by Anna Zabo
“Van Zeller.” Carl’s sharp voice cut through the night, and they all flinched. Zavier turned toward the asshole, his face a mask, lips pressed thin.
Nope. Ray wasn’t going to let Carl ruin Zav’s first real show. He strode toward their manager. Better he take whatever licks were coming. “Yup. What’s up?”
“A word.” Carl had his tablet on hand and gestured back toward the venue’s building with the other. Ray dutifully followed him inside and to a small room that looked like it could be an office.
Carl shut the door and leaned against it, neatly trapping Ray.
Shit. This was going to be one of those discussions. Carl hadn’t imposed on Ray like this before, but Ray knew the intimidation game. It was a high school move. He crossed his arms. “Were you disappointed in the concert?” That would be rich.
Carl snorted. “You know I can’t fault your performance. Even your idiotic choice of an opening song was a hit.” He shook his head. “Lucky break for you.”
The buzz he’d been riding slipped away into anger. “Wasn’t luck. I know our fans.”
“Your fans aren’t enough to pay your way out of debt.”
Debt? Wait. “What?” Carl had never fucked around when it came to money.
“Oh, Ray, Ray. Do you have any idea how much you owe the label?”
Owe the...label? Shards of ice crashed into his back. He couldn’t think of the words to say, because his brain wasn’t wrapping around what Carl was saying. He let his arms drop to his sides.
“That’s better,” Carl purred. “Now maybe you’ll pay attention to me instead of being a fucking shithead.”
Had he missed something? Maybe he’d missed something. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot, Ray. Pretty, talented, but nothing upstairs.” Carl tapped his head with a finger, and his grin was lurid.
Jesus, this guy. “Look, I know you hate me. I get it. But what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Did you read the contract you signed?”
He had, but so much of it was lawyer speak. He figured the label knew what it was doing. But... He nodded slowly.
“Then you know how it goes.” Carl turned on his tablet and showed it to him. “Here’s the bottom line.”
Ray crept closer to get a look at the spreadsheet. The number at the end was large...and negative. “But we’ve gone gold, haven’t we?” They’d at least hit that with the album before Kevin had crashed and burned. A party. Fanfare in the press.
“Sure you did. But stuff costs, Ray. Your stage clothes. The hotels. The buses.”
He thought...he thought the label took care of those. The band was paying for it? What about the concerts? Tickets cost a bundle. He took another look at the spreadsheet, but the numbers blended and shifted before his eyes. Now was not the time to be studying this. The buzz was gone, torpedoed by the sickly feeling that he’d screwed up big time somewhere along the line. Carl’s cruel grin only confirmed that.
“Can you—send this to me?”
“Sure. Though it is a lot of math.”
For fuck’s sake. He had an associate’s degree in accounting. Ray snapped his teeth shut. “Why are you showing this to me now?” Who knew what time it was—late, probably.
“To keep you in line.” For once Carl didn’t lie. “I’m tired of you mouthing off to me, showing off to your bandmates, especially when they don’t know how hard you screwed them over.” He shut the tablet off and tucked it under his arm. “Your song choice worked tonight, but I’m your manager, Ray. You’re gonna listen to me when I tell you shit and you’re going to do it, because I’m the only line you have to the label and the only one who can get you out of the hole you’ve dug yourself into.”
Ray shivered as a deep chill seeped into his bones that had nothing to do with the AC. “Send me the goddamned numbers and I’ll take a look at them.” Even if he knew in his soul that Carl was telling the truth this time.
Carl’s smile fell away. “You better toe the line or the label will drop you and your band, and you’ll be stuck explaining why your friends have no money to their name.”
Yeah, trapped, and not in the high school bully sense. Ray could almost hear the cell door clicking closed. “I said I’d look at it later. What more do you want?” Oh, he knew. Hated the idea, but what choice did he have? He dropped his shoulders “For now, you’re the boss.”
“Damn straight I am.” Carl pushed off the door and opened it. “Enjoy your night, Ray.”
