Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
AT LEAST WE’RE TAKING BUTT ROCK OFF THE TABLE
After a quick shower, I change into black cut-offs and my vintage Peter Gabriel t-shirt and head back to the bus to figure out what the hell we’re going to do tonight. The expansion has been pulled out in the front lounge so there’s more room to move around. Kick’s sitting on the couch strumming on an acoustic and humming with his eyes closed. The muscles in his arm twist and shift as he strums. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, taking up all the extra space. He obviously showered as well. Damp waves of hair cling to the back of his neck.
“Are the vampire twins coming?” I ask, flopping down onto the opposite couch where my guitar case is propped.
Kick opens his eyes with a question.
I decide not to elaborate. “Thanks for getting my guitar.”
“What’s up? You look more irritated than usual.”
“Dealing with some family drama.”
He makes a face I can’t interpret. “Family drama finds a way.”
“And I can’t shake how Nic talked to us on the call last night.” My eyes sweep up to his. “The way he talked about us performing together was like…we’re just set dressing they’re moving around to wherever they think looks best. ”
Kick strums something slow and melodic. “Did you expect something different?”
“You didn’t?”
He shrugs. “I think we’ve been thrust onto the big stage earlier than most people and they’re going to remind us of that every chance they get.”
The sincerity in his voice answers a question that’s been simmering in the back of my brain. He’s scared too. Unsure. It feels good knowing I’m not the only one.
“It’s not that I’m not grateful to be here but, this entire process is starting to feel like I’m being stripped of my entire personality.”
Kick laughs, a low rumble in his chest. “Pretty sure your personality could drop kick anyone who tried.”
I swing my foot out and tap his leg. “Quit flirting. We’ve got work to do.”
“But flirting with you is so much more fun.”
The vampire twins saunter onto the bus, oblivious. “Who’s ready to rock,” one of them says. Kick motions to a bass case sitting in the small booth. One twin grabs it and scoots in next to me.
“I’m Mari,” I offer. “Would probably be good for us to officially meet since we’re now playing together.”
“Cool, yeah. I’m Miguel. And that’s Mateo.”
“Yo,” Mateo says. “And for what it’s worth, I think playing together sounds rad.”
At least they’re not bothered by the shift in plans.
I unpack my guitar and settle into the couch, no idea how to start this rehearsal or what direction we should go in or what we should do. I worried over it the entire time I was in the shower, what songs I could pitch, what songs we could possibly do together, how I could incorporate myself into what Kick does, how to use the band on my songs. I didn’t come up with a single answer. The probability that we bomb tonight is scary high.
“So, we have to learn ‘Don’t You Want Me.’ ”
“Ran into Nic while you were in the shower,” Kick says. “He said they have a track, that we won’t be playing for that one.”
“Great. So now not only are we a duo, we’re also singing to a track like literal karaoke queens. Super.”
If I wanted to sing to a track, I’d be on tour with my sister.
“The video of you two doing that song was fire,” Mateo says. “Still can’t believe we missed that party. I do a killer Elton John.”
The image of the two of us dancing and flirting in front of the entire band and crew jogs through my mind. I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch the video. I don’t want to see how good we probably look together.
“Maybe in front of drunk party-goers and wobbly animatronics but this is a huge tour. Are you aware of how many people are coming tonight? We’re going to make asses of ourselves.”
“You can do whatever you want,” Mateo says, flexing his biceps, “but I will not be looking like an ass tonight or ever.”
“I think maybe we should take turns,” I say. “Like, I do one of my songs and you can do one of yours. How long are your songs, on average, because we have to keep it to twenty minutes and ‘Don’t You Want Me’ is three minutes and fifty-six seconds and?—”
“You counted?” Miguel asks.
Kick hesitates. “Or we could play with each other.”
“That’s what she said,” Mateo says, snickering.
I sigh and close my eyes. I cannot believe I’m being forced to share the spotlight with overgrown boys who giggle at paper-thin innuendo.
Kick keeps going. “Are all your songs like the one you did at the audition? Kinda sleepy? I’m sure we could back you up on rhythm or something. I could add some BGVs.”
My spine stiffens. Is he honestly suggesting my songs are sleepy ? And that he can add some rhythm and BGVs ? I feel sick, and not in a hyperbolic way. I am actually going to vomit in a trash can .
“And what would you have me do on your songs? A TikTok dance?”
“That’d be sick,” Mateo says, smacking out a rhythm on the table.
A loud scream echoes through my brain. I want to make this work, but at this rate, we’ll be doing exactly one song tonight, a karaoke song for God’s sake.
“Our styles are different, sure,” Kick says, “but I think we should figure out how to play together instead of taking turns. Or we could just learn some of your songs and back you up for tonight, figure out the rest later.”
“That sounds nice in theory, but I don’t even know how to sing with you. What’s your style, anyway? Country? Pop Metal? Butt Rock with a side of Grunge?”
He shakes his head. “It’s a vibe.”
