He never does, though. Loud music plays in the background, the thumping bass carrying through the phone, punctuated by indistinct voices.
“What do you want, Mason?” I repeat.
“Hmm. That’s a loaded question, don’t you think?”
I drop my face in my hand. He’s drunk. I’m exhausted. Under different circumstances, I might find this somewhat entertaining. But I’m still annoyed at his high-handed orders earlier, and him waking me up doesn’t endear him to me any further.
“No, Mason,” I tell him, not bothering to stifle my sigh, “it’s really not. You called me at two thirty in the morning. Ostensibly for a reason. I would just like to know what that reason is.”
“You didn’t schedule a car for me.” His voice comes out sounding like a petulant toddler. If a toddler were drunk, anyway.
Sighing again, I slump over even more, my bed calling to me. Lay down, Viola, it says. Hang up on the man-child and go back to sleeeeeep.
Okay, maybe that’s not my bed. Maybe it’s just what I want to do. Instead, I grumble, “And you can’t call the car service why exactly?”
“I don’t have their number.”
“You don’t … Oh for fuck’s sake.” I rip the phone away from my ear, change the input to speaker, and pull up my list of contacts for our stay here. Then I rattle off the number for the car service.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I think he’s supposed to be saying that quickly, but instead it sounds more like the guy singing “What’s New Pussycat,” which is a terrible, terrible song, and now it’s going to be stuck in my head. Great. “It’s cute you think I even understood the phone number you just gave me, much less might remember it long enough to dial it after we get off the phone.” He pauses, then lowers his voice to what I think is supposed to be a conspiratorial whisper, but he’s still practically talking at full volume. “Maybe you didn’t notice. I’m a little drunk. And it’s kinda loud here.”
“Of course. What was I thinking?” I wasn’t. I’m way too damn tired to think. And I’m getting sweary because I’m tired and everyone around me cusses like sailors and it’s already changing my speech patterns. At least in my head.
“I dunno,” he responds to my rhetorical question. “What were you thinking?”
“I’m assuming that you’re ready to come back to the hotel, since you’re calling?”
“Yessss,” he confirms. “Got it in one.”
I open my mouth to correct him, because according to my phone, this conversation has already lasted over five minutes. Which is five minutes longer than it needed to. Which means I didn’t get it in one. It took me over five fucking minutes to figure out why my drunk drummer is calling me.
“Alright. I’ll have someone come pick you up.”
“You come too.” These words are sharper and more lucid than anything else he’s said.
But still, I’m in shock. “What?”
“Get in the car that’s coming to pick me up. I need you to come get me.”
“Why?” The question is out before I can think better of asking. He’s already told me that my job is to do whatever he tells me to do. The other guys too, though I doubt any of them would call me up in the middle of the night to pick them up when they’re drunk. Or for any reason. Other than maybe one of the little kids waking up sick and needing someone to get medicine in the middle of the night … but I’ve seen their fully stocked kid luggage.
These parents are on top of things, and they’re prepared for almost every eventuality. Short of an emergency room visit, I doubt they’d need me to run errands for them at three in the morning.
“Because,” is the only answer I get. And the only answer I’m going to get, because I hang up on him. Arguing with him doesn’t go well for me even when he’s sober. I have a feeling that trying to argue when he’s drunk won’t get me anywhere.
Reluctantly pulling back the covers, I climb out of bed and put on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt while calling the car service followed by a text to Dave, the security guy. He’s on duty all night, so at least I’m not getting him out of bed.
Blearily, I grab my bag, stuff my feet into my slip-ons, and head to the lobby to wait for the car. Dave’s waiting for me at the elevator, greeting me with a sympathetic smile. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to make small talk. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want my bed.
I close my eyes in the car, not really sleeping, but trying to rest as much as I can anyway. Now I get what Blaire was always going on about when she said that touring is exhausting. I had no idea it meant so many late nights and early mornings. At least there aren’t any morning show appearances scheduled tomorrow—today?—so I should be able to sleep in a little bit.
“We’re here,” Dave says as the car pulls to a stop.
Blinking, I look out the window. Maybe I really did doze off, or maybe the club’s closer to the hotel than I realized, because it feels like that took about thirty seconds.
“I can go collect him,” Dave offers as I’m gathering my things.
I give him a weary smile. “I appreciate the offer, but since he summoned me, I have a feeling there’ll be hell to pay if I don’t go in too. He’s already making my job hard enough. I don’t want to see what happens if I piss him off more.”
His expression blank, Dave simply nods and climbs out, leading the way into the club through the throngs of people still out partying on a Friday night.
It’s a strange universe I find myself in, and I feel distinctly out of place with my shapeless sweatshirt and messy bun. To fit in, I’d need a tiny dress, a killer blowout,