Like hell he would, and given the twist in Carl’s voice, he knew Ray wouldn’t. Without a word, Ray left and headed toward the bus.
Fucking hell. Yeah, they’d all signed the contract, but they’d looked to him for guidance, and maybe he’d sunk them all. He was supposed to be the leader. Fuck.
Of course, he was the last one to the bus. Dom was already halfway through one of his microbrews. “Hey! There’s the man of the—” His face fell and so did Mish’s. Ray didn’t want to look at Zavier.
“Honey?” Mish said. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” He ground the word out and pushed past them all. “I’m fine.” Last thing he needed was Mish mothering him or Dom to pepper him with questions.
“We did good tonight.” Zavier’s velvet-soft words. “Nothing can take that away.”
Ray stared into the back of the bus and let his eyes water. Oh yes, something could. Carl could. Toe the line. Do as told. “Yeah, the crowd loved us. I know.” His voice wobbled. “I—need to—” He kicked off his shoes and waved at his berth before crawling in and pulling the curtain shut. Fuck. He jammed his face into the pillow and covered his ears as best he could. He wanted to punch something. Or cry. Or find someone to fuck into oblivion. Anything to get the pain out of his head and chest.
Carl only echoed the voice Ray heard in his own head. He wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t pull this off. Somehow, this was all a fluke. He’d already burned Kevin out—how long before he took out Dom, Mish, and even fucking perfect Zavier Demos as well?
The pillow, the darkness and the rumble of the bus’s engine were all he had to make the agony stop, and they didn’t block out the murmur of voices, just muted some words. Dom was angry and Mish concerned. But what got to Ray was Zavier’s calm voice. “Endorphin crash. I suspect he had help, too.” A hint of deep fury there.
Zavier’s breath ghosted across his neck and his praise echoed in Ray’s mind. You’re an astounding musician. Maybe he was, but that didn’t mean a damn thing now.
“Fuck. Must have been Carl. That shitbag hell-swine.” Mish and her mouth.
Her outburst quieted them all down. “What do we do?” Dom’s voice—not Domino, but the kid Ray had known since that first day of high school.
It was Zavier who answered. “Drink your beer. Enjoy the night. It was incredible.” He gave a little laugh, as if he didn’t believe how well they’d played. “Like I said, nothing can change that. Ray’ll feel better in the morning.”
The thing of it was that they had fucking rocked it. Played better than even Five Asylum. Ray still vibrated from the audience, those wide eyes staring at him, and the screaming fans with their outstretched arms. There’d been the murmured thanks, tears, and heartfelt happiness in the autograph line. People wanted selfies with him. Mel’s story.
Zavier was right—Carl couldn’t take that away. But the walking dickbag could make sure it never ever happened again. He could make them destitute. They’d never dig themselves out of the hole he’d put them in by accepting that contract.
That was where Zavier was so very, very wrong—Ray wasn’t going to feel better in the morning. He’d never get the rock lodged in his stomach out again. They were beholden to the studio, and Carl held all the cards.
* * *
Zavier woke when Ray slipped out of the berth above his. No idea what time it
was...but probably not morning given that they were still on the road and their next stop was outside Chicago. That was only about a five-hour drive, and it had taken Mish, Dom, and him a good hour after the bus pulled away from the venue to chill out—both from the concert and their collective anger at Carl.
Fucking Carl. Before he’d crawled into his bunk, Zavier had shot off another email to Nadia. She preferred phone calls, but there wasn’t any good or private time and other than the band, he wasn’t sure who he could trust.
As for the band, he didn’t exactly want to drop Nadia’s name. Not the famous madam from the ’70s. No idea how any of them would react to that tidbit of news.
Ray’s footsteps headed to the back of the bus, toward the bathroom. Zavier waited, but those footsteps never returned, though the soft sounds of water running had filtered to Zavier’s ears. He was groggy and tired and should leave Ray to his space, but try as he might, he couldn’t slip back into sleep.
