by Piper Lawson
I strip off my jeans, dropping them and my shirt in a pile in the corner of the room. My shorts go next.
The shower’s hot and welcoming as I soap off the sweat, the grime, the makeup.
I let my mind go blank. For all of Neen’s obsession with Buddhist monks or whatever, there’s something to be said for living in the moment. It gives you relief from your thoughts.
One thought drifts through my mind and refuses to let go.
Leonard fucking Cohen.
The girl knows music, I’ll give her that.
I’m tempted to ask Nina where Haley came from, but knowing the background of every tech on my tour is definitely below my paygrade.
I’m curious. That’s all.
Maybe because she’s the opposite of everyone else around here. The women who want to strip naked and do anything I ask.
I don’t judge them. It’s part of the aura, the sheen.
I have a halo around my head that’s as fake as the rest of this circus.
But I get it. They don’t really want me. They want the circus.
Haley on the other hand…
Being close to me physically seems to sicken her.
Though when I’d grabbed her hip—a reflex when she jumped at the sudden noise down the hall—she hadn’t screamed.
Or hit me.
Or run away.
I reach for the tap. Instead of turning it off, I turn it cold. The water has my abs clenching, my thighs hard.
What threw me was the way she’d looked at me when I told her I saw the Memphis show. Those eyes—I still can’t decide if they’re brown or green, and it’s starting to bug me—widened, and she’d sucked in an excited breath so big she was practically vibrating with it.
But if there’s one thing I don’t do on tour, it’s hang out with interns.
At 2 a.m.
Alone.
By the time I step out and pull on track pants and favorite hoodie, there’s a response to my message.
* * *
Lobby bar
* * *
I slip out the door and take the elevator. No one’s in the lounge save the bartender and two figures in chairs hunched over a table.
But Jerry’s not waiting for me because he’s already playing with someone.
Haley’s curled up in the opposite chair wearing purple pajama pants under a white hotel robe.
Plus slippers.
I can’t remember the last time I saw a woman in slippers.
“If you do that,” Jerry says, “then I’ll go like this.” He swipes a piece off the board, and she watches intently. He starts to reverse it, but she stops him.
“No. Take it off.”
I wonder if she knows she's learning from the master. Of chess and sound engineering.
A group of people older than me come into the bar, and I flip the hood of my sweatshirt up.
Jerry's as much a legend as I am, but she doesn’t pump him for information or suck up.
“I heard you got the boss’s phone back.”
She shrugs a shoulder without lifting her gaze from the board. “Yeah. I had to give something up to get it back, though.”
I’m bristling before Jerry asks what.
“My jacket. I mean, I can get another one, but it was my mom’s. She gave it to me before she died.”
My hands ball into fists, but Jerry hmms over the chess board.
They play in silence for a few moves. Then he says, “If I worried you earlier, I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s okay. I thought I did something wrong.”
He makes a dismissive noise. “Being on tour is the best thing and the worst thing for a human being. It’s a lonely business. There’s a lot of time to spin in your head, which means we all have our…moods.”
She smiles. “I get it. My roommate Serena says I have my moods too. Usually two days a month. And during midterms.”
Two moves later, he has her in a checkmate.
“Thank you. For teaching me.” Haley rises, and her robe slips open before she refastens the tie. “I’m going to go work on a program, but can we do this again sometime?”
“Sure. Goodnight, Miss Telfer.”
“Night, Jerry.”
I watch her round the corner toward the elevator before I drop into the chair she vacated.
“‘Miss Telfer.’ You trying to score a spot on her dance card?” I prod as I reset the chess pieces on my side.
“I’m too old for her. So are you,” he jabs with a toothy smile.
I ignore him.
Jerry wins the white pieces, and he opens with a pawn.
I match him.
“You had an appointment before we left Philly.” He moves another pawn. “What’d the doctor say, Jerry?”
“I’m an old man.”
“That’s all?” I send my bishop along the diagonal, covering his king.
His hand trembles on the pawn as he takes mine with his. “It’s Alzheimer’s.”
A wave of nausea washes over me and I shove it down. “This is the second doctor. You could see a third.”
“No more doctors, Jax. Besides, I have help. Or didn’t you notice?”
I let out a half laugh I don’t feel. “I’m not worried you’re going to forget to plug me in one night, Jerry. I’m worried about you.”
“Maybe you should worry less about me and more about you. I hear you’ve got another album to make.”
I grimace. “Cross has been leaving messages daily. Sometimes I’m surprised he’s letting me finish the tour before dragging me back in the studio.”
But he can’t. We agreed to a year’s break before the last album I’ll ever make.
“You written anything?”
If I can’t talk to Jerry, I can’t talk to anyone. The man’s had my back since I was twenty. He might be the only one who has. “I’m not sure I have it in me. The first album was too personal. The next two…”
“There’s less of you and more of them,” he finishes.
I nod because he’s right. The production studio takes over. Starts focus grouping and auto-tuning, and before you know it you’re just one input in the marketing machine.
