Chapter Twelve #2
After we’d moved the truck to the church parking lot, I’d gone back to the bus and grabbed my acoustic. For two hours, we’d sat on the bed in the sleeper cab, and I played some of the music I’d been writing while he read his book that I’d seen on his shelf when I was nosing around in Ensenada.
Glancing up a couple of times, I saw Kit’s eyes were closed as he listened, sometimes bobbing his head to the beat. He seemed to enjoy listening to me play, and the smile on his face was everything I needed and had never had before.
As we stood in the wings together, waiting to take the stage, Kit leaned forward to whisper in my ear. “You’ll do great, Riv. I’m not going anywhere because I can’t wait to see you in action.”
The lights went down, and we walked out, picking up our instruments where the roadies had left them on stands after they were tuned. The low rumble of the audience had my spine tingling. Ensenada had been great, but the crowd in Phoenix was already sparking.
“How’s everybody doing?” It was Vic Fever.
The crowd roared and strobe lights began moving around the room, lighting up the floor. My heart was pounding.
I turned to look behind me, seeing Kit standing next to Clancy. I strummed the opening chords to a Bon Jovi song, though we weren’t planning to play it that night. The crowd went wild, and I felt like I was riding a lightning bolt.
Vic turned in my direction and laughed. “Yeah, we have an anxious crowd here, guys. The Van Buren is proud to present…Accidental Fire!”
And we rocked.
We played everything in our arsenal, and the crowd vibed with us, applauding and screaming as we transitioned from one song to the next. It was like nothing I’d ever expected. For the first time in my life, I felt like a damn rock star.
I was soaked in sweat when I walked off the stage and handed my Fender to Coaster, the guy who took care of my baby after the encore. “Great job, River. She sounded sweet.” I couldn’t agree with him more.
“Thanks, man. Thank you for tuning her. You do a great fucking job,” I responded.
Coaster grinned. “Thanks.”
I went back to the dressing room, where Lauren was waiting for my clothes so she could have them cleaned for the Salt Lake gig. “Hi Lauren. I hate this shirt, by the way. Can I get something with some cotton?”
Lauren smirked. “I thought you’d hate it. You had time to voice your opinion when we were in LA, River. You just went along with everything I suggested, but I expected you’d have opinions once the tour started.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t have a lot of thoughts about it because I had no idea how it would be. Now that I know, can I have something else?”
“Of course you can. All I ever wanted was for you to tell me what you liked.” Lauren smiled.
I sighed. “Thanks, Lauren. I appreciate how patient you’ve been with me—hell, with all of us. I promise, we’ll be more honest going forward.”
Lauren laughed. “You guys are the easiest band I’ve ever worked with, and trust me, I’ve worked with some assholes. We’ll figure out your vibe before we get to Black Rock.”
I sure hoped so.
After I dried off and changed into a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, I surrendered my black leather pants, red filmy shirt, and black suede boots, grabbing my acoustic to head outside to find Kit.
Marshall was talking to Vic Fever, and I didn’t see any trace of the rest of the guys, so I walked around the back of the venue to see Kit’s semi was still parked behind the church. I pulled out my phone to send him a text.
Where’d you go?
“Hey, River!”
I turned to see that Marshall had JD, Goldie, Arlo, and Hardy gathered around him, so I made my way over. “What’s up?”
“It’s Tuesday night. Vic’s Saturday night band can’t make it, and he wants us—I mean you guys—to take the slot. He’ll pay us a twenty-five percent increase from tonight’s pay because of the short notice. What do you think?”
Marshall’s excitement was infectious, but before anyone could make a commitment, I said, “Give us a minute to talk about it. We’ll be back.”
I dragged my band over to an outside table on the patio so we could sit and talk about the offer. Vic came outside. “You guys want something? Food or drinks?”
We ordered a bucket of beer and some buffalo chicken loaded fries. Vic did the finger pistol thing before he winked and headed inside.
I wanted the five of us to have an honest discussion without Marshall’s influence for once.
“Okay. We’re flying out to LA tonight to get into the studio tomorrow morning.
Do we want to fly back for a Saturday night show and then fly right back to LA to get back in the studio on Sunday?
I don’t hate the idea of playing here again, but we need to get the tracks down for the album.
The crowd here was great, but is it what we want to do?
“Marshall wants what will make him the most money. We’re the assholes on the go here, so I had a thought.
