“Find him and tell him I need to speak to him straight away. Please.”
“You got it, boss.” She pushed her rack past a cluster of speakers and behind a lighting grid.
The crew made final adjustments and dashed offstage.
Brian moved stage left, toward the wings, and drew in a centering breath. Barbecue and cut grass smells mingled with electronic smoke, familiar state fair scents returning him to the present moment. The show had to go on.
He walked a few feet to the edge of the curtain, giving himself a view of the crowd.
Despite an unfortunate smattering of empty seats, thousands of people packed the stadium, an army of tan and brown ants spread across the standing rows and curving upward into seats. Golden sunset spilled over bodies, bringing the sheer number of people into relief. They still came out in droves to pour their energy and love into his band, and for that Brian swelled with gratitude. He was a blessed, fortunate man.
His left hand throbbed, fingers stiffening. Sliding the guitar pick between his teeth, he rubbed a persistent ache with his other hand. Despite the many joys road life still afforded—visiting cities, soaking up the excitement of devoted fans, reconnecting with old friends and making new ones—he had to keep in focus his goal of dialing back on touring.
His daughter, Tilly, needed her father present if she was to veer away from her party lifestyle and have any shot at finishing high school and getting into university. He owed her the guidance of a devoted parent. She deserved at least one.
Wincing against pain as he flexed and released his fingers, Brian shored up his determination. His body needed a break. Transferring into the business side of the music industry would stabilize him in Los Angeles and provide physical rest while keeping him close to the rock and roll he lived and breathed. If he had to deal with Joe to achieve his goal, so be it.
A solid smack thumped his shoulder. “You all right, mate?” Jonnie, Fyre’s rhythm guitarist, spoke in a measured tone. He turned a dial on his low-slung Fender. The instrument’s spiky angles and electric blue hue enhanced its owner’s edgy, leather-pants-and-dark-features appeal.
Brian turned to face his closest band brother, catching concern in the man’s keen brown eyes. He forced the corners of his mouth to turn upward into a practiced smile. Even his inner circle wouldn’t catch the inauthenticity. Not fair to drag Jonnie into his mess. Brian solved his own problems.
“Yeah. Things are a bit cocked up with Joe at the moment. It’ll pass.”
Jonnie drew his pierced eyebrows together into a frown, silver hoops glinting in the waning daylight. “Heard the latest kooky rumor about our lovely new manager?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
Brian’s stomach flipped. He rolled up his sleeves, adding the finishing touch to his casual-stylish uniform. News of this Bronze Phase hobnobbing party and the bizarre invitation the manager handed him earlier was all of the Joe-related strangeness he could handle for a day.
Speaking of Joe, the zeal and professionalism he’d shown in the early stages of their partnership had been in decline for a while now, with the ugliness he’d unleashed around Helen marking a new low.
He needed the manager on his team and couldn’t afford to poison their allegiance, however. Joe wrangled many clients and no doubt had problems of his own. Maybe the man was having a bad month, and his life outside of managing Fyre wasn’t Brian’s business.
“No, and I have no desire to hear whatever rubbish you’re on about.”
“I’m not sure you need his help as much as he lets you believe. Really, it’s the other way around. He needs you.” Jonnie’s sharp stare suited the man’s preference for brutal honesty. Brian loved that about his bandmate. No lies, no false flattery, no ego strokes.
“Well, I need the right industry connections for the label to take me seriously as a candidate for an executive position. Joe has those. Not like I can launch a solo project and chase my musical dreams.” Frustration lanced through him as he allowed himself a moment to mourn his lost inspiration.
“Yes, you can. You’ll get your mojo back, mate. I’d love to write with you sometime. Maybe a collaborative effort would rouse the muse from hibernation.”
“I don’t think I’m a songwriter anymore. And that’s how it is. It’s fine.” He swallowed a lump of pain.
Years of blocked creativity had driven him to the brink of madness, but what to do about it? The words wouldn’t flow from pen to page no matter how he tried to loosen the logjam in his mind and heart. The few times he’d looked into hiring songwriters, the prospect of outsourcing what was once his greatest source of fulfilment made him feel like a failure and a fraud.
Across the floor, a crew lad held up five fingers, giving the countdown cue. When the last digit fell, Brian and Jonnie strode to their spots in the middle of the stage. Matching their rock star struts, Thom walked on from the opposite flank, bass guitar slung low. Jonas peacocked at his side, twirling drumsticks between his fingers while dreadlocks the color of octopus ink swished from side to side.
A breeze caressed Brian’s bare arms, the first flirtation of a fall evening making goosebumps bloom. Three fireflies blinked, a triangle of ethereal green winks enriching middle America twilight. On heady summer nights outdoors, he remembered how much he loved performing live. Despite the loss of his lucky charm, he flowed into the zone.
From the sea of fans, chatter increased in pitch and