I take his pawn. “I’ve been at this a long time. I’m ready to go the hell home.”
The group at the bar is laughing and drinking and oblivious to us.
I focus only on his king. He takes my bishop, sparing me a narrowed glance.
“I almost missed calling Annie on her birthday today because I was too distracted by all of this shit.” Familiar bitterness rises in the back of my throat. “Ten more stops. Then I’m done, Jerry. I’m out.”
“How many albums you sold?”
My gaze works over the board between us. “Forty-six million.”
“How many shows?”
“Hundred eighty-three.”
“How much have you made in the last ten years?”
“Okay, now you’re being rude.” I lift my attention to Jerry’s lined face.
“Memory serves—and I know sometimes it don’t…” His face lines as he grins. “…you’re the one who signed on for this shit.”
“I was eighteen. Living in a one-bedroom apartment, no food and no future. Wasn’t much of a choice.”
Jerry glances at my bourbon. “That Bulleit?”
“You know it.”
He takes it from me, sipping and making a sound of appreciation.
At least until he coughs.
“Should you be drinking that?” I ask wryly.
“I’m too old to drink bourbon. I’m too old to walk,” he replies, handing the glass back. “You ever heard of Robert Johnson?”
I shake my head.
“Bluesman from the thirties. His work was remade by Clapton. Keith Richards. Anyway. They say he was driving through Mississippi late at night when he came on a crossroads. The devil offered him the chance to turn around or take the blues in exchange for his soul. You know what he did?”
“I’m guessing he didn’t turn ar
ound.”
“Nope. And before he died at twenty-seven, he made some of the best damn music that’s ever existed, present company included.”
“What’s your point?”
He grunts, his gaze never leaving the board. “You signed on the line. You chose your path, son. I’m glad you did because I wouldn’t have the privilege of sitting in that box every night watching you do your work.
“Now you got another choice. You can spend your life regretting the deal you made, shutting everyone and everything out while you’re at it, or”—he moves his queen down the board, and I see the checkmate too late—“you can play the blues the devil gave you.”
8
Haley
I don’t bother hiding a yawn as I pull up a screen on my computer. I see how it’s impossible to keep up on sleep while on tour. If I’m going to find time to work on my program without sacrificing my sleep, I need to stop playing chess and start eking out time.
“Babysitter.”
Jax’s voice has me glancing up from the board at the booth in the Air Canada Centre.
Today he’s wearing a blue T-shirt that sets off his amber eyes and jeans over white sneakers. His hair’s tucked under an Astros cap.
I don’t like baseball. Or hats.
I like both on him.
“Where’s Jerry?”
I nod toward the aisle. “Talking with one of the venue guys. I’m on setup.”
If there’s pride in my voice, it’s because I am proud.
Jerry let me lead on organizing for the night ahead. Of course he’ll fix all the stuff I screw up, but I get the chance to do it.
Instead of leaving, Jax moves closer, leaning his elbows on the half wall between us and running his gaze over me. I’m suddenly self-conscious in my black tank top and jeans.
“I bet you’ve never gotten in trouble a day in your life. At least not since the finger painting incident.”
I fold my arms over my chest “Untrue. I was suspended in high school.”
His eyes glint. “For what?”
“Our math teacher used to post our grades after tests. So, I started taking pictures of them. Then wrote a program correlating them with whether the students were on varsity athletic teams.”
“And?”
“And—shocker—if you could kick a football, you were also a god at factoring quadratic equations.” I wrinkle my nose. “But the principal seemed more concerned with my hypothesis than the findings.”
“How did they find out?”
“I hacked the school’s webpage and posted it there.”
I dust my hands on my jeans, looking up from the board to find Jax giving me that look again. Amusement mixed with curiosity.
“You do have a little rebel in you.”
Maybe he’s making fun of me. Or maybe he thinks I’m cool after all.
I give myself the benefit of the doubt and a mental fist bump to boot.
“Aren’t you supposed to be doing press?” I ask. “Nina will kill you if she finds you down here.”
“I’m done. Media piranhas have been fed for the day, and Neen’s off flirting with Brick somewhere.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking about the last part.
“I bet they love talking about your music.”
“No. They love asking if I take it up the ass.” He replies so easily I’m sure I’ve misheard him. “Most interviewers care less about the music and more about my lifestyle.” He cocks his head, a smirk on handsome face as he leans in. “In case you’re curious, I told them only from my label.”
I can’t believe how supremely comfortable he is with everything. As if he could strip naked right here and walk up on that stage wearing nothing but the smirk and be completely self-possessed.
After last night, I’d promised to take Lita’s advice and keep things strictly business. Because I lost a night’s sleep imagining him with those women. I need to stay focused on my work.
But I didn’t promise I wouldn’t talk to him.
“I want to talk about music,” I blurt.
He recovers from the flicker of surprise almost immediately, spreading his hands. “Ask away.”
