Chapter 19 Interview
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Interview
“And we’re back! Today, I’ve got Tristan M.
James and Andrej Novak from Nightstalker—the hottest band around right now.
So, about the band name. It’s a term that’s familiar with older generations.
How did you come up with the idea to name yourselves after a serial killer?
Was it a joke that went too far? It’s pretty daring,” Clint said, turning to Andrej, a glint of curiosity in his eyes.
“Don’t look at me!” Andrej laughed, raising his hands defensively. “I have nothing to do with that. When I joined the band, the name was already set.”
“Leaf and I,” Tristan began, placing the glass back on the table.
“We had been writing songs all day, sitting outside in the evening, drinking beer, and brainstorming band names. There just wasn’t anything that suited us.
We veered off and started talking about Richard Ramirez—the Night Stalker.
And somehow … well … we found it fitting, since Leaf and I also live in the area where he left one of his victims.”
“You live there?”
“Not exactly there, but … well … it’s been a long time—1984, if I’m not mistaken. One of the streets is still closed off.”
“Interesting.” Clint glanced at his notepad and quickly moved on. “So, Leaf and you determined the name for the band. What about the songs? It’s widely known that you two also write the lyrics. How much input do José and you, Andrej, have in the creative process?”
“It varies,” Andrej replied. “It depends on where we’re at. José and I contribute ideas. We try different beats. Sometimes Tristan knows exactly what he wants.”
“It’s easier for me to say what I envision for the bass than for the drums. I’m still learning. But usually, we work on the songs together.”
“Yes, sometimes the two are open to suggestions for changes,” Andrej joked. “Other times, not at all.”
The interview continued, covering their adventures on tour, both funny and embarrassing events, and encounters with fans. When Clint asked about traveling on the tour bus, Tristan once again let Andrej take the floor, given the tight quarters had led to Leaf and him getting together.
Tristan wasn’t worried that Andrej would spill the beans, even though he had been the most vocal about the moaning noise. Andrej and José had their backs from the beginning. Although Leaf had said he didn’t care if the public found out, it was different for Tristan.
But Tristan knew it was only a matter of time before someone caught wind of it. He kept mulling over the best proactive strategy to deflate the media’s response. Not everyone was as liberal as one would wish, and their female fan base certainly got them a lot of media attention.
Time passed quickly, and Clint already announced the next song.
“We’re heading into the third and final round with Nightstalker.
Hang tight, because this one’s gonna be wild!
We’ll dive into poetry and I’ll try to uncover a few secrets from our guests and unravel some mysteries.
We’ll chat about childhood, Las Vegas, and Native Americans, so don’t go anywhere! ”
In an instant, a rush of adrenaline overwhelmed Tristan, paralyzing him in his chair.
Vegas? Native Americans? What’s this about? Did he just …
His pulse quickened, and his heart raced.
No, that can’t be. Impossible. This must … be a coincidence. Maybe something about Frank Chelsea …
But now his breath also caught, as if his body knew better and wouldn’t accept half-hearted explanations.
“Are you okay?” Andrej whispered. “You look a bit pale.”
Tristan remained in shock, trying not to show his fear—which obviously didn’t work with Andrej. With every breath Tristan took, his chest trembled.
Andrej leaned forward. “Tris?”
Meanwhile, Clint discussed something with his technician, flipping through his notepad and pointing out certain spots with his pen.
What the hell …?
“What’s wrong?” Carol asked, appearing now between Andrej and Tristan.
“No idea,” Andrej replied. “Something just catapulted him into completely different spheres.”
Carol let out an annoyed sigh and crouched between their chairs. “Did you get yourself messed up with some crap yesterday? I told you, stay away from that hallucinogenic shit.”
It didn’t matter what Andrej or Carol did because they didn’t know. Only Leaf knew. And Tristan didn’t have a phone to call him.
“G-give me your phone.” Tristan’s hand twitched as he held it out to Andrej. As Tristan rose from his chair, everything went black for a moment. He searched Andrej’s face, feeling dizzy as everything around him was spinning.
“I gave you a phone,” Andrej stated flatly, showing no sign that he was willing to give him his.
“P-please, I … need to call Leaf. Now!”
Andrej glared in suspicion, while Carol made a casual gesture, indicating to give Tristan the phone.
Andrej took it out of his pocket, unlocked it, and dialed Leaf’s number.
Tristan felt like a ghost as he held the phone to his ear and moved away from the others.
It rang a few times until Leaf picked up.
“Andrej? What’s up?”
“It’s me.” Tristan stood by the pool, looking at the opposite high-rise where several people were working out on elliptical machines.
“Hey.” Leaf’s voice softened. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you at the interview?”
Tristan’s breathing was heavy and uneven, too loud for Leaf to ignore.
“What happened?” he asked, his tone serious.
“T-this reporter, Clint. He said … hhh …” Tristan grimaced and massaged his forehead.
“What did he say?”
“He’s going to talk about … Native Americans soon.” Just saying the words made his heart race again. “Damn it, Leaf! What’s going on here?”