He kept seeing Ray’s broken expression when he’d climbed into the bus. The hopelessness written into his skin and the desolation in his eyes. Whatever Carl had said to Ray, it had sunk teeth in deep. Too deep.
They needed Ray. Hell, Ray needed Ray—not the anxious, strung-out version that was uncontrolled and spiraling, but the thoughtful, creative one who saw solutions and knew the band, the material, and what would light the fans on fire.
Zavier sighed, got up, and followed Ray to the back of the bus. There was a little lounge they’d deemed a quiet zone. Somewhere to go when you wanted to read or rest or otherwise have downtime without someone yapping in your ears.
Ray sat on one of the couches, a small light illuminating the gold of his hair. His head was in his hands, and his naked but inked back heaving like he’d run a marathon. Or was trying very hard not to break down. He looked up when Zavier paused at the threshold and if anything, there was more despair in his eyes than before. “I’m sorry if I woke you.” His voice was a mess of husk and gravel.
“It’s not a problem. I was worried.” Zavier waved at the seat across from Ray. “Do you need a shoulder?”
Ray’s laugh was hollow. “I need a fucking brain.”
But he nodded, so Zavier slipped in and took a seat. “Whatever Carl said—it’s probably not true.”
Ray pushed his hair back. “Except that it is.” He fisted his locks and yanked, then stood and paced in a very tiny circle, much like a caged animal. “It is.”
Oh, the desire to rise up and take Ray’s arms, his tense body, and sit it back down on the bench with him. Soothe out his worries and take control of all that energy. But Ray was too far gone, and too volatile. “How?”
That question seemed to suck the wind out of Ray. He sank down. “We owe the label money. More than we’ll ever make. The first album with them went gold, and the idea of the tour was to boost our visibility and bring in more funds for the next album with them, but...we’re never gonna make enough. Ever. I signed a contract that screws us over and—” He took a long look up the bus. “I’ve fucked over my friends, ’cause I got them to sign it, too.”
Am I your friend? Zavier would like to think that he was. “Record label contracts are pretty much designed to screw the artists over, yeah. But there are ways to survive that. To thrive. There has to be, because others have.” He shifted on the couch. “Carl likes playing with your head.”
It was almost as if those sentences, that string of words had been the tiny slaps Ray had needed to wake him up out of his shock and fear. “I asked him to send me the spreadsheet he showed me.”
A goddamned spreadsheet? “That fucker threw numbers at you after a concert and fan signing?”
Ray nodded slowly. “And told me to toe the line, or he’d make our lives hell with the label. More or less.” Another glance up the bus. “Please don’t tell the others. They have enough shit to deal with.” He sat back. “Hell, I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. Carl’s my problem.”
That fucking manager was everyone’s problem. But Zavier shrugged. “I’m expendable.” A temporary hire.
For the first time since Ray had entered the bus, his expression was clear and collected. “No. You’re not.” He rose. “I should try to get some sleep.”
Yeah, so should he. “Ray?”
Ray paused, but didn’t look back. “Yeah?”
“I’ve never played a concert like I played last night. I want to do it again. Even better.”
This time Ray did glance back. “Me too.” With that, Ray headed to his berth and crawled inside.
Zavier waited a few minutes, replaying the conversation over in his head. He really needed dirt on Carl, or to find some way to keep Ray from falling apart after every damn show. The fucker had his claws in Ray, that was for sure—probably playing with Ray’s sense of responsibility.
Finally, Zavier got up and slipped back into his bunk. He itched to touch Ray in all the ways that might calm that spirit down.
So not a good idea, especially when Ray swung from one emotion to another. So he rolled over, and tried not to think about the naked expanse of Ray’s back and just how much he wanted to trace the lines of ink with his fingers. Or a crop. Or his tongue.
One thing he did need to do—find out more about contracts and see what the kernel of truth was that Carl had shoved deep in his shit sandwich of lies.
