37. Beau
37
BEAU
I wake up with a pounding headache and Quinn's hair tickling my nose. The early morning light filtering through the hotel window is way too bright. As memories from last night flood back, my stomach does a somersault that has nothing to do with the hangover.
"Morning," Lyle mumbles from somewhere to my left.
"Yeah," I grunt, carefully extracting myself from the tangle of limbs. Quinn stirs but doesn't wake.
I stumble to the kitchenette, desperate for coffee, and find Austen already there, staring into an empty mug like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"Well, that was..." he trails off, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
"Unexpected," I finish lamely, grabbing the coffee pot.
Jarron emerges from the bathroom, looking like death warmed over. Our eyes meet briefly before we both look away. The silence is deafening.
"Should we..." Lyle starts, having joined us in the kitchen. He gestures vaguely toward Quinn's sleeping form.
"Wake her?" Austen asks.
"Talk about it?" I suggest at the same time.
Nobody moves. The coffee maker gurgles accusingly.
"Fuck," Jarron mutters, slumping against the counter. "What were we thinking?"
"We weren't," Austen says with a hollow laugh. "That's kind of the problem."
"We just went from zero to 100 in like 2.8 seconds," Lyle says as he taps out a beat with a spoon.
I pour coffee into four mugs, my hands surprisingly steady despite the chaos in my head. The familiar routine feels absurdly normal given the circumstances.
Quinn's soft footsteps make us all freeze. She appears in the doorway wearing my flannel shirt from last night, and suddenly I can't remember how to breathe.
"Hi," she says quietly, looking at each of us in turn.
Four mumbled "heys" answer her. The awkwardness is thick enough to cut with a knife.
She reaches for the coffee pot, her movements careful and deliberate. "So... should we talk about this?"
I glance at my phone, the numbers glowing 8:47 AM. My stomach knots as I realize we're cutting it close for our 10 AM rehearsal.
"Look," I say, setting my coffee mug down with a soft clink. "We've got that mid-day show at the convention center in, less than four hours. Maybe we should..." I trail off, searching for the right words.
Quinn tugs at the hem of my flannel, shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other. "Go about our day like normal?"
"Yeah," I nod, grateful she picked up my thread. "Then tonight, back on the bus, we can figure this whole thing out."
Jarron downs his coffee like it's whiskey. "Sounds good to me. I need a shower anyway."
"Separate showers," Lyle adds quickly, earning himself a half-hearted glare from Austen.
"Right," Quinn says, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'll just... go get ready then."
She disappears into the bathroom, leaving the four of us in uncomfortable silence.
"This isn't weird at all," Austen mutters, reaching for his jacket.
"Could be weirder," I offer, though I'm not sure how.
"We're professionals," Lyle says, straightening his shoulders. "We can handle one rehearsal."
Jarron snorts. "Sure. Professional train wrecks."
"Just..." I run a hand through my beard, "let's get through rehearsal. Deal with the rest later."
They all mumble their agreement, and one by one, we filter out of the hotel room to get ready for the day ahead. As I close the door behind me, I catch one last glimpse of Quinn's coffee cup on the counter, lipstick staining the rim, and my chest tightens with the weight of what's to come.
I hit another wrong note on my bass, wincing as the sound reverberates through the stadium. Quinn's voice wavers slightly, trying to compensate for our collective mess. The crowd's energy feels different tonight - less electric, more confused.
Jarron misses his cue completely, leaving Quinn hanging on the chorus. Our eyes meet across the stage and I can see the strain in her face as she covers for him.
"What verse are we on?" Austen mutters into his mic, clearly lost.
Lyle tries to salvage it with a drum fill, but we're so out of sync it just makes things worse. The song limps to an awkward finish and the applause is polite at best. Thank God this was just a little convention center show, and not a sold out arena.
We trudge backstage afterwards, the silence heavy between us. Monica, is waiting with her arms crossed and jaw set.
"My office. Now."
We file into the small room like scolded children. Quinn perches on the arm of a chair while the rest of us lean against various surfaces, carefully avoiding eye contact.
"What is going on?" Monica's voice cuts through the tension. "You sounded like a school talent show, not a group who sells out stadiums across the united states."
"We're just having an off night," Lyle offers weakly.
"An off night?" She barks out a laugh. "This whole week has been 'off.' You're trending on Twitter, and not in a good way. 'Just South of Mediocre' is currently the top comment."
Jarron kicks at the floor. "We'll do better tomorrow."
"You better," Carol says, her voice deadly serious. "Because right now, you're destroying everything you've built. You've dropped three spots on the billboard charts, and record labels don't keep bands that can't perform. Fans don't buy tickets to watch train wrecks."
Quinn starts to stand. "Maybe I should-"
"Sit down," Monica snaps. "You're part of this too now. Figure it out, all of you. Because if you don't, you won't have careers left to worry about."
She storms out, leaving us in a silence that feels like a physical weight. I watch a tear slide down Quinn's cheek and my chest aches, knowing we've all contributed to this mess.
Back at the tour bus, Jarron's already halfway through a bottle of Jack. The tension from Monica's office has followed us here like a storm cloud. I watch him take another long pull, knowing this won't end well.
"You know what?" Jarron slams the bottle down on the counter. "This is all bullshit. Complete fucking bullshit."
"Maybe ease up on that," I suggest, reaching for the bottle.
He yanks it away. "No, I'm gonna say what needs saying. Everything was fine before she showed up."
"Jarron…" Austen all but growls.
Quinn freezes in the middle of making tea, her back going rigid. I step closer to her, but Jarron's not done.
"We were killing it, selling out shows, having the time of our lives. Then she comes along with her sad beautiful eyes and her perfect voice and-" He takes another drink. "And now look at us. Can't even get through a fucking show."
"That's enough," Lyle warns.
"No, let him finish," Quinn says quietly, turning around. Her hands are shaking.
"You want me to finish? Fine. You walked in here and made us all fall for you. Got us fighting like teenagers. Ruined everything we built." Jarron's words slur together. "Should've never let you on this tour."
Quinn's breath catches. She sets down her mug with careful precision, grabs her jacket from the hook.
"Quinn, wait-" I reach for her arm but she's already moving.
"Don't," she whispers, and then she's gone, the door slamming behind her.
I turn to follow but Austen catches my sleeve. "Give her a minute. That was a low fucking blow from him."
Lyle gets up and jerks the bottle away from Jarron, "Go now, no one wants to be around you right now."
"I just said what you were all thinking," he says with a hiccup. "Fuck you all." He goes into his room and slams the door.
"Fuck," I mutter, watching through the window as she disappears into the dark parking lot.