A churning lump settled in the pit of his stomach, a sensation he quickly dismissed as hunger.
“How does Dare feel about going indie?” Toni asked.
Dare’s eyes eased open, and he zeroed in on Steve. “This again? Give it a rest, will you?”
“So this isn’t the first time you’ve discussed it?” Toni asked, her fingers twitching. Logan guessed she was itching to write down their entire conversation.
At times, Logan wished her reporter side had an off switch.
“It’s Steve’s favorite topic of conversation,” Max said.
“I just have a different definition of success than the rest of you,” Steve said. “I don’t need the limousines and the fancy house and the five-star hotel suites and the piles of cash.”
“But you do need the gorgeous babes,” Logan said with a grin.
“Of course I need the gorgeous babes,” Steve said, “but as far as everything else goes, I just need to make music and earn enough to get by. The rest of this is just . . . stuff. Unnecessary fucking stuff.”
“I’m so tired, he’s making sense,” Dare mumbled. He covered a yawn, and then a second, with the back of his hand.
The car door opened, and Reagan stumbled in wearing a bathrobe, a pair of combat boots, and a sleepy expression. “This shit is for the birds,” she declared before sitting next to Max and glowering at Butch, who tossed her overnight bag into the car and climbed inside, slamming the door behind him.
“We’re going to be late,” Butch said as the limo took off.
“Six a.m. is never late,” Steve said, “unless you haven’t made it to bed yet. Which I haven’t.” His fingertips disappeared under his sunglasses to rub at both eyes.
“How am I supposed to get dressed in the car?” Reagan said, tilting her head at Butch and giving him a glare that would freeze molten lava.
“Figure it out,” he barked.
“I’ll help you,” Toni said. She scooted out from beneath Dare’s head to stumble to the other side of the moving limo.
Toni held Reagan’s robe like a makeshift curtain while Reagan tossed on clothes in the corner behind it. Once dressed, their sassy guitarist fixed an icy stare on Butch as she flopped into the seat, shoved her feet back into her boots, and jerked the laces tight.
None of this was Butch’s fault. He didn’t arrange their schedule. He was just in charge of making sure they stuck to it. Poor bastard.
At the TV station, they climbed out one at a time. Logan lingered so he could be with Toni for as long as possible. The limo was taking her to the arena so she could start her day and then would return to pick up the band after their television appearance.
He kissed her, his heart panging unpleasantly, as if he were saying goodbye to her forever instead of for a few hours. He much too attached to her, he decided. Much, much, much too attached.
“You be careful around all that heavy equipment,” he said, kissing her again.
“I will. Don’t worry about me.”
How could he not worry about her? She collected more bruises by walking across an empty room than he did wiping out on his dirt bike.
“Don’t be too charming on television,” she said. “I don’t want the whole world to covet what’s mine.”
He stumbled out of the car, her words tumbling around in his head like socks in a dryer. To covet what was hers? Did she really think he was hers? He’d have to set her straight when he had time. Still, even if she was mistaken, he wasn’t sure why her show of possessiveness made him happy. Such things weren’t supposed to make him happy. They were supposed to scare him away.
The limo drove off and he made sure it made it safely into the flow of traffic before jogging to catch up with the guys.
“I hope Kirk runs you all through the ringer after this,” Butch grumbled. “Fucking whiny little bitches.”
Ugh, they had to go to the gym today? After a trip to the store, Logan had hoped he could climb into his bunk and sleep until noon. Well, if he couldn’t find time to go to the store himself, he knew someone who could.
“Hey, Butch?” Logan touched Butch’s arm as he caught up with him.
“What?” he snapped.
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Am I allowed to say no?”
It seemed his bandmates weren’t the only ones being fucking whiny little bitches this morning. “Toni keeps a diary and she needs a new one,” Logan said. “Do you think you could send someone out to buy her one?”
“It’s for Toni?”
Logan nodded.
Butch sighed and lifted his pen to write a note on his clipboard. “What kind?”
MAY 10
* * *
Dear New Journal,
Welcome to my world. You were a gift from Logan, so even though I’d decided I wasn’t going to bother keeping a diary anymore, I pretty much have to fill your pages, don’t I? He says the reason I lost my previous journal was because it wasn’t blue to match his eyes. So because you’re blue and will always remind me of him, he insists I’ll never lose you. The ego on that guy!
But he always makes me laugh. And I do love him. More than he’ll ever know. But maybe I shouldn’t write that here. He might read it.
I watched the stage being set up today, and everyone in the crew volunteered to wear Logan’s head camera to capture a first-person view of their job, so we sent some poor lackey out to buy five more. I haven’t had a chance to review that footage yet—I hope it turned out. I also set up my big video camera to record the stage being set up from the center of the arena. It’s really cool when watched on fast forward. It should definitely make it into the book.
I promised myself I wouldn’t write anything scandalous in this diary, in case I misplaced it, but holy hairy balls, Batman, this morning on the way to their television interview, the band was talking about going indie. While Max seemed completely against it, the rest of them didn’t think it was a bad idea. This kind of decision would change everything for them. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, but I have faith that whatever they decide, they’ll be successful.