“Last night, you were going to tell me about seeing Leonard Cohen.”
“So I was.”
He does.
I hang on every word as he describes the concert, and the way he talks about it, I can picture myself there.
Then we go through our favorite concerts of all time, trading stories. I can’t believe how many shows he’s been to.
“I would’ve thought you’d never get to any shows.”
“On tour it’s hard,” Jax admits. “But sometimes it’s all that keeps you sane.”
An alert beeps on my phone, reminding me of my task. “Shit. I need to get this finished.”
With a moment’s hesitation, he rounds the half wall and comes to stand next to me. He takes one look at the setup I’m doing and reaches for the board, flicking switches like he’s playing an arcade game.
My jaw drops. “What are you doing?”
“Array configuration’s different here than Pittsburgh.” He bends over, checking a connection under the board before straightening. All of his focus is on the dials as his hands move over them. “You need to accommodate for that in the mix.”
He realizes I’ve gone still, and mute, and stops, sighing. “The array’s the speakers stacked by the stage—”
“I know what an array is,” I mumble.
That’s not the problem.
The problem is that Jax Jamieson knows how to do my job.
He just got fifty per cent hotter. Which is a statistical impossibility, because the man’s already on par with the sun.
Stay professional. He’s basically your boss.
Who’s eight years older and has a sleeve of tattoos and who you have a poster of in your room like you’re twelve instead of twenty.
He finishes what he was doing, then shifts a hip against the board as he turns to face me.
“So, the app you built,” he says casually, cutting into my daydreams. “It tells you how to mix better songs.”
Get a grip. I shake myself. “Um. In theory.”
“To make money.”
“Sort of. But also for science.” I click into competent mode and out of “drooling on the floor” mode. “It tells us things about our brains and how we relate to music. Some people would say that’s even more interesting.”
“People like you.”
“Well. Yeah.”
“How does it decide what’s ‘good’?”
“It’s based on a database of hit songs from the last fifty years. Including yours.”
“Mine?” He cocks his head. “How many of them.”
“All of them,” I confess. “I couldn’t decide what to leave off. ‘Redline’ has this guitar hook that won’t quit. ‘Inside’ is this acoustic exploration that guts you, then resolves right when you’d swear it won’t.” I swallow, feeling hot all of a sudden. Maybe it’s because his stare has intensified or because it feels like I’m spilling my guts. “In case no one’s told you, you’re kind of a genius,” I finish.
That hangs between us for a good five seconds, and I’m cursing myself for going too fangirl.
“People probably tell you that every day. I can stop.”
His jaw works, but there’s a glint of something in his eyes.
“Jax! You want in on sound check?” someone calls from the stage.
He stares at me a second longer before pulling something from his pocket and setting it on the board.
Then Jax jogs up to the front and plugs in his guitar. He grabs a stool and pulls it up to the mic.
He starts to play, and I glance down to realize he’s left me his phone.
Again.
Like the last three shows.
What did he do with it before this?
Is it weird that I don’t really care?
I lift the phone in my hand, turning it over. It’s warm from h
is pocket. The smooth surface is marred by scratches, and I wonder how they got there.
“Strange.” I turn to find Jerry at my back, setting his bag gently down on the chair.
“What’s that?” I stare at the board, wondering which of my settings I’ve gotten wrong.
“He hasn’t done sound check in weeks.”
My gaze follows Jerry’s toward the stage.
And now I’m thinking dirty thoughts about a rock star.
It should be innocent, but it’s not. Not when I know he has a girlfriend. Not when I’m here to do a job.
The fact that I have zero chance with him doesn’t matter in the slightest. It’s the principle of it.
The phone burns a hole in my pocket through the final sound check. After, Jax vanishes from stage to get ready.
The rise of the curtain. The opening act. The main event.
The next hours fly by working with Jerry. He’s so competent, and he always knows what to do.
Except at one point he stops, staring at the board.
“What is it?” I ask him.
“I don’t…”
I’ve noticed that before, what’s possibly the reason Cross assigned me here. Jerry has lapses. He’ll remember everything about the venue, the acoustics, the tech, but he’ll forget people he’s supposed to meet or what time he’s supposed to be on-site.
I open my notes from earlier, check, and point at the setting he’d told me about. “Is it this one?”
He nods, and we finish the show.
Eight encores.
I’ve never seen a band play eight encores, but Jax, Brick, Kyle, and Mace do it as if it’s the last night of their lives.
At the ninth encore, my pocket buzzes.
I don’t want to look at it. Don’t want to be pulled out of this.
But when it buzzes again with a text from Annie, I do.
Call me back
Please
Something bad happened
Fear streaks down my spine as I lean over Jerry. “I have to go.”
I cut through the halls, finding my way to backstage and flashing my pass to get through. The ninth encore is the last, and Jax comes off the stage, the building nearly falling down from the roar of the crowd. Sweat’s running down his forehead as he chugs water next to the stage.
