by F. X. Scully
Coco laughs. "Oh, god. Crazy Eights! I totally forgot. Back when Ross and Cole were friends he used to torture us with that stupid game."
"Still," I say. "Boys are gross, dirty and loud. Like, twenty-four-seven. I am so glad I never had a brother."
"You have no idea how lucky you are."
I smirk. "How is Cole these days?"
"Annoying."
I laugh. "Is he around?"
"Cole?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Just finished his shift. He's in the shower I think. Why?"
"I need his sleuthing skills."
"I didn't know he had any," Coco chuckles.
"Maybe not, but he does have that badge and in this case, I think it might help. I'm going to get our guys more time on that tour if it's the last thing I do." Knowing Roscoe, it just might be.
"What are you going to do?"
"Get creative," I reply with a smile.
While meeting a strange man in a hotel room is probably the worst idea, that's where I find myself two days later. We're in Sacramento on a Wednesday morning. The guys played Daly City the night before and are wiped out on the bus, and I'm taking the opportunity to make my move.
Bill Fiennes sits behind a large desk, papers, empty food containers, half-empty coffee cups and an ashtray full of cigarette butts surrounding him.
"What'd you say you're name was again?"
"Sheila Carlson. I'm the—"
"Right, you're here about the Deluxe tour. Like I tell everyone, drop off the demo. We'll get back to you." He sits back in his chair, then pushes his glasses down his nose, sizing me up. His gaze lingers on my face, and I squirm when it drops to my chest and scans the rest of my body.
What the hell?
"I'll tell you what, if you've got the demo here, I can take a look right now. What do you sing? Pop? Country? You've got the look, that's for sure."
"What?" I frown. "No. I don't sing anything. "I'm," I let out a frustrated sigh and do my best to reel in my annoyance. "I'm Sheila Carlson. I'm the tour manager for Roscoe Gold."
He stares at me, blankly, for a moment before recognitions starts to register on his face. "Right, those boys from Idaho." Then he frowns and I'm annoyed all over again. "You're there manager?"
I nod. "Tour manager. And I was hoping we could talk."
"About?" There's a slight smirk on his face and Paula's words are fresh in my mind again.
Unbelievable. One look and he's decided not to take me seriously.
I pull out the folder and take a deep breath. I hope I'm not taking a risk approaching him like this, but I also don't want to let the opportunity pass. So I go ahead and spread the pages out on the desk in front of him.
"What's all this?"
When I glance back up, Bill looks about ready to bolt, so I jump right in.
"Okay, so I've been doing some research. We've been on the road for almost two weeks and in that time, despite their growing popularity, Roscoe Gold has only played six shows. I think—"
"Isn't that what they agreed on?" Bill picks up one of the papers, scanning it over. "There are three other bands. They can't play every show."
"No, of course not. No one would expect them to." I smile, hoping to turn on the charm. "At least not before."
"Before what?" He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair again.
"Look, I know how this sounds, but if you take a look at the numbers," I tap the desk in front of him. "It's all right here. They're making you a hell of a lot of money."
Bill raises an eyebrow, but his gaze eventually falls on the paper. For several excruciating minutes, he reads over my research. First the stats on the Diamond's fans in each state of the tour, then on the ticket sales from each show. Finally, he picks up the deal maker.
"What's this?" he asks.
I clear my throat. "I managed to get some info about the other opening acts. That band from Florida, Machete." I nod to the paper in his hand, "They're not doing this tour any good."
Bill raises both eyebrows this time. "That's quite a claim."
I nod. "But substantiated. They've had eleven different members in the past two years. When they started off they were a country band, then they were Grunge, now they're Thrash. The lead singer has a pretty bad rap sheet, the lead guitarist has a drug problem. Not to mention, they don't get along. I mean, like at all. They're pretty much always at each other's throats. You might even remember they missed their cue during the first show. I've seen them play. No one pays attention. They don't get nearly as much appreciation as my guys do, yet they've booked double the amount of shows. I just don't get it. They're fillers at best."