And Steve’s words got me wondering about my personal definition of success. The more I think about it, the more I keep changing my mind. So maybe success is an ever-moving target. Does that make sense? Once you’ve found success, then what? You find new success, right? A different kind of success or a higher level of success. I don’t know. I haven’t found success yet. I’ll let you know when I do.
Logan is making come-to-bed noises, so I have to go now. I hope my ramblings don’t bore you to tears.
Toni
MAY 11
* * *
Dear Journal,
It’s really late. Logan somehow talked me into going to the after-party with him tonight. I had more fun than I thought I would, mostly because Reagan wouldn’t let me sit down. And after she’d poured a few drinks down my throat, she got me dancing and I couldn’t stop. I’m sure I looked like an awkward fool, but it was fun. Until I got sick.
She held my hair while I threw up in the bathroom—what a great friend—and now my head hurts so bad I can’t sleep.
Would I do it again?
Sure!
The band had a mall appearance today. It was in a novelty shop, so they spent most of their time signing T-shirts. Apparently signing T-shirts is an art. Or a science. I’m not sure which. You’d think it would be easier to sign a shirt when it’s stretched out on a hard surface, but nope, it’s easier to sign them when they’re wadded up in a soft ball. Who knew?
The things I learn on this job.
Ugh, I swear this bus is riding on a roller coaster track tonight.
We’re on our way to New Orleans now, and we’ll be staying there on our day off. Reagan wants to go clothes shopping. I’d rather eat beignets and listen to jazz. Logan says he’ll bring me back during Mardi Gras. With tits like mine, I’ll be buried in beads.
And while that’s what he said, I bet he’d freak out if I actually flas
hed them. He has a fascination with my boobs. I’m not sure it’s healthy.
Tomorrow we’re going to work on the exclusive song for the book. Or at least they’re going to try to come up with something. Sam said it isn’t a contract breach, so yay! I’m really excited about it.
Ugh, being excited makes my stomach queasy.
Why is the floor spinning?
I’m never drinking again.
T
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
* * *
Logan took a seat beside Steve’s bare feet on the sectional and waited for Toni to finish hooking up every piece of equipment she’d brought with her and even a few she’d borrowed. He knew she was tremendously excited to capture the band creating a song, but he knew from past experience that these things never, ever went well. He was positive she was going to end up disappointed. The only good thing about that was that she’d probably need him to console her. But he’d rather this session go well because he knew it meant a lot to her. He was determined to be on his best behavior.
“I think that’s everything,” she said and turned to look at them expectantly.
Was she expecting genius to flow from them all on cue and converge into a perfect melody? Yeah, right.
Dare stood and lifted good ol’ Genevieve off her pegs on the wall. He blew a puff of dust from her fretboard and sat down on the coffee table to tune her.
“You’re blocking the shot,” Toni whispered. “Do you want me to move the camera?”
Dare glanced over his shoulder at the video camera trained at his back. “I’ll move,” he said.
“But you usually sit in the middle of the room,” Max said.
“Then I’ll pull the camera over here,” Toni said. When she had a new shot lined up, she stared at them expectantly again. Logan was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one feeling awkward.
“Um,” Max said, “so I guess we should decide what kind of song to compose. I was thinking something acoustic. We haven’t done an acoustic track and since—”
“Fuck that,” Steve interrupted. “Why am I being excluded?”
“You aren’t being excluded,” Max said, raising a placating hand.
“Oh yeah?” Steve said. “How many drum tracks will you require to accompany your acoustic song?”
“Acoustic songs don’t have drum tracks,” Logan said.
“Exactly,” Steve said. “So that means I’mmmm . . . ?”
“Excluded?” Logan supplied.
Steve slapped his thigh. “Exactly.”
“We could add a drum line to an acoustic song,” Max said. “You could play snare.”
“Technically, drums are acoustic,” Dare said. “Acoustic just means without amplifiers.”
“Why are you defending him?” Steve said. “You hate playing acoustic guitar.”
“I wouldn’t say I hate it,” Dare said. “I just prefer electric.”
“So we’re scratching the acoustic idea,” Steve said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You just don’t want to do it because it was my idea.” Max was starting to shout already.
“No,” Steve yelled back. “I don’t want to do it because it’s a stupid idea!”
Logan would normally have chosen a side by now, but he didn’t want to escalate the problem. Toni was counting on them.
“Guys!” Reagan yelled over all of them. “Calm down.”
Max rose to his feet and waved an arm in Steve’s direction. “I’m not going to calm down until he admits that he’ll think any idea I have is stupid—”
“I freely admit any idea you have is stupid,” Steve said.
“I wasn’t finished,” Max said in a clipped tone. “He will think any idea I have is stupid because it wasn’t his idea.”
“I definitely admit that too,” Steve said. “We need a song with a huge drum solo. Currently all we have is guitar solo, guitar solo, guitar solo.”
“What about a bass solo?” Logan suggested.
“No one wants to hear a bass solo,” Steve said.
“No one wants to hear a fucking drum solo either!” Logan said.
