Goode to Be Bad

length of the jet with the phone, highlighting the individual charging stations complete with ports for wired internet access, the changeable LED lighting running around the ceiling and floor of the entire cabin, how the seats folded into beds, the bathroom at the back complete with a rainfall showerhead and nozzles in the wall, heated towel rack, a separate smaller room with a closable door for the toilet and its own sink and mirror. He knocked on the cockpit door, peeked his head in, and introduced the pilots—all I heard was a faint buzz of voices, one male, one female, and the tinny sound of the guys saying hello; then he was outside and down the steps, panning the camera to take in the exterior, walking around the nose—he had to shout to be heard, since the jet engines were idling, and even then they were loud.

Back inside, he settled onto the couch beside me, slung an arm over my shoulder. “So. Thoughts?”

“You know, I’m stoned out of my gourd, so I may not make sense. But. Um. We sleep on the bus? I know the chairs fold out, but I don’t know if I could sleep on that, like, for the night.”

Myles just laughed. “No, you won’t have to. When we finish a show, we’ll stay the night at a hotel. Big suites for everyone, my dudes. Then, whenever we feel like rolling our fat asses out of bed, we take a car to the airport, fly to the next city, check into a hotel. Do it all over again.”

“So, no more bus, at all?” Zan was still puzzled. “Only hotels?”

“Tony and Mick are putting together our hotel itinerary for the overseas tour. The bus was paid for, including the conversions and upgrades I did, so the lease makes us money. When we’re not touring, I plan on using the jet as a private charter so I’ll make back money there. The expense of the hotel rooms and the cars to and from will come out of our take-home pay. Tony says we’re spending a bit more this way, but with the way the tours are selling out, it’s gonna be fine, and a lot easier on us travel-wise. Tony’s been after us to fly for a while.”

Brand—short reddish-blond hair and a thick beard, tattoos all over his hands and forearms and biceps in patchwork which didn’t quite yet make a sleeve—tapped his chin, the sparrow on the back of his left hand fluttering as he dragged his fingers through his beard. “Question—this is your jet, or is this the band’s jet?”

Myles shrugged. “I mean, it’s mine. But if we’re not touring and you need it, let me know. Better yet, I’ll make sure the charter schedule is shared with you guys so you can schedule your use of it. Tony is setting up a separate LLC for the charter, and I’m funding and expense accounting the operating costs. You’ll have to make official requests to use it so the schedule doesn’t get jacked up, but the jet is yours to use as much as you want. Just, you know, there’s only one jet and four of us, so we gotta just be respectful of that, you know?”

Brand nodded. “Nah, it’s cool, just wondering.”

“So when do we get a ride on it?” Jupiter asked.

“Well, I’m taking Lex to Alaska to see her family before we take off on the overseas leg. We got two weeks before the first date in Tokyo, so we’ll fly there together for the inaugural band flight. We’ll fly out of LAX and I’ll get you the schedule as soon as its fixed, but I figure we’ll hit up Tokyo for some fun for a few days before the show.”

Zan, then. “I got a question.” His eyes were closed, and I saw a tendril of smoke wafting across his square of screen. “We ain’t, like, gonna end up like…like fuckin’—like Ritchie Valens and Buddy Holly, or John Denver, or Stevie Ray Vaughn? Are we? ’Cause all of them died in plane crashes.”

There was a chorus of groans from everyone else. “Jesus, Zan, way to kill the celebration, dude,” Brand said.

“No, we’re not,” Myles said. “I hired two of the best, most experienced, most overqualified pilots anywhere in the world. They’re dedicated entirely to this plane and to us. They rotate shifts so neither of them is ever flying more than the regulation number of hours. They’re assuring me they personally check the aircraft before every flight, and I’m paying extra to have mechanics at every stop go over it, wingtip to wingtip, nose to tail. Because, fuck that, I am not dying in a goddamn plane crash, Zan, and neither are you or any of us. But it’s a good question.”

Their conversation wandered after that, the way a conversation between four men who spend every waking minute together for months at a time tends to do.

Then a silence fell over the conversation.

“Man, can I just say it’s fuckin’ weird, not having Crow in on this?” Jupiter said. “I miss his cranky ass.”

Myles’s face shuttered. “I do, too. It won’t be the same without him, but he’s got a good thing going up in Alaska. I know he misses you guys, and if he hasn’t said it, I’ll say it for him—go up and visit him.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Matter of fact, executive decision—from here on out, every tour leg ends in Alaska, so we spend a good week or so with Crow and Charlie. I guess the crew up there is huge, and from what Crow says, they know how to fuckin’ party.”

“Crew?” Zan again. “What crew?”

I laughed and said, “This is going to sound a bit crazy, but my sister Cassie is dating a guy up there who’s…shit. I don’t know, honestly. It’s complicated, and I don’t know any of them. I just know my mom is dating this guy who has triplet sons, and those triplets have cousins who