What if we talk to Mr. Ashby about recording the music we’re playing live?
That way, we wouldn’t be flying back and forth to LA all the time, and maybe we could enjoy the tour? What do you think?”
I would be the first to admit that I was trying like hell to orchestrate a situation where I could be around Kit more. Flying back and forth to LA to record was a time-eating monster. Riding in the red Peterbilt with Kit would be a lot more fun than hopping on a private plane.
JD, the quietest among us, glanced up. “He said we’d get twenty-five percent more than what we made tonight. What’s that mean in dollars and cents?”
Goldie cuffed him on the back of the head. “Dude, do you have any idea how much we make at every gig?”
JD and Arlo both answered, “Nope.”
“Jesus fuck, guys. Do you have a financial advisor at all?” I asked.
Goldie turned to me and arched an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“I do.” I didn’t tell them it was my mother, but she knew about shit and kept my money straight. I’d just turned twenty-one, for fuck’s sake.
“Fuck,” Hardy complained.
“We’re making thirty-five grand for this appearance. Marsh gets an equal share with the five of us, so that means we each get five thousand eight hundred and thirty-three. Twenty-five percent more of that equals seven thousand two hundred and ninety-one each if we do an extra night.”
JD’s expression was one of shock, which made me want to laugh, but I didn’t. “JD, why didn’t you talk to your family about any of this?”
He stared at me for a moment. “It’s not their business. They don’t want me in their lives, but if they knew I was making that kind of money, they’d bleed me dry.”
I sighed. “Sorry.”
Arlo touched JD’s shoulder. “It’s okay, brother. We’re a family now. We’ll get through this together. How do you feel about staying until Sunday morning? We’ll need to call the record label and get it approved, right?”
Hardy sat forward but didn’t say anything as Vic brought out the bucket of beer. “Food’s coming right up, guys.”
We all thanked him, and he walked back into the bar. Hardy handed out the cans, opening them for each of us before they held up their beers next to mine. “To us!”
After touching cans, we stared at each other. Finally, I took the lead. “Okay, so who wants to stay until Sunday? Recording on the road means we don’t go back home as often. I think if we’re offered extra gigs, we should take them, but that’s just me.”
“I think you’re right, River. We need all the money we can get because they own our asses.” Hardy’s comments surprised me.
“Who owns our asses, Hardy?” I asked. We were going to make money on the album, but we had to get it done. We were playing smaller venues, so we didn’t make as much at each show, but that was fine.
We were paying our dues, or so Regal flippantly said to me once.
“Boy, hang on to every penny you make. It’s called paying your dues.
You’ll need every red cent in the down times if your album sucks.
You won’t be able to get work as a studio musician like each of us old guys used to do in the beginning.
You’re not a versatile enough guitar player to be able to land those, so whatever you make now will keep a roof over your head until you come up with a good song to sell to a better band to make extra money.
” I didn’t appreciate his fucking comments.
I was sick of hearing him tell me I wasn’t good enough, the bastard.
Hardy sighed. “Look at all these people. We have security and roadies. We even have a manager who doesn’t come around very much. How much does that cost us?”
“Didn’t you read our contract with Sound Wave Studios?
They pay for everything—security, the bus, the semi to haul our stuff, the roadies, and Kit Hansen.
If we do a gig that’s not in the contract, we get all the money.
If we agree to play additional gigs, that’s our money, except for Marshall’s percentage,” I responded, not sure why he hadn’t asked any questions when we signed the contract for the tour.
Vic brought out our order. “You boys thought anymore about playing on Saturday night? It’ll draw a bigger crowd, I promise you.”
“How about we get five percent of the door?” I asked.
Vic lifted an eyebrow. “Five percent? You guys aren’t well known enough to make those kinds of demands.”
Goldie smirked. “After word gets out about tonight, I’m sure you’ll have no problem selling out the place, I’d say.”
“Three percent I can sell to the owners,” Vic responded.
“Three and a half, and you allow us to practice here during the day and record our show on Saturday night. You’ll make room for our engineer and sound tech to work.”
Vic chuckled. “Okay, I’ll call my boss. I’ll be right back.”
I quickly pulled out my phone and called Nate Ashby.
When I looked at the screen, I saw it was one in the morning.
I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be happy to get a call after midnight, but it was a chance to do something for us without Marshall calling the shots.
I had a feeling we were at the beginning of a battle over control.
I wasn’t looking forward to it.