“No,” I argue, “it’s a genre explosion.”
Miguel claps his hands. “Dude, that’s what we should call our band. Genre Explosion .”
Mateo raises his hand over my head and Miguel leans over to high-five him.
“And where am I in that?” I say, glaring at Kick. “Do you even get what I do?”
“I don’t know, sing your pain? Like, pain pop?”
“And what would that make you? Empty-headed noise rock?”
Kick sets his guitar aside and leans forward. “Not all of us need to share our heartbreak with the world.”
“I seriously doubt you’ve ever been through a real heartbreak.” It flies out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop myself. Because I know it’s not true. The phone call I overheard last night is evidence enough.
“Why? Because I don’t howl it into the microphone?”
“No, because of your face and the way you walk and just, ugh, your whole thing.”
“You’ve been thinking about my thing? ”
“That’s what she said,” Miguel says.
I swing my entire body over to glare at him. “Really?”
He smiles at me. “Maybe we should do some more covers, something current, like a LOVEJOY song or?—”
“No way in hell we’re doing a LOVEJOY song!” It shoots out of me too fast, too loud. They all stare at me like I just grew horns from my forehead.
“You really don’t like her, do you,” Kick says.
“We should do the alcove songs,” Mateo says. “Both of them.”
Kick and I lock eyes, scared, like Mateo just pried open Pandora’s box with a crowbar.
When neither of us respond, Mateo shrugs. “I’m just saying, those songs got you all those votes, are the whole reason we’re here on this kickass mega-tour being actual rock stars. Makes sense to play them.”
Words tumble from my mouth out of order. “But not that’s, those are, we’re not…I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
Kick rubs his lips together, thinking. In all his little quips and feather-ruffling he’s rarely shown me anything solid, mostly hiding himself away behind his thigh-shaking grins. It’s like he came on this tour just to irritate me and now that we’re here and truly have to figure out what we’re going to do, he’s not sure how to flirt his way out of it.
“Kick?”
“Mateo’s right,” he finally says. “We should do the alcove songs. Together.”
“Have you not been checking your socials? If we do the alcove songs we’ll be sacrificing ourselves on the altar of AO3. I already feel like performing together will stir up unnecessary inspiration for the Marick conspiracy theorists whose sole goal in life is to prove that we…you know.”
“What’s Marick?” Mateo asks.
“It’s their hashtag,” Miguel says with an eyeroll. “Personally, I would have picked Gaines. ”
Kick picks up his guitar and plays a few chords from my song, my alcove song, like he’s already thought about doing it on the tour.
“I think we can’t worry about the conspiracies or whatever,” he says, his eyes on his guitar. “What we need to do is give tonight’s crowd the best damn show they’ve ever seen. Something they won’t forget. And both of our songs about that night are,” his eyes flick to mine full of heat and want and I have to cross my legs against the building pressure between them, “memorable.”
The bus door opens with a loud whoosh.
“Knock, knock,” Emily says, swinging the door shut and popping up the stairs. “You guys working on your set?”
“Yep,” I say without looking at her, still disgruntled at her meddling.
“I told them we should do the alcove songs,” Mateo says, his chest puffed out like he’s saved the day.
Emily semi-glares back and forth between me and Kick. “That should have been a given.”
Here we go. “But doing those songs will play right into the fan fantasies about me and Kick as…more than co-performers.”
“Yes,” she says, nodding her head so hard her hair nearly flips up into her eyes, “that’s exactly what it will do which is why you have to do it. This isn’t kumbaya hour, this is a major tour with thousands of people paying a lot of money to see the songs they want to see. Do you think Sparrow loves playing ‘In A Dark Wood’ every night? Hell no. But it’s the song fans want to hear. And your fans, which by the way, are growing by the minute, want to hear the alcove songs.”
All eyes turn to me, everyone sold on the plan, waiting for me to get on board. But I’m the one who’ll be singing about kissing Kick. To Kick. With Kick. I’m the one forced to pretend it’s just a song. I should ask Emily if she has Stevie Nicks’s phone number. I could use the advice of a woman who’s shared the stage with a former lover. Not that Kick’s my former lover. Not that he ever will be my lover.
I need to stop thinking about the word lover.
“Anyway,” Emily adds, “I just came by to tell you we’ll be live-streaming your set tonight. Cheddar thinks it will be huge. If tonight goes well, we can start charging. It could be like selling an entire second show.”
Her eyes light up with dollar signs and I half-wonder if she has a personal stake in this tour beyond publicist.
“Rock and roll,” Miguel says and reaches across to high five Mateo again. Some of my hair gets caught in the smack.
I’ve spent the last couple weeks working up the nerve to play in front of more than twenty thousand people tonight, but a livestream? I look at Kick and there’s genuine fear in his eyes. He hides it away before smiling at Emily, but not a real smile, not one of the smiles he gives me.
“That’s great,” Kick says. “Looks like everything’s coming together.”
More likely, everything’s falling apart.