“We have to have a guitar solo,” Dare said.
“Why?” Steve said. “Because we always have a guitar solo? You’re all so predictable. Why can’t we do something different for a change? It’s not like this song is going on an album. It’s just for this stupid book.”
Logan glanced at Toni. He wasn’t sure if her shell-shocked expression was due to Steve undermining her work or because, as usual, the arguing between them was already intensifying. He hit Steve to show his support for his woman. “Toni’s book is not stupid.”
“Guys, guys,” Reagan said. “Maybe we should start with lyrics and—”
“Start with lyrics?” Max asked. “We never start with lyrics.”
“How is she supposed to know that?” Dare snapped, shoving Max in the chest. “She’s never had the pleasure of being involved in this fucking bullshit.”
“Okay, not with lyrics then,” Reagan said calmly. “How do you usually start?”
“Exactly like this,” Logan said. He was sure Toni wasn’t getting what she expected for her book, but she was getting an authentic experience. “These assholes can’t agree on anything.”
“We can all agree that you contribute nothing, so you might as well leave,” Steve said.
“I contribute!” Logan shouted, anger making his skin hot and his heart race.
“What do you contribute? D chord, D chord, D chord, D chord,” Steve said, keeping the beat to his improvised bass line with shakes of his head.
“Shut up,” Logan growled. “I sometimes play E.”
“We usually start with a guitar riff,” Dare said to Reagan. He looked to their original rhythm guitarist. “Max?”
Max looked at the electric guitar he’d brought in and hooked to one of the practice amps. He swallowed hard, rubbing his wrist brace, and then switched his attention to the acoustic guitar in the corner. “I still think acoustic—”
“No,” Steve interrupted.
“Bull headed,” Max grumbled under his breath, but he rose from his spot on the sectional to yank his favorite blue guitar off its stand—it was the only guitar he hadn’t allowed Reagan to borrow when she’d joined the tour. He took his time adjusting the tuning while the rest of them twiddled their thumbs or exchanged glares.
Max took off his wrist brace and carefully laid it on the coffee table. He flexed his fingers several times and then shook blood into the underused hand. “This one has been keeping me awake at night,” he said. He played several notes of a raunchy riff, shook his head, slid his hand along his fret board to a lower octave and started over. Smiling, he nodded and bobbed his head slightly to the rhythm as he came to the end of the string of notes and returned to the beginning.
Logan sat up straighter, listening to the natural rhythm of the piece and mentally adding his lower bass tones to the midrange.
“Oh, I love it,” Reagan squeaked.
“So you hear this kind of stuff in your head?” Toni asked. She was staring at Max with the kind of awe she usually reserved for Logan.
“Only when it’s quiet and I’m trying to sleep,” Max said with a wry grin.
His smile turned into a grimace, and he jerked his hand off the fret board, cradling it against his chest with his right hand. He massaged his left wrist and shook it out before returning his fucked-up hand to his guitar and playing the riff again. Dare’s rapid string of notes blaring from his amplifier made everyone jump. He shook his head and tried a completely different string of notes, shrugged and started over, now alternating E-minor triplets with a four-note pattern.
Wow, they were actually getting things done. Logan was proud of his band for holding their shit together for a change. Well, for the most part. Heads hadn’t started rolling yet.
Logan stood and went after the bass guitar he’d hooked up on the far side of the lounge. Dudes were going to flip when they heard the awesome bass line r
unning through his head. Before he could even lift the strap over his head, Max’s riff ended abruptly, and he jerked the plug out of the end of his guitar.
“Fuck this!” he yelled, slinging the free end of the cord on the ground.
“If your wrist is bothering you, I can play the riff.” Reagan extended her hands toward the now-silent guitar.
“I’m done for today,” Max said. He slid the door open so hard it slammed against the frame with an earsplitting crack.
“We should have gone with acoustic,” Dare said.
“What difference would that make?” Steve asked. “Don’t you have to strum harder when you play acoustic?”
“Strumming isn’t his problem,” Dare said, setting his guitar aside. “It’s fingering frets rapidly.”
As was done in all Exodus End songs. Even the ballads. Max was probably thinking if they took a huge departure from their norm and slowed things down—a lot—he could play.
So it made perfect sense to Logan why Max would rather play acoustic. “If you’d let him play what he wanted, he could have used a few connected chords. Not had to move his fingers much.”
“So we switch him to bass,” Steve said, shrugging. “That solves everything. Max can play. We don’t have to put up with you anymore.”
“Seriously?” Logan shook his head at Steve.
Steve jumped up from his seat on the arm of the sectional and whacked Logan on the back. “No, not seriously. Learn to take a joke, man.”
“It’s easier to take jokes when they’re actually funny,” Dare said as he set his guitar back on its stand.
Toni collected Max’s wrist brace from the table and quietly left the room. Knowing her, she had tears swimming in her eyes and was offering Max a tender hug before she helped him put it back on. A week ago, Logan probably would have flown into a jealous rage and intervened, but now he realized she had a heart big enough for everyone around her, with plenty of room to spare for him.
Rock Star Romance Ultimate: Volume 1 Page 42
