The Morning Aftermath (Aftermath #2)

1. Archer Takes a Stand

1

ARCHER TAKES A STAND

ARCHER

I swear I didn’t mean to insult the man.

Phil MacGregor was a legendary agent. He’d personally escorted unknown bands to glory. Ariana Grande, the Black Crowes, Kacey Musgraves . . . he had photos of all these bands and more. They covered the acreage of his office that wasn’t devoted to gleaming glass, framing a glossy view of Los Angeles.

A band like Aftermath—our band—was beyond lucky to have signed with him.

Here he was, offering the world to us on a platter, and I had to turn him down.

“We can’t accept those concerts. I’m sorry.”

My guys whipped around to stare at me in astonishment. Ian, our lead guitarist, wasn’t much of a talker, but Mal had a drummer’s instinct for speaking in a percussionist’s rhythm. “Archer. Dude. What the fuck? ”

MacGregor was dressed for cocktails at the yacht club: blue blazer, open-collar shirt, boat shoes under khakis. He sat back at his desk to eye me. “Mr. Armstrong,” he said levelly. “Perhaps you’re unaware of how difficult it is to put together such an aggressive schedule at such short notice.”

I nodded. “I’m sure. Places book their acts for a season. Wedging us in—that’s great, Mr. MacGregor. Really.”

“Boys, you can call me Phil.”

“Phil, then. But as you know, Aftermath’s rise in popularity has been tied to . . . um, well, to our dog.”

“Charlotte.” Phil nodded, steepling his hands. “A Great Dane you received when you toured with Sheree this summer.”

“Exactly.” Just thinking of our girl made me happy. “We got her when she was about three months old, and people watched her grow up on that tour. She was five months old by the end of the tour, and now she’s seven months old. Almost full-grown.”

“Which is pretty big,” Mal added helpfully.

“I’m aware,” Phil said. “But I’ve heard your music. Watched your videos. I came to New York to see you perform. You’re not just a gimmick band. You’re excellent musicians with a distinctive style. You’re going to be very, very big.”

“I know.” As soon as I said it, Ian nudged me. He wanted me to be more grateful, but I had ears. I could hear how good we were.

“So . . . what’s the problem with this schedule?” Phil gestured to the neatly stapled sheets in my hand. “I’ve booked you in the newest, most trending nightclubs and small theaters in the United States. This is the ideal stepping-stone for the three of you to move up the ladder.”

Ian and Mal were still watching me, surprised that I threw up a roadblock to slow the dream the three of us had shared since we were in the high school marching band. They just hadn’t seen things quite right yet .

“The venues are insane. They’re perfect. Thank you. The problem is the timing.”

“The timing.” Phil was still waiting for clarity. “Explain.”

“Yeah,” Mal said. “Explain.”

I flicked the papers I was holding. “You have us going all over the country. Back and forth. We can’t get to these gigs in time.”

“Ah—I see. Unlike the Sheree Untethered tour, you won’t be going by bus. We’ll book you on commercial airlines. Six hours in the air beats four days in a bus, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh,” Ian said, and I knew he’d understood. He nodded at me.

“These are commercial airlines,” I clarified. “We’re not traveling by private jet or something?”

“I don’t think you’re quite at that level yet, Mr. Armstrong.” Phil’s voice was dry.

“It’s okay, Phil. You can call me Archer. The problem is I’m not willing to drug our dog.”

Mal sat back and banged his large fist on his knee. “I get it. That’s right.”

“Your dog,” Phil repeated.

“Yeah. No one’s going to let us get a seat on the plane for a Great Dane, and I won’t subject Charlotte to the luggage compartment again and again, even if I did give her something to sleep through the trip. I don’t like it.”

“Me neither,” Mal said.

Ian nodded, angling his face so his long scar was facing Phil. Ever since Ian’s girlfriend, Nicky, had persuaded him to cut all his hair off, Ian had been instinctively using the scar down the side of his face to make a point, imply a threat, or just look like a badass, which he was.

Phil was silent and then inhaled deeply. “And the dog is part of your act.”

“The dog is part of our band ,” I corrected. “So, until we’re at the private jet level, we’re going to need enough time to drive to these gigs. It’s the only way I can think of to get the whole band to a show.” Phil looked like he was sucking on the insides of his cheeks. “Unless you don’t think Aftermath needs Charlotte?”

He opened his mouth with a little pop . “My apologies, gentlemen. I do think the band needs Charlotte. The sale of your Aftermath hoodies alone indicates the dog’s popularity. I should have thought of this. We’re going to need to reschedule.” His fingers flashed on his keyboard. From the outer office came a sharp cry of despair. “I repeat,” he said. “It was very challenging to get you into these venues. Favors were called in. However, you’re quite right. We’ll leave time for travel. I’ll need to look at this schedule again, and I’ll get back to you. Where is Charlotte now?”

“With my sister, Tina, back on Long Island.”

“And the fact that the dog is not with you right now—does that mean you won’t play at the Troubadour tonight?”

Ian grabbed me, and Mal yipped. “The Troubadour? You got us the Troubadour ?” Mal had lost any pretense of cool.

I felt a rush of satisfaction. “The Troubadour. That’s perfect. Every great band has played there since it opened a billion years ago.”

Yesssss , I hissed to myself. This is what we deserve.

“The Troubadour opened in 1957, I believe,” Phil said. His voice had gotten, if possible, even drier. “I can see that it would seem eternal to young men in their twenties.”

“We are twenty-eight,” I said.

“Speak for yourself.” Mal swatted me, as usual tagging me on the meatiest part of my biceps. “I am twenty-seven.”

