by Hazel Jacobs
Mikayla cocks her head at him. “Wh—” she begins to ask where his parents were, but she pulls herself up. If Logan was the one worrying about sending his brother to college, then obviously there had to be a reason, and probably an ugly one.
She closes her mouth, but Logan has already caught the unasked question. “It’s just been Dash and me since middle school,” he says. His voice is low and she has to lean forward slightly to hear his words. “Dad was out of the picture. Mom couldn’t cope. We got passed around to relatives until I was old enough to get an apartment.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to pry—”
He waves her off. “What’s a rockstar without a tragic backstory?”
“A boring one,” she says, playing along. “My dad’s dead,” she adds hastily because she feels like she must offer something in return.
His smile drops and his hands twitch. His tattoos flex as the muscles in his forearm move beneath the skin. “I’m real sorry to hear that,” he says.
She shrugs, but she drops her eyes while playing with the key in her hands to give her something to do besides look at him.
“It’s fine,” she says. But it’s not. And it never will be. “Say… could you talk to Bass Note and see if they’ll give me access to the band’s accounts?” she asks. A desperate and transparent change of subject, but it’s the best she can do.
His concerned frown shifts into something more guarded. “Why would you want access to our accounts?” he asks. There’s a hard edge to his voice, which mixes with the gravelly tone that’s still left over from his performance, and makes him seem almost dangerous in that moment.
“Well… I mean… aren’t I supposed to have access?” she asks, confused. “Paying for hotels and room service, booking cars… isn’t that my job?”
“You think I can’t handle it?” asks Logan.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” replies Mikayla, starting to bristle at his defensive tone. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
He pushes himself off of the door, stepping away from her and crossing his arms, and she knows that she’s lost him. That whatever banter they’d built up—whatever brief connection they’d made when they’d shared those small losses—is now gone.
“I’ll handle the accounts,” he says. “You just worry about getting us where we need to be.”
“Paying the band’s travel expenses is part of my job… it’s in my contract.”
“Ignore it,” Logan replies. “The band’s accounts are off-limits to everyone but the band.”
She throws her hands up, exasperated. “Does that include the roadies buying drugs for Slate?”
“That’s a personal expense, believe me,” he says. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and sighs. “I’m tired,” he says simply. “Big day tomorrow.”
There’s nothing planned for tomorrow, but Mikayla doesn’t point that out. She watches as he takes his suitcase and drags it down the hall and around the corner. She hears a key being shoved into a door and then the door slamming. Then silence.
Growling, Mikayla lets herself into her own room. It’s bigger and more luxurious than anything she’s ever stayed in before, but she’s too annoyed to really enjoy it. She shoves her suitcase into the corner next to the door and throws herself onto the bed, wondering where she’d gone wrong.
“It was the money,” she mutters to herself. “He must have a thing about money.”
She supposes that it makes sense. If Logan had wanted to send his brother to college, but couldn’t afford it, then his being particular about money isn’t too much of a shock. But she hates how quickly their conversation had devolved into an argument. They’d been getting along so well, and then it just fell apart.
But that’s also to be expected, she tells herself. They’re not friends, after all. They don’t have the easy connection that the band has—the way that they can argue over set lists without offending each other, the way that they can go from a knock-down, drag-out wrestling match to singing Taylor Swift songs at each other. She isn’t a part of that. She might never be, in Logan’s eyes.
Sighing, she rubs a hand over her eyes and remembers belatedly that she had eyeliner on. She looks at her hand to see the black smudges and groans.
“Goddammit,” she mutters, before pulling herself out of bed and heading for her suitcase, quickly unzipping it and taking out her toiletry bag.
She would shower and sleep. She’d apologize to Logan in the morning. And she would stop wishing for him to treat her with the same ease that the other band members did. Mikayla and Logan just aren’t meant to be friends, she decides.
With that thought in her mind, she heads to the bathroom.
The next morning, Mikayla wakes early and finds Tommy downstairs in the breakfast room.
“Good night?” she asks as she slides into the seat next to him.
She hadn’t thought that she would find any of the band awake at eight am, but he gives her a wide, cheery smile as he tosses his fringe out of his eyes. He’s got the battered notebook open next to his plate and a pen in his hand.
“Yep,” he says. “I wrote a new song.”
“What’s it called?”
“You’re On My Hair.”
Mikayla lets out a barking laugh as she pours herself some coffee. “I wonder what prompted that title,” she says.
“A gentleman never tells,” he replies seriously, but the seriousness of his tone is offset by the gentle grin on his lips. He takes a bite of his eggs and jots down a few words on the half-filled page in front of him.
“I bet I can get some stories out of Slate,” she says.
“I bet you can, too,” Tommy agrees. “In fact, I’ll bet you twenty bucks that when he finally drags himself down for breakfast, he’ll start telling us all about his night before he even says good morning.”
“You’re on.”
She takes a moment to gaze around at the deserted breakfast room. The buffet is still steaming in its trays in the center of the room, with small circular tables scattered around giving the illusion of intimacy. Tommy has staked out the corner table to himself, with a clear view of the door so that he can observe what’s going on around him. Mikayla had noticed that Tommy liked to put himself to the edge of the action when he could, quietly observing and writing in his notebook whenever some stray thought crossed his mind. It must be the artist in him. That instinct to separate himself from the world so that he can record it.