Bill is just staring at me now and I'm suddenly starting to feel like an idiot. I literally just trashed another band. Who does that? Worse, what's he going to think of me now?
"How old are you?"
Seriously, this question again? "What?"
"How old?"
According to Paula I could pass for twenty-five. Maybe I should just go with that. After what she said about these industry guys eating me alive, I can't help but be afraid to show my true colors. "I...I'm eighteen." Practically.
"And you're the manager of a grunge band?"
"Tour manager." I nod. "But they don't really refer to themselves as Grunge. Roscoe likes to...never mind."
"Impressive. And this, uh, research of yours. You say it's substantiated. Where'd you get your info?"
I shrug. "Fans. I talk to them. Plus, I've been calling around. And I have a friend who’s a cop. He has access to certain information, so he helped me out."
"And what's this Roscoe's Diamonds thing all about?"
"Oh, it's the band—our band's fan club. I started it two years ago. It's pretty huge. It used to just be in Lewiston, but last year they played a few shows in Washington and a couple in Oregon. And ever since the tour started, their fan base has been growing. They're popular with the college crowd too, so they've got fans all over the place. And groupies." I roll my eyes. "I didn't think I'd have to deal with that until they made it to the big time."
Bill smiles for the first time since I entered the room.
"So you think these boys have got what it takes, do you?"
"I do."
"And you want me to replace Machete with Roscoe Gold and double all of their sets for the shows they share."
"Um..." Seriously? I was hoping for an extra week of shows at best.
"Because I'll tell you," Bill continues. "More shows mean more publicity and I have to agree with you, those boys deserve it, but it ain't gonna be easy. Doubling the set means more songs. And they better be as good as the stuff they have now or it'll just back fire. Not to mention, they're going to have to prove themselves. And if they can't hack it, it could mean the entire tour."
"What do you mean?" Shit. What have I done?
"I mean, if I agree to your suggestions, they'll have to hack it or go home."
No! But I nod anyway. "They can handle it, Bill. I know they can." God, I hope so.
He pushes away from the desk and stands up, reaching out for my hand with his calloused, hairy one. It's so big it swallows mine up and I instantly feel insignificant.
Bill smiles again, then chuckles softly. "I'll be damned. You don't even look like you can hack it. But you surprised me. I'll tell you this, those boys are lucky to have you on their side."
I smile back. I sure hope they think so.
As I gather up my papers, he places a palm down on the one from earlier. "If you don't mind, I'd like to hold on to this."
"Uh, sure."
"These Machete kids have quite a track record. One that, had I known about, would never have gotten them on this tour."
I clear my throat. "Just so you know, it wasn't my intention to get them fired."
Bill smirks this time. "I know. Not that they'll see it that way, but I know."
"You're going to tell them?"
"I won't. But these things have a way of piecing themselves together."
I cringe.
"But don't worry. You did the right thing, coming to me. I only booked them based on a favor. There's only so much I can take though." He shakes his head. "You're one dedicated gal. Good luck to you. Not that I expect you'll need it."
The bus has never been quieter than it is in this moment—the moment I drop the bomb I've been holding onto since we left Sacramento.
Roscoe just stares at me. He doesn't look angry or even the least bit surprised. He just stares and I wish to god he would speak. Say anything to break the silence.
I look over at the others, but their eyes are all on him. Waiting for the inevitable. And here it comes.
"I told you to leave it the fuck alone." His voice isn't loud. In fact, I have to strain to hear him. "I said, we were good. Like you said, we're lucky to even have this gig in the first place. And what do you do? You don't just bite the hand that feeds you, but the one that feeds every mother-fucking one of us."
"Ross, it's fine. Bill said—"
He turns a glare on me, silencing me in seconds flat. "Don't fucking interrupt me." He gets up from the edge of the bed and takes a giant step toward me. "Don't fucking undermine me. You work for me. Not the other way around."
