Some shameful corner of his companionship-starved self made him accept the paper rectangle and token with curiosity. Helen wasn’t like anyone else he’d ever met, he had to grant.
“All right, Helen. I’ll search for it and let you know what I find. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Before another glimpse of her beauty or distress stoked his protective instinct, Brian turned on his heel and made haste for his tour bus.
The second he opened the door, a creepy feeling of having unwanted company settled over him. A rotten egg stench fouled the air. Grimacing, he set his writing supplies and the items from Helen on the dashboard. After pawing the spare key from the glove box, he fired up the ignition. Two rows of runner lights flanking the floor walkway came to life, marking the cabin’s main path with a soft white glow.
Making his way down the aisle separating a leather sectional couch from a wall-mounted plasma screen television, Brian scanned for evidence of the inconsiderate wanker who’d broken a cardinal rule of touring by taking a dump on the bus instead of using the porta potties.
He found no signs of disruption. No cigarette butts, used cups, or discarded clothing. In the nook making up the bus’s lounge, a few shelves of liquor bottles remained untouched.
Following a yank on the accordion door, he peered into the back bedroom. Empty save for the double bed, dresser, and half-bath with a toilet and sink.
The sole object on the granite bar was the metallic envelope from Joe, Brian’s invitation to the pretentious Hollywood party.
As post-show fatigue clouded his mind, he walked back down the slim carpet and to the driver’s seat and retrieved his notebook and pen. But his inspiration had fled.
After forcing out a few labored sentences, he gave up and set the implements down in favor of staring out the window. A hundred or so feet in the distance, carnival lights spun dark skies into a high-voltage color palette of whirling neon. Had rejecting Helen blocked his flow? No. He’d done the right thing and was simply worn out and tired.
Faint Diesel fumes reminded him Fyre would leave early in the morning, play another city, followed by another. Bleakly, he reflected on how he was a mere windup toy. Entertainment for the masses, playing fairs and arenas named after office supply stores. Delivered from city to city by plane or bus. And the number of state fair gigs crept upward every year. Twice as many this year as last.
A low-grade cousin of dread nipped at his heels. State fairs. Next came casinos. Then what, bowling alleys? Dive bars?
He’d indulged in wishful thinking about the rediscovery of his muse. If he veered off track from his goal of breaking into the executive side of music, a humiliating has-been’s trajectory of low-status appearances and dwindling crowds awaited him. Brian refused to court that chasm, that pit of nothing hovering on the other side of his fame and celebrity.
Unwilling to face his inevitable decline, he pulled his mobile from his back pocket and scrolled through dozens of missed calls and texts from hotshots and famous people, willing the outpouring of attention to fill his cracked and leaking bucket. To make him forget the fleeting, teasing taste of artistic inspiration he’d lost. To banish fantasies of romance.
It was for the best that Helen turned out to be a flake. This way he could focus on his career without emotional investments muddling his focus.
Besides, he didn’t have time to date, and certainly didn’t need a relationship to feel whole. Brian scanned numbers and messages. Though the deluge of external validation should have done its time-tested job of making him feel warm and loved, hollow numbness and dull pain warred for control of his insides.
In the bedroom at the back of the bus, someone grunted. So the interloper hadn’t fled. But who on the crew would act so damn dodgy and hide? One way to find out. Brian strode to the origin of the sound and went back inside the back room.
Joe stood in the middle of the bedroom, a blank, glazed expression sagging his face. He stammered unintelligible gibberish, looking through Brian, not at him. Half-moons of sweat darkened the underarms of his tan T-shirt.
“What the fuck, man? Were you hiding under the bed? Loo emergency you were too ashamed to admit?”
Making a scrunched face like he’d eaten something foul, Joe licked his lips with a smacking sound. “I’m in this for you, we’re all in this for you. These guys are for real. Gonna keep your band crackling with magic until you’re eighty years old. Make sure you’re remembered as bigger than the Stones ever were.” He spoke in robotic monotone, as if delivering a memorized speech. Perspiration made his balding head gleam, though the bus’s temperature reflected the cooling climate outside.
Listening to the man’s disjointed rambling sent an ominous feeling slithering over Brian’s skin. Between this and the rudeness he unleashed on Helen, Joe was worse than ever.
Sketchiness aside, though, Brian couldn’t argue with the legacy piece of Joe’s comment. Still. This scene was beyond irregular, even for conniving, eccentric Joe. “You feeling okay? Please tell me you aren’t on drugs.”
Joe scrubbed a hand over his pallid face. “No. Ate too much fried food and yeah, sorry about the smell.”
A pin of doubt stuck Brian. “What happened to your trip to the Wyoming ranch?”
Even if Joe left for the Aries Records executive retreat location at once, he wouldn’t arrive until midnight at the earliest.
“Gonna hop a flight now. Like you said, emergency shitter stop. All of the outdoor johns were taken. Won’t happen