Taking her plate, she loads herself up with eggs, bacon and toast. She thinks she might have to start watching what she eats later on in the tour—if they’re going to be staying in fancy hotels and having breakfast buffets every day then her figure will start to suffer quickly—but for now she’s going to enjoy it. She re-joins Tommy, who nods approvingly at her plate and stuffs his mouth with more eggs from his own.
“So how was your night?” Tommy asks after he’s swallowed.
“More restful than yours, probably,” she says. Tommy nods in wry agreement. “Dash convinced two of the other girls to go upstairs with him, Logan and I rode the elevator together, then we had a fight, and I went to bed.”
“You had a fight?” Tommy asks. He doesn’t look surprised, but he does look concerned. “What about?”
“I don’t even remember… something stupid,” she replies. She’s lying, but it’s a white lie. Whatever it was that had set Logan off—and the more she thinks about it, the more convinced she is that it was the money—it was his problem. She doesn’t want to throw around his problems with the band members, even if they are aware of them. “Seems to be our thing. Fighting.”
Tommy shrugs and shakes his head at his notebook, jotting down a few more words. “Fighting isn’t that bad. As long as it’s something worth fighting about.”
“I guess,” she replies.
She eats her breakfast in silence, wondering idly whether the rest of the band will surface before noon. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she pulls
it out, glancing at the screen and groaning.
“Parole officer?” Tommy asks.
“Worse,” Mikayla replies. “I should take this, sorry.” He waves his hand to indicate that it’s fine, and she runs her thumb over the screen to answer the call. “Hey, Mama,” she says.
Beside her, Tommy snorts.
“Oh, good… you’re awake.”
“I’m always awake this early.”
“Well, I don’t know how things are done ‘on tour.’ For all I know you’re coming out of an orgy.”
Mikayla could hear the air quotes around on tour. Judging from the look on his face, Tommy can hear them as well, along with everything else her mother is saying.
“I’m not coming out of an orgy,” she says.
“You need to be careful… make sure they don’t slip you anything.”
“They wouldn’t. They’re good people, Mama.”
“They’re musicians, Mikayla.”
Tommy is silently laughing into his eggs. A part of Mikayla wants to walk away and take this call in private, but she likes the sight of him laughing. And besides, she thinks, now when she inevitably starts complaining about her mother, it’ll help if there’s someone in the band who knows she’s not making anything up.
“They’re good people,” Mikayla says firmly. “Last night I watched one of them send a groupie home with cab fare.”
Tommy raises his eyes at that, but he’s laughing again when the sound of her mother’s shocked gasp comes through the speakers.
“There are groupies?”
“They’re a very popular band, Mama,” Mikayla replies. She takes a big gulp of her coffee. She needs to fortify herself.
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“I know you haven’t heard of them, Mama.”
“I’m very hip. I read Mindy Kaling’s book last week.”
“Yeah? What did you think of it?”
“Oh, you know… lots of ethnic jokes.”
Tommy has to slap his hand over his mouth at this point, covering up his chuckles as much as he can. Mikayla’s having trouble keeping a straight face while listening to his stifled laughter right next to her.
“That’s great, Mama. Very forward thinking.”
“You’re being sarcastic.”
“I’m being perfectly serious,” Mikayla replies. “I’ve actually got to go, though. Band meeting. We’ve got a big day today.”
“What was this band’s name again?” her mother asks. “I’ll look them up on the Google.”
“Black Lilith,” Mikayla answers.
“Are they into devil worship?”
“Bye, love you!”
She hastily hangs up before her mother can start telling her about subliminal messages in rock music. As soon as the call is over, Tommy finally unleashes the laughter that he had been courageously holding in. Mikayla joins him, and she’s glad that the breakfast room is deserted, or they would probably have drawn some strange looks.
When they finally get a hold of themselves, Tommy has to wipe tears from his eyes.
“Your mom sounds nice,” he says.
“Careful,” she says. “If she hears you speaking so fondly of her she might make you husband number six.”
“Even if I’m a musician?” asks Tommy.
“Allowances could be made,” she replies, giving him a once-over. “You’d look good in a suit. Australia has a politician who used to be a rock star.”
“Yeah… Peter Garret,” Tommy responds. “Fronted Midnight Oil, didn’t he? I don’t think I have the leading man edge.”
“Don’t say that. You’d make a wonderful trophy husband.”
They sank into laughter again. Mikayla is beginning to think that touring with Black Lilith will involve a lot of laughter. A lot of fighting, probably, and definitely a lot of stress, but with a lot of laughter at its core. She looks down at her immaculate outfit, then back at Tommy’s rumpled flannel and floppy, curly hair, and wonders if she should consider loosening up a bit more in her wardrobe.
Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.