Chapter Ten
Ray waited for the other shoe to drop from Carl, but it didn’t come. Not at their Chicago show and not today, though he’d finally received the spreadsheet from Carl in his inbox overnight, and he’d spent the better part of the morning on the bus poring over the numbers. Sadly, the information was limited and he had no way of knowing if any of it was correct, especially since the sheet was something of Carl’s own making and not an official royalty statement.
Man, he wished he had his contract so he could see when and how he was supposed to get those, but it were tucked into a lockbox back in a storage unit in New Jersey. Stupid not to have it, or at least electronic copies. He wondered if asking for it directly from the label would cause waves.
Probably. He wasn’t supposed to be bothering the label with shit like that. He rubbed his forehead and tossed his phone to one side. Trying to make heads or tails of a spreadsheet on a smartphone was an odious task, and he needed to focus on their next concert. He rose to fetch his notebook.
In Chicago, they’d played an amphitheater and had rocked that show harder than they’d played Detroit. Zavier had gotten his wish—another concert, but even better. Same screaming audiences, and a larger line of fans waiting for autographs. So many had wanted selfies, including with the hot new drummer.
The press was pretty jazzed, too. Twisted Wishes had gotten a decent write-up in the Detroit area and the gossip blogs were even being somewhat kind, though too many still wondered when Van Zeller would lose his mind again. Truth was, he always hovered near his breaking point.
Ray sank back down on the couch where Zavier was stretched out. He had to figure out some way to get the band out from under the pile of red numbers in Carl’s spreadsheet.
“Meeting time?” Dom looked up from his book, one of his well-worn Oscar Wilde tomes he read over and over.
“Not yet. I wanna look over things. Think about what we’ve done.”
They’d used nearly the same playlists for both shows. Some changeups in the middle, to make sure they kept their hands in all the songs. Different outfits, too. Ray wasn’t sure whether Zavier looked better in tight leather or flowing black linen that hung nearly off his hips.
Zavier had kept the purple lipstick. He’d also been keeping quiet when not on stage, though it was pretty darn obvious he was watching Ray when not studying the screen of his tablet. Pity? Concern? Ray had no idea what was behind those looks. Didn’t care. Couldn’t care.
Carl had made every waking moment like walking on cracking ice, so
Ray bottled up his feelings. It was the only thing he could do and remain together. But too often there were moments when his stomach rolled and his head hurt and he thought he might hurl if he focused on all the ways Carl could screw the band. The ways Ray had already screwed them.
All Carl had done in Chicago was smile at Ray, and that had been enough to force Ray to hit the bathroom to splash cold water on his face before boarding the bus. He’d stayed up to celebrate with the band—albeit with water—and everyone, including Zavier, seemed to have bought his cheerful demeanor.
Not so much now, from the set of Zavier’s lips when his eyes flicked up from the tablet.
They were on their way south to St. Louis, then on to Oklahoma City, then Houston. They’d have a break after the show in Houston, two nights in a hotel before they hit the road again. God, he couldn’t wait. Privacy. A shower that wasn’t a shoebox. No rumble of an engine. Maybe he could find someone to fuck the tension out of his system and gain a piece of oblivion—at least for a while.
He shivered. Oblivion was what Kevin had sought. At least the occasional tumble wasn’t quite as bad as crawling into a bottle...he hoped, anyway.
Ray flipped open the last written pages of his notebook. Tight but messy handwriting. Playlists. Thoughts. Worries. Little snatches of lyrics, most of which were terrible. But it got them out of his mind.
When blue shades to violet
And agony encompasses the moon
Will I find my heart or abandon my soul?
He traced a finger over the words and felt the weight of Zavier’s stare. Of all the people to become their drummer, it had to have been the one guy he never ever had a shot with. Worse, he was so damn grateful to Zavier for pulling them from disaster.
He looked up and met Zavier’s gaze. “Other than ‘White Hot Midnight,’ what’s your favorite song?”
Zavier folded the cover of his tablet over to turn it off and rested his hand on top. “You’ll laugh if I tell you.”
