Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
“Typical of the record company to schedule a meeting and be late for it,” Marley, the keyboardist of Gutless Void, slurs as he finally walks into the conference room.
Marley is a musical prodigy. He started playing the piano when he was two. Classically trained, he can elevate any song into something transcendental. He’s also one of my best friends.
I smile at him, but Marley doesn’t make eye contact. He slumps into a chair, fumbling to remove his gas mask before placing his head in his hands. The guys always wear their masks into the building, fearing that their anonymity will be fodder for the tabloids if they don't. A masked band loses its luster if the men behind the veil are revealed.
I take in Marley’s disheveled hair. His black jeans and blue hoodie with the frayed hems are out of the norm for him. It’s disconcerting because he’s always perfectly put together like a GQ model, despite the intricate tattoos and facial piercings. He’d never be caught dead in public wearing an old hoodie with frayed hems.
Most managers don’t worry about their bands. They don’t see the members as humans who need nurturing. To them the band is a commodity. But these guys are my family—the family I never had. Holidays, birthdays, and special events are all spent with them. So I care far beyond the boundaries of my job. I care because they matter to me.
And I’ve noticed a drastic change in Marley over the last few months. He’s morphed from a dick-ish smartass to a silent, brooding cliche. He’s still showing up for rehearsal, but he’s solemn and withdrawn. The only time he seems to have any enthusiasm is when he’s playing music.
I glance between Marley and Iggy, sitting at opposite ends of the room. They’ve placed as much distance between each other as possible when a few weeks ago, they were cracking jokes and being complete nuisances. But what concerns me the most is how they act toward each other.
Iggy taps his fingers on the white table, his haunted, red-rimmed eyes the only visible part of his face under the balaclava.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” Iggy mumbles as he picks at his nails, chipping the black polish and watching it flake onto the floor.
I nod toward Marley at the other end of the table, his head now resting on the surface as if he’s too fatigued to hold it upright. “You gonna tell me what’s up with the two of you?”
“No,” Iggy states, his tone clipped and firm.
I nod, taking the hint. I’ve always known when to push the guys and when to hang back. There have been bumps in the road during the years I’ve been with the band, but I’ve never seen this vast ocean of animosity between these two men.
Iggy’s leg bounces as he looks everywhere but at Marley. I turn to question Iggy again, but he pounds his fist on the conference table.
“What’s this shit about, anyway?”
“Probably the opening act,” Cain states, placing a cup of coffee in front of Iggy. “You look like shit. You and Marley partying harder than usual?”
“I’ve had problems sleeping,” Iggy growls, taking the mug.
“Problems with too many uppers, I’d say,” Cain mumbles under his breath.
Iggy grits his teeth and sips his coffee.
My heart lurches. Cain and Lars know a lot about addiction and how to spot drug abuse. As the kids of junkies, they’re well versed in the warning signs.
The conference door opens before I can say anything, and Mike Walters, the record company executive, steps in.
“Five minutes late, Mike,” Lars says as he taps his wristwatch.
Lars stands in the back of the room, one protective arm draped around his girlfriend, rock reporter Billie Richmond, the girl who stole the hearts of half of Gutless Void. I hoped her presence would mellow Cain and Lars, but she’s as unhinged as her lovers. Since she’s been in the picture, I’ve had to constantly get in front of stories before they hit the headlines. The three of them hump like rabbits and don’t know the meaning of discretion. Last month, I had to circumvent a story about them fucking in a Michelin restaurant bathroom in Paris.
“I’ve been late once in the ten years we’ve worked together, Satan,” Mike says as he glares at Lars. “Can’t say the same about you.”
“I’m the talent, Mike. I get to do fucked up shit,” Lars drawls. “You are a paid suit and don’t get to waste our time.”
“Yeah, yeah, spit it out.” Cain’s deep voice booms. “I’ve got much more enjoyable things to do than listen to a corporate shill.”
“As you know, the second leg of the American tour is coming up,” Mike says, looking around the room, “and the higher-ups would like you to feature some of the newer bands on the label for your opening acts.”