She wants to be an events manager. This job—this PA position—is just something she’s doing for the money, and because it is better than the job she’d had, and because the economy is in shambles. Mikayla isn’t about to start walking around in tank tops and jeans while she still has hope that she will put that degree to good use. Even if the band—most of the band, she reminds herself—has welcomed her, she has never wanted to be a personal assistant. That isn’t her goal. She can’t allow herself to become side-tracked from her goals.
“Everything okay?” Tommy asks. She looks over to see him watching her with a thoughtful expression. “You got really quiet just now.”
“Did you always want to be a musician?” she asks.
He looks surprised at the question and takes a thoughtful bite of eggs before answering, “Honestly? I guess? I don’t know. I’ve been doing this since I was in high school.”
“You never dreamed of being something… else?” She almost says ‘something more,’ but she doesn’t want to offend him.
“When I was younger, I wanted to be a dinosaur,” he says matter-of-factly. “A velociraptor, to be specific.”
“They’re pretty badass,” Mikayla says.
Tommy waves his hand dismissively. “They’re chickens with claws, the movies got them totally wrong. Anyway, I guess I never really gave much thought to jobs and stuff. I figured that I’d work it out as I went along, you know? Then I got to high school, and Slate read some of my poems over my shoulder. He decided that I’d make a good edition to the band, but I didn’t play any instruments. So he set me up with a bass and some YouTube tutorials.”
“Slate just collects people, doesn’t he?”
“He hasn’t been wrong yet,” Tommy says, giving her a significant look. “What about you? Did you always want to be in event management?”
Mikayla opens her mouth to answer, but the words escape her. She isn’t sure when she decided on that career path. It has been her goal since she started college. Her father had counseled her to choose a major early so that she wouldn’t waste time on the things that wouldn’t help her achieve her goals. So she decided on event management, playing to her strengths of organizing and networking. That was the goal she’d worked toward in school. Does that make it her dream?
“I-I guess,” she stutters hesitantly, knowing that he could probably tell that she’s only telling part of the truth.
His eyes flicker over her, taking everything in. She wonders for a moment if he’s one of those artistic types who can tell everything about a person just by looking at them. That would be dangerous. There are some things she really doesn’t want the band to know—her feelings for Logan, not least of all.
Then Tommy nods like he’s decided something. “Well, I’m glad you’re here now, at least. Wherever the future takes you.”
She glances down at her phone screen again and sees that half an hour has passed since she sat down. Some more guests are starting to trickle in, all yawning and rubbing their puffy eyes, dragging their feet and groping for the coffee. They have the bright sunburns and souvenir T-shirts of tourists heading home in a few hours.
“So Logan didn’t take any girls to his room?” asks Tommy suddenly, frowning as though he’s puzzling something out.
Mikayla takes a bite of bacon and eggs before answering, “Yeah. Sent her home before we went upstairs. Why?”
Tommy ponders for a moment, then raises his eyebrows in a slightly impressed look. “Just surprising. He doesn’t usually turn the girls down.”
Mikayla takes another bite and swallows, trying to absorb the pang of jealousy that rises in her chest along with it. So it was unusual for him to turn down groupies?
“He said he was too tired.”
Wrinkling his nose, Tommy seems to consider that. “Maybe the Get Hyped set took it out of him. He does a lot of thrashing around for those songs.”
Mikayla had noticed. She thinks that the sight of him dancing around the stage, thrusting his hips and grinning like a cat that caught the mouse, would keep her awake for many lonely nights.
“He’d have been better off with her… I wasn’t good company in the end.”
“Not that kind of company,” Tommy agrees. Then he sends her a dazzlingly sweet smile. “But I’d pick you for every other kind of company.”
She has a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to hug him. Only the thought that he probably hasn’t showered this morning, and may still have any number of bodily fluids on him from the night’s activities, keeps her in her seat. She nudges him fondly with her shoulder, and he returns the friendly bump with one of his own.
“Did you really kick your new friend out this early?” she asks. Surely the groupie wouldn’t have been pleased about Tommy sending her away before breakfast?
But he shakes his head. “Oh, no… she’s still upstairs. She was sleeping when I left.”
“You left her in your room?”
“Yeah!” He looks confused at her expression.
“Your room with your passport, wallet, phone and bass guitar?”
“She was sleeping,” he says, shrugging. “I got hungry.”
Mikayla shakes her head at him, but she can’t help but smile at his naiveté. Or maybe it is goodness. She doesn’t know what word to put to it, but she knows that no one else would wear it quite as well as he does.
Suddenly, Slate appears out of nowhere wearing an inside-out shirt and a shit-eating grin.
“Guess who’s got two thumbs and rope burn on his ankles?” he asks cheerfully as he takes a seat across from Tommy. He makes two thumbs-up and points them at himself.
“You owe me twenty bucks,” Tommy mutters to Mikayla, taking another bite of eggs.
Mikayla’s phone buzzes again. She picks it up, but she doesn’t recognize the number.
“I’ll pay you after breakfast,” she tells Tommy. She slides her half-full plate over to Slate, who salutes her before tucking into the still warm food. “I’m going to take this outside,” she says. She slides out of her seat, swiping her thumb over the phone screen and pressing it to her ear. “Mikayla Strong speaking,”
