pause to pluck a bra off the neck of his guitar. Yes, he was playing tonight too, the first time he’d been able to since he broke his arm. And he was every bit as good as I knew he would be.

  And when the guys put their instruments down? Think wasps on jam, complete with sticky little fingers that pawed and clawed. Being honest, Tessa would probably have joined them, but I took the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. I didn’t need to watch Travis getting sucked off again. Once was quite enough. No, my job was to get Dex back to the hotel while the crew packed up the gear, and the cab I’d booked was already waiting downstairs.

  “Vous quittez la fête de bonne heure?” the driver asked.

  Was I leaving the party early? He sounded surprised.

  “Oui, je suis un lève-tôt.” Yes, I’m an early riser.

  Dex appeared, covered in lipstick with his shirt ripped open. Wow. Women could be really demented. He sank into the back seat with a groan, and I was about to tell the driver to get going when my door was wrenched open.

  “Move over a bit?”

  “Travis? What are you doing here?”

  “Escaping.” Well, almost. A girl shouted his name, a pretty blonde, and he groaned. “Don’t go anywhere.” His stage smile came back, the fake one. “Peyton? Why are you in Paris?”

  My inner nosiness got the better of me, and I leaned sideways to listen.

  “Mom had a business meeting in the third arrondissement, so I tagged along.” She giggled. “Isn’t this a crazy coincidence?”

  “Crazy’s right,” Dex whispered.

  “Who is she?”

  “Travis’s stalker. They met six weeks ago when he started his DUI offender program, and it was obsession at first sight.”

  “Isn’t following him to Paris slightly drastic?”

  Dex rolled his eyes. “Love knows no bounds. She turned up in Chicago and Düsseldorf too.”