I showed it to Angel who held the sheet out for Hayes to glance at.
“I hate that we can’t just lay this right now,” he grunted. “I can hear this already, bro. Shit’s gonna be fire.”
“Right?” I beamed. “As soon as we get can get back to Southwold this evening, we’ll lay what we’ve got and see what we think.”
“I thought you had a date with Frankie tonight.”
I capped my pen and put the sheets of paper back in Angel’s bag while May put his guitar back in its case and then over his shoulder and into the boot. The fucker nearly took my head off again with the movement.
“I’m going to see her very ill mum,” I reminded him. “Not a date. I told you, we agreed on being friends.”
“How in the hell are you going to be ‘just friends’ with the person you write about like she is the only woman in this world who ever made you feel worth a damn?”
I didn’t reply to Angel because I had no fucking clue how I was going to be ‘just friends’ with Frankie. No clue at all. I had asked her to be my friend because I couldn’t leave her cottage without having reassurance that she would be in my life in some sort of capacity. I went there to apologise, and for the short time we spent together I knew I couldn’t continue to live a life that didn’t involve her.
I missed her too much.
“Leave him be,” Hayes glanced at our friend. “Let him figure this out himself.”
I was glad of the interruption when my phone rang, but when I saw who it was I groaned.
“It’s Chris.”
Chris Harrison was our manager and talking to him was sometimes draining. By sometimes, I mean all of the time.
“I’m not talking to him,” Angel blurted. “He stresses me out when we’re close to a performance. The guy is a wurryburt.”
“A wurrygut,” the three of us corrected.
Angel had picked up on some of our slang over the years because he thought the words sounded funny, but he still needed a little nudge here and there whenever he messed a word up.
“Whatever.” Angel grunted. “His anxiety gives me anxiety.”
“I’m putting him on speaker.”
Before anyone could argue, I answered the call.
“Hey Chris,” I chirped. “You’re on speaker.”
“Where the fuck are you guys?” he shouted, the volume of his voice startling me. “You were supposed to be live on Rock Stop twenty-five minutes ago.”
I cringed. “We’re on the way, man.”
“We’re literally only ten minutes away,” Hayes said. “Stuck in traffic.”
London was known for many things: rubbish traffic was one of them.
“You all should’ve left for the interview earlier!”
“Chris.” May exhaled a deep breath. “Remember your breathing, in and out.”
“Bite me, May,” Chris griped. “There’s only so many excuses I can make for you guys. I know people love bad-boy rockers who scream ‘fuck you’ to the world, but your fans have this shit trending. They’re waiting for you guys to go live. You know the media will run with this.”
“Mate, relax,” I urged. “I can fix this with one little tweet.”
I grabbed May’s phone from his hand, logged out of his Twitter account and signed into mine and tapped on the screen a few times and voilà. Crisis averted.
“What tweet?” Chris’s voice rose an octave. “Risk, don’t you fucking tweet anything—”
“Too late.”
“Motherfucker!” Chris snapped. “You’re the reason I have high blood pressure, asshole.”
I snickered. “I’ve fixed the issue.”
Chris continued to curse, then he read out the tweet I just tweeted.
“London, we love you, but fuucckkk. This traffic sucks. Rock Stop, we’re on the way. Adult lady Sinners, stay wet for us. Every other Sinner, keep refreshing the page. Hang tight, we’re coming!”
Angel snorted. “I’ve just retweeted it.”
I laughed and so did the other two.
“Risk,” Chris grunted. “When you get there and they ask if you’re dating Nora, make sure you make a joke about it, but also make it clear you’re single. The Sinners loved how you shut down the paps who cornered you last night. Shit was trending on Twitter for five hours straight.”
“Got it,” I stretched. “Don’t worry so much, man. We’ve done a million interviews.”
“Until it’s over, let me stress.”
I snorted.
“If rehab is mentioned, be as honest as you want to be. The support for your recovery is huge.”
That was nice to hear.
“Will do. Is everything in order for the gigs next week?”
“A sold-out concert, one of three, in Wembley Stadium is more than a gig, you dopey Brit.”
We laughed, not offended in the least.
“But, yes,” Chris continued. “Everything is in order; the crew is already in London. Set-up started this morning since your stage is awkward as fuck and needed time to be set up and tested for safety. What date is it today . . . it’s Thursday the eleventh. Show one is on Monday the fifteenth, you four are due in the stadium at noon on the fourteenth for soundcheck, costume check, full rehearsal and so forth.”
“We’ll be in London on the fourteenth,” May offered. “We’re staying at Risk’s house, right?”
“What do you mean, right? You don’t know?”
“Of course I know . . . I think.”
“This is why I stress!” Chris exploded. “You dumb asses are slowly killing me.”
I bit my lip so I didn’t laugh.
“They’re all staying in my townhouse rather than a hotel,” I cracked my neck. “You know we hate hotels.”
“Yes, I know, trust me.” Chris sighed. “I know you all know the dates, but for my own peace of mind, I’ll have Nolan email it to the four of you. He takes care of your itinerary. You know he’s having a worse breakdown than I am because you four forbid him from accompanying you to Southwold. He gets chest pains because you refused Jacob, and the rest of your security team, tagging along too.”
“Southwold is ours.” I repeated what I told
