I shake the paper at him. “Pretty sure I’m moving on just fine.”
Crossing his arms again, he shakes his head like he’s a disappointed big brother. Which is extra ridiculous, since I’m six months older than he is, but whatever. “Look, you getting drunk all the time and fucking everyone was fine when we were on break. At least you gave our PR team something to do.” He gives a weak chuckle at his lame attempt at a joke. “But we’re back on tour now. You can’t show up to venues hungover and smelling like booze. And you can’t throw raging parties in the greenroom and leave all this shit for everyone else to clean up.”
“Oh? I thought we were rock stars. Isn’t that part of the deal? Wild parties, throwing things out of hotel room windows, women, booze, the works? I mean, I get that you’re with Kendra and everyone else is married or shacked up and that’s great and all, but why do I gotta be a monk just ‘cause the rest of you wanna act like choir boys?”
“This isn’t how we do things.” Marcus is back to clenching his jaw. His attempt at pretending to be calm and understanding is failing, and he’s getting pissed again.
I should probably care—Marcus and I have been friends for years. We lived next door to each other in the dorms freshman year at Berklee, and when I walked in on him and Danny jamming in his room one night and started tapping out a beat on the various objects on his desk with a pen and pencil, Cataclysm was born. We added a pianist a week later, and the rest is history. For whatever reason Gavin decided not to come with us when a label started showing interest and we replaced him with Aaron, but …
We’ve been together since we were eighteen and nineteen years old. Seven years. We’ve been through lots of shit—terrible venues, dangerous stage setups, building a following, finding decent representation that didn’t want to screw us over, the shock and adjustment of life on tour, the high of platinum records and sell-out arena shows. He deserves more from me than this bullshit douchebag routine I’m giving him.
But I deserve more than the condescending older brother schtick he’s giving me.
I’m not some childish, irresponsible fuckup.
I spread my arms. “What do you want me to say? The party ran later than expected and the janitorial staff had already gone home by the time we were done. I figured it’d be better here than in my suite, for lots and lots of reasons.” I don’t bring girls to my suite. It’s too risky. The other band members and their families are on the same floor, and if I’m too drunk to notice someone’s a budding stalker, giving them access to where we’re located would be bad for everyone. Not to mention the noise issue, and when half our band has kids, me limiting my recreational activities to the greenroom and my dressing room is my way of trying to be respectful. And now I’m getting my ass chewed for it.
Marcus just shakes his head, like he’s frustrated, and I’m the problem here. “No more parties in the greenroom, got it?”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a sharp salute with my free hand.
He gives me a disgusted look in return.
“Am I dismissed? I’d like to get in a nap before call time. I assume you’ll have Veronica come and wake me up again? I noticed you gave her a key to my room. Am I the only one, or does she get to barge in on all of you?”
Marcus’s mouth pinches into a hard line, a look I echo unintentionally, anger and frustration simmering in my guts. He’s pissed? Well, so am I.
“Cut the crap, Mason. Her name’s Viola, and you’ve heard it enough times that you should know it by now.” He’s right, but I won’t admit it. I’ve been deliberately calling her the wrong name since we left LA. It’s the only thing that provokes any kind of reaction from her. The rest of the time, I’m reduced to bland looks and cool politeness. She’s friendly and warm with everyone else. But she looks at me like I’m less than nothing.
I hate it.
It pisses me off.
She wants to make me feel like I’m not worth knowing? Two can play at that game.
And like the childish asshole I’ve become lately, I do whatever I can to put a crack in that calm facade. So far, all I’ve got is calling her the wrong name. I’ve even resorted to Googling names that start with V so I can use a new one every time.
“Whatever, Marcus.” I turn to leave, tired of this conversation. Just tired in general. I need to get back to my suite, take some ibuprofen, drink a bunch of water, and sleep until it’s time to come back. “I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”
“It’s not a suggestion,” he snaps.
I glance back over my shoulder. “Oh? You’re ordering me around now? When did you become the dictator?”
He huffs out a sigh. “Since you became a manwhore, and I’ve spent the last few months telling the PR team how to clean up the media nightmares you keep creating. Even with them killing as many stories as possible, you still show up in gossip sites and tabloids, pictures of you with your pants down literally everywhere. Is that really what you want? That’s the image you want to create?”
My jaw clenches as I fight down my anger, reminding myself that Marcus doesn’t know how often I got that kind of lecture from my dad. My dad who cut me off just before my nineteenth birthday for not living up to his impossible standards. Not being exactly who and what he wanted me to be. Except dear old Dad’s lectures always invoked his god. “This is really what you want from your life?” he’d ask. “You