"But Ross, I—"
"What the fuck did I just say? What? Are you fucking deaf?"
"Chill out, Ross," Luke steps between us.
It's taking everything inside of me not to cry right now. But I hold my ground, determined to defend myself.
Roscoe laughs. "Of course you're defending her. You'd love it if we got kicked off this tour, wouldn't you? Never wanted to be here in the first place."
"She was only trying to help," Luke says. "You've been bitchin' about that band since the first show. They're gone now, maybe you should say 'thank you'."
"Thank you?" Roscoe sputters. "For what? Piling on the fucking pressure? Giving us a surefire way to get kicked off this tour?"
"He's got a point," Ryan says. "Luke, I mean. Machete sucks. Now they're gone. Dude gave us every single one of their spots."
"And it's not like we suck," Dash adds. "If we did he wouldn't have given us the deal in the first place. We've been kicking ass out there every show. Maybe this is our chance to really make a name for ourselves."
The fact that everyone but Roscoe is on my side has me giddy, but I don't let it show. I just watch him, waiting for his reaction.
"So that's it, huh? Sheila Carlson the hero, even though she may well of fucked us all over."
"She didn't," Luke says, smiling over at me. "She may well have just made our nights."
"Whatever. Hope you're all prepared to practice your asses off. All that free time you had to get fucked and fucked up just went out the window."
The guys murmur obscenities and this time it's Roscoe's turn to smile. "Yeah, forgot about that part, huh? Double the shows, means double the material." He grabs his guitar, places a pair of earphones over his head and hunkers down on the bed, shutting out the rest of the world.
Seattle, Washington
Shannon
Considering what I've left at home, I know this is a bad idea. Dave's been so good for me. Since he took me out for barbecue that night, we've spent nearly every day together. And it's been nice. Really nice. I've mostly forgiven him for ditching me all those years ago. But that's because he just won't stop apologizing.
And I feel bad. I talked him into doing something he really wasn't comfortable with. As nice as it was, as magical as the entire night felt to me, he's apparently lived with the guilt this entire time. I'm a horrible influence. First Sheila, now Dave. But I'm doing my best to make up for it.
When Dave asked me if I wanted him to come to Seattle with me, I was tempted to cancel this trip altogether. But I couldn't. Like I told Lucas, Dave and I aren't serious. At least not yet, but if I ever expect us to get back to the way things used to be, I'm going to have to get whatever this thing is with Lucas out of my system and off my mind. And the only way I can do that is by getting him to back off.
The second I see him I know I'm in trouble. I know I shouldn't have come, but what else is new? He's even sexier than I remember. In a cut off T-shirt showing off the tattoo that hugs his arm, he lingers outside, looking up and down the sidewalk. It's a cool night and when he shoves his hands in his pockets and does a little warm-me-up jig, I giggle to myself, eager to take on the task.
I take my time crossing the street and it isn't until I'm a few feet away that he sees me. When he does, his eyes light up and a huge grin spreads across his face. Lucas pulls me in for a bear hug and I squeal when he picks me up a few inches off the ground. I step back, hoping to avoid more PDA but he doesn't give me the opportunity. He bends down, my face in his hands, and gently sucks on my bottom lip. His tongue flicks my top lip, then aggressively plunges into my mouth and past my teeth. As he tugs on my tongue, his hands travel to my waist, pressing me as close to him as possible. I allow myself to get lost in his kiss for a few precious seconds before finally pulling away and covering my mouth.
"People are watching," I say, my gaze dancing around the entrance to the hotel.
"Let them." And he grabs my face, taking me over the edge again.
When we finally separate, breathless and flushed, he takes my hand and leads me inside a building.
"What happened to the RV? Is this where you're staying?" I gawk at the expansive lobby, gold statues and high ceilings. There are bellboys pulling trollies, women in fancy evening gowns and men in fine suits. Lucas and I are completely out of place.