“Where are you?” From the sound of it, Leaf had just left the cabin and was locking the door.
“At the Standard Hotel, in the Rooftop Bar.”
“I’m on my way as fast as I can. Just stay calm. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, okay?”
“I have no clue how to do that,” he replied. “I feel like I can’t even breathe right now.”
“Take deep breaths. You’ve got this.”
He heard Leaf turn the ignition on and drive off. As Tristan hung up, Carol stepped beside him, raising her eyebrows questioningly.
“Everything okay? We’re about to continue.”
Nothing was okay. Panic gripped Tristan, and he couldn’t just run away. What if he was wrong? What if this was about something completely different and not about the Frank Chelsea thing? With trembling hands, he handed Carol the phone back.
“It’s not mine,” she stated. “That’s Andrej’s phone.”
“Right.”
“Tristan, is there something we should know?”
Probably too late for that now.
Dazed, he retreated to the table and gave the phone to Andrej.
Tristan felt as if it was his own fault—he should have known that the bomb would eventually explode.
It’s not like he had made a big secret out of it, but he had chosen not to tell anyone.
It was his way of dealing with it. Even Leaf had found out about it from Milo.
“Everything okay?” Andrej asked.
Tristan managed a nod. “Could you pour me some more water?”
“Of course.”
If I’d been open about my past, I could have counted on Andrej for his support.
Hope flared up within him.
Maybe it’s about something else. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.
“We’re back!” Clint exclaimed. “Paradise Rock, Los Angeles! Here with Tristan M. James and Andrej Novak from Nightstalker. We’ve covered the new album, life on tour—ups and downs included—and the band name.
What’s next? Of course! The private life!
I know, my dear guests, you keep that under wraps. Andrej, still hitting the waves?”
“Whenever I get the chance,” Andrej replied. “They say the waves are good today. Maybe I’ll head out to the coast later.”
“Where can you be found?”
While Andrej listed a few beaches, Tristan took a sip of water. He could feel Carol’s gaze on his back. Was that good or bad?
“Tristan,” Clint finally said. “What’s next for you? You’ve already released two volumes of poetry. Can we expect a third soon? What else are you working on, aside from music?”
“I …” Tristan cleared his throat and nervously shifted in his seat. “I haven’t planned anything.”
“Rumor has it that Frank Chelsea filed a complaint against you. How do you respond to that?”
The sudden change of topic made Tristan pause. Wasn’t that on the list? He turned his head slightly, as if waiting for Carol to intervene, but she didn’t. “I can’t comment on that.” He glanced over at Andrej.
The laughter had also faded from Andrej’s face, as he seemed to disagree with the direction of the conversation and the tone Clint had taken.
“I had the chance to speak with Frank Chelsea this morning. He told me that you first verbally, then physically attacked him in a bar. Is that true?”
“I’m not in court here,” Tristan replied curtly.
“Chelsea claims you insulted him.”
“Damn, man,” Tristan groaned, running a hand over his face. “I was so drunk … Don’t even remember exactly what the guy looked like.”
“He says he was interested in Native American culture and tried to have a conversation with you about it.”
Tristan didn’t flinch and refrained from accusing Chelsea of lying.
While he hadn’t heard from Carol’s lawyer yet, probably because he didn’t have a phone, he would certainly not say anything that could incriminate him in any way.
So, he just shrugged. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re getting at. ”
Even if he had beaten up Chelsea, he wasn’t even sure if that word was appropriate. He could barely imagine doing that in his state. He had only come to his senses in the detox cell.
“I’m not concerned here about whether you did it or not,” Clint said in a reassuring tone. “I’m more interested in the why.”
Oh, no.
Tristan tilted his head to the side and fell silent. He might seem tough on the outside, but inside, his blood roared through his ears. His sweaty hands rested on his sides as his heart pounded in his throat.
“I did a little digging,” Clint said, flipping through his notepad.
“In my search for more information about Tristan M. James, I came across some interesting facts. With your name, most people would probably assume the M stands for Michael. But that’s not the case, is it?
Care to share your middle name with us?”
“Mingan,” Tristan murmured hesitantly.
“What kind of name is that?”
“It’s from the Blackfoot and means Gray Wolf.”
“So, Blackfoot blood runs through your veins.”
“Um …” By now, the whole world knew about his indigenous roots, but the way Clint was steering the conversation, he obviously wanted to get at something else.
Again, the reporter glanced at his notes. “Your mother was Blackfoot, right? I mean, your real mother.”
Tristan swallowed. It was widely known that he had been raised by foster parents.
The fact that Clint had actually dug so deep to find out about his mother was shameless.
And if he had found that out, he surely knew the rest. Something choked Tristan’s throat, and the world around him spun like a carousel.
“I’ve heard that your biological parents were killed when you were still a child. What memories do you have of them?”
In Tristan’s mind, a storm was brewing. Cold sweat dripped from him, and he gasped for air like an asthmatic.
“Tristan?”
But the day darkened, and as if by some strange power, he was mentally transported back to his childhood.