Dread rose to the back of Hank’s throat. “What’s he done now?”
The strain developing between the members of Weekend Washout had been on the upswing for the past few months, alongside Chad’s increasingly diva attitude. Yes, they were finally enjoying solid success as a rock band despite being indie, but they couldn’t afford to rest on their laurels if they wanted to keep their place in the public eye.
Their lead singer, Chad, seemed to have decided that work was something other people did for him.
“Gone to Europe.”
The toe of Hank’s boot caught on the edge of the next step. He staggered, his brain stuck on V.’s words. “What, for a vacation?” They’d agreed to three weeks off before they started studio time for the next album. Surely that was what—
“Try indefinitely.”
Hank cursed long and hard, the words slapping the air in rhythm with his boots as he stomped up the stairs. Knight darted by him, glancing up as a particularly loud “fuck” escaped. “What happened?”
Rustling came through the phone, then the sound of wheels turning. V. dragging his suitcase behind him; Hank had heard that sound often enough on tour for it to be familiar. “There was a text on my phone this morning. Seems Ron convinced him we were big ol’ meanies for not giving him the break he deserved”—V.’s sarcasm twisted the word almost beyond recognition—“so Chad decided to take one anyway. A long one. Says he’ll let us know when he feels rested enough to work again. Until then he won’t be ‘taking calls.’”
The anger in Hank’s chest built just as it did in V.’s voice, but it was the impotent position Chad had put them all in that brought him to a halt on the stair landing. They had no way of forcing Chad back to the US, though when the prick did show up, Hank planned to strangle him. Slowly. Right after he did the same to Chad’s boyfriend. Just thinking about it had him gripping the rail so hard it threatened to splinter apart.
Chad had only been dating the troublemaker for six months, but the contributions Ron had made to the tension among the members of Weekend Washout had started immediately. Without the prick, they’d have smoothed things over with Chad far before this. Now there was nothing to smooth over except letting Chad go.
The righteous anger inflating Hank’s lungs dissipated. They’d worked so hard to get here; was this the end?
V. was apparently stuck back in the anger stage. The sound of something hitting an obstacle, then gradually receding knocks came through the phone. V. throwing his suitcase?
“Don’t damage your stuff, V. Not over him. It’s not worth it.”
A strangled groan of frustration answered him, then, “Damn it!”
Hank echoed the statement on a sigh. Three weeks. In the music industry it didn’t take much to be forgotten. If they put off studio time, there was no telling when they could get it rescheduled—a month, four, six. That put off the production timeline, release, promo… All the hard work they’d put into writing and development, all of V.’s new management efforts, all meaningless if they lost their window of opportunity. This could derail the next release for a long time.
Which was the reason they’d explained to Chad—more than once—why a vacation was impossible right now. A few days off, yes. A months-long trip to Europe? Hell no.
“Did you contact Drew?” Hank asked. Their guitarist needed to know what was going on.
“Not yet. He’ll be in Alaska in a few hours; I’ll call him this evening with the news. Hate to ruin his family time, but…”
Yeah, but.
“I can’t believe he’d do this.” Yes, Chad was fickle, but he was also a great front man. He knew how much the next few months mattered to the band. Didn’t he?
“That’s the power of the dick, apparently,” V. muttered. “Christ, Hank, he essentially laid us off, put the band on hiatus, via text.”
Knight reappeared at the bend of the stairs, his bright amber eyes questioning Hank’s delay. The look got Hank’s feet moving up the second flight of steps even as his mind raced to find alternatives to V.’s statement.
Knight danced before the apartment door, whining, anxious to get in. Hank dropped his bags on the deck and retrieved his keys from the pocket of his jeans.
“We’re fucked,” V. said, voice dragging with fatigue. He’d been working hard to get the band bigger and better venues, to get and keep their name out there. The latest single from their album had hit the top ten its first week of radio play. And now their horny lead singer threatened to bring it all tumbling down.
Opening the screen door, he said, “Maybe not.”
“And how are we supposed to avoid it?” V. shot back.
Hank turned the lock and opened the apartment door. Knight shot through the gap as soon as it was wide enough to admit his big body, his barks picking up as he disappeared inside. Hank shook his head at the dog’s antics and turned back to retrieve his bags. “What about an acoustic tour?”
The idea had merit. It might get them interim exposure until they could decide what to do about Chad.
“Without Chad?” V. asked. “People will expect the whole band.”
“Well, we could—”
From deep inside the apartment, a distinctly feminine scream split the air, cutting Hank off. Before he could do more than think what the hell? he heard fabric tearing, and then a bark from Knight. His hand went automatically to his hip, searching for his weapon, before he remembered he didn’t carry anymore.
“What was that?” V. asked.
With a hasty “Don’t know; I’ll call you back,” Hank hung up on the run. “Knight?” he called.
“Stop!”
Definitely female. The open space of the combination living room and kitchen was dark, the only light muffled behind curtained windows and, at the far end where a hall led to the bedrooms, a bright glow. But