"Thanks to our tour manager. She's a miracle worker. Actually, she's kind of a bitch so people don't like to get on her wrong side."
"Tour manager?"
"Guide. Tour guide." Lucas frowns. "Yeah. She, um, plans our itinerary. Where we stay, where we eat."
"What kind of trip are you on?"
He sighs, draping an arm around my shoulder. "A crazy one."
"Do I get to meet him?" I ask, looking up at him. "Your brother?"
He chuckles. "You know, I'd say yeah, but he's kind of an acquired taste."
A woman at the entrance to a darkened bar takes my coat and Lucas's gaze lingers on my body.
"You look great," he says, licking his lips.
"You need to get your mind out of the gutter," I reply.
His mouth crooks to the side and he grabs my hand, leading me across the floor and into a dark corner. "Sorry about this." He pulls out my chair and I sit down. "I wanted to take you someplace nicer, but I don't have much time."
I nod. "It's okay. This is a nice place."
He kisses me on the cheek and I turn my head to meet his gaze. I close my eyes as his lips brush against mine and let out a soft sigh. As Lucas lowers himself into the chair right next to me, that smile never leaves his lips.
"I've missed you," he says. "More than I thought I would." It feels like every nerve has zeroed in on the spot where his hand now rests. "Did you miss me?"
I nod, then shake my head.
"I'm confused," he says, his mouth drawing closer.
"I did. I do." I rest my hand on his to stop it from drawing those lazy circles on my thigh that are driving me absolutely crazy. "We need to talk...about stuff."
"What stuff?" His lips brush my ear and I jump at the tiniest static shock. "Sorry," he chuckles.
"I like you, Lucas," I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "A lot. But we can't do this."
"I think I more than like you, Shannon. And I don't see why not."
I turn to face him again. "That's stupid. You barely know me. We barely know each other."
"Did you just call me stupid?" He crooks that half-smile again and I force myself to look away.
"No. I said this is stupid. We don't know each other."
"That's not true. I know you're a minister's daughter—a naughty one." His voice drops to a low rumble. "You have a little sister, you’re studying to become a pharmacist, you drink Budweiser but you don't smoke weed—anymore, you
were a high school bad girl, and your middle name is Bertha—"
"Beatrice," I correct him.
"Is there really a difference?" He laughs and I join in.
"You know about me, Lucas. But you don't know me and I barely know anything about you other than your parents are in jail, your brother half-raised you and now you owe him. So you’re tagging along on a required family trip with a bone fide tour guide."
"You also know that I'm studying Business."
"Were. You're taking time off, remember?"
Lucas leans back in his seat with a heavy sigh. "What's your point, Shannon? So, we don't know everything there is to know about each other. Those things come with time."
"The point is we spent the last few weeks you had in Idaho rolling around on that damn rooftop." I shrug. "Maybe that's all this is."
His eyes widen slightly and he draws his brows downward. "That's not true."
"How would we know?"
"How will we unless we wait to find out?"
I smile, resting a hand on his cheek. "You're not there, Lucas. You're here and wherever else you'll be in the next day or so. What do you want me to do? Wait until your next pit stop?"
His expression darkens further and his voice is gruff when he responds. "But someone else is, right? Is that why you showed up here? To tell me you didn't want to bother with me anymore? You've found someone better?"
"No, that's not it. I just...I wanted to be honest with you. I've been thinking about you nonstop, but I can't do that to myself. Every time a foreign number shows up on the phone, I think it's her—my sister. When I finally got the chance to answer that day, I was positive. But it was you. And even though I was happy to hear from you, I realized something."
"What?"
"It's because of you. The reason I screwed up, the reason she left. Because I met some guy in the library and decided to make out with him on the hood of my car instead of having her back like I always do."
He rests a hand on my leg again. "You can't blame yourself."
"But I can blame you."
Lucas sits back, the hurt clearly written on his face.