“Our baby,” I explained. “We’ll need a guitar, a bass, and a drum kit.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Phil was the picture of cool competence—and apparently also a fairy godmother .

“What kind?” Ian didn’t speak much, but it mattered when he did.

“I believe you’re now playing a sunburst Gretsch hollow body?”

Ian indicated his surprise with a raised eyebrow. “A 6117.”

“Obviously. I’ll get a loaner for you.”

Ahh. This was living. He knew my preferred bass, too, and told Mal what his drum setup was. Mal just nodded, wide-eyed.

We had arrived at last.

Once that was settled, Phil swiveled in his chair, chewing on his cheek again. His brain must have been working fast because it wasn’t long before he made the popping noise again and turned to me. “I’m going to auction you off, Archer.”

Huh? We expressed our confusion, Mal simply by saying, “Dude.”

“Yes. If you’d been able to keep the original schedule, we wouldn’t have to—yeah.” He went back to clicking on his keyboard. The poor flunky outside his office was being sent on another task. “To keep you in the public eye, we’re going to need to—” His phone rang. “Connie, darling! I’ve got a hot item for your auction tomorrow. You know Aftermath? That’s right, ‘Charlotte’s Lullaby.’ Yes, with the dog. Yes, yes, he is. Very handsome. I’m sitting with Aftermath right now. How’d you like to add a date with Archer Armstrong to your offerings? Not at all. Our pleasure. Will he be there tomorrow? Will he?”

Phil’s eyes cleared, and now he was actually seeing me. Someone wanted to auction off a date with the hot lead singer of the nation’s fastest-rising rock band? Sure. I could wine and dine some rich old lady. I nodded.

“Yes, he’ll be at the gala tomorrow. You want all of them? Oh, sure, very handsome. Well, one of them is sort of scary-looking. No? I see. Well, of course he has a tuxedo. By nine tomorrow. Of course. I’ll bring him myself. Bye, sweet thing. Yes. Bye.” He ended the call and beamed with satisfaction .

“What,” Mal said, “they don’t want Ian and me?”

“I’m saving you both,” Phil said. “For later. Archer, tomorrow my assistant is going to get you fitted for a tuxedo.” More keyboard clicking, more yelps from the outer office. “Tonight you’re at the Troubadour. Tomorrow night you’ll be auctioned off to benefit some hospital or something. See if you can take her out on Sunday, and I’ll get your tickets home changed to Monday.” More clicking. That poor assistant. “Any issues? Great. Okay, I’ll take care of the instruments”—which meant his assistant would—“and see you tonight at the Troubadour. Enjoy your time in LA.”

We were on the street before we could form a sentence, holding steaming lattes (Ian had an americano) and blinking in the early October sunlight.

“Shit,” Ian said happily.

“Absolutely right!” Mal gestured broadly, indifferent to the expensive coffee now baptizing the street. “That guy slaps, man! All hail Aftermath!”

We had a little cheer between us that made the indifferent Angelenos passing us on the street give us a wider berth.

“Arch,” Ian said, “you’re going to drive across America with Charlotte in your Miata?”

The idea struck me as hysterical. I got to chuckling. My mood was lighter than air. If I didn’t watch it, I’d float right off the street and be lost to the thermals high above.

Mal was snorting in amusement, and even Ian was smiling. The mountain-biking accident had damaged a nerve in his cheek, so it had been a long time since he smiled freely, but it was healing now. His grin was almost back to full power.

“No,” I said once I’d gotten past the bulk of my giddy joy. “I’m going to get something new to drive. I’m thinking a minivan. Like your van, Mal, but maybe with a few more miles left in it. Something that will fit the three of us and Charlotte. ”

“A minivan.” Mal kept his face carefully neutral. “Very sexy ride, man. Perfect for the fastest-rising rock band.”

“Shut up, you critic. I’ll do what I have to do to keep my dog happy!”

“Our dog,” Ian corrected. Most of the time, Charlotte lived with him and Nicky, since Mal and I were still sharing our apartment in a building where the super freaked out when Mrs. Canosta in 4G took care of her daughter’s toy poodle for a week. Charlotte wasn’t going to slip past his attention easily.

“Archer Armstrong in a minivan,” Ian said, trying out the sound.

“Ian O’Rourke at the Troubadour,” I countered.

“Yeah, man! Shit! I gotta call Nicky. She’s going to be so mad she didn’t come with us!”

“Get her to look up the name of the press we met when we were here with Sheree.” I loved meeting with the press. Interviews. Photos. Blogs and podcasts and radio and old-fashioned print media—I loved it all. We worked hard for this. We deserved the attention.

Mal was on Google. “The Troubadour only holds five hundred people. Still, it’s the Troubadour. What if no one shows up?”

Ian was waiting for his call to go through. He spoke past his phone. “Nicky will get five hundred reporters there. She can—hey, babe. Yeah, it was great. Listen . . .”

He filled in his lady love, and Mal turned to me. “You’re going to be auctioned off! That’s, like, horrible and fantastic at the same time!”

“In a tuxedo. I will look amazing.”

“What if some little old rich gay man buys you?”

I shrugged. “Then I’ll make sure he has a wonderful date with me. What, are you trying to scare me, you dick?”

“I know you’re easy, Archer. Tell me, how high does the bid have to go for you to put out on the first date? Is two dollars too low, you slut?”

He and I wrestled happily on the sidewalk while Ian took care of business. Mal was stronger and bigger than me, but he was also instinctively nice. I twisted away from his grip and jumped for a piggyback, which he obligingly tolerated.

“How bad can a single date be?” I asked, looking up for the generous, kindhearted, invisible angels of Los Angeles. “How bad, really?”