Chapter 24 Salem
SALEM
Quincy sends us out to three cities. Phoenix, San Diego, Seattle, then back to Vegas. A mini launch to ride “Locket” while we finish the rest. Lou stays in Vegas, building the next drops and tightening the live session replay. I don’t like leaving her, but work is work and the road is the road.
I set rules for myself before we roll. I say them out loud in the crew room so there are witnesses.
“No hotel bars. No after-parties. I’m in bed by one.”
The backline tech whistles. The monitor op says, “Ten bucks he breaks all three by Phoenix.” The lighting lead starts a pool on a scrap of gaffer tape. Knox raises an eyebrow. Houston smiles at me like he already knows I’m going to stick it. I put a twenty on the table and write I win next to it.
Phoenix is hot. That’s the nicest thing I can say for the city. Load-in at ten, line check at three, a short press thing in the corner of the stage that Quincy says will “seed the market.” Sounds gross, but whatever.
I keep my head down, hit what needs hitting, and drink water like it’s a job. In Phoenix, it is. Between the soundcheck and doors, the band down the hall pops a bottle and yells for us to come toast. I wave from the doorway and don’t go in. Rule one holds.
Show’s good. Loud crowd. New songs land tighter than they should this early. We end on “Locket,” lights down, whisper up, and the room gets still the right way.
After, the promoter tries to drag us to a bar with some local DJ. I shake his hand, say “another time,” and get in the van. Houston comes with me. Knox finishes the settlement and follows. The crew clocks the time when I badge into my room. 12:46. Rule three holds.
There’s a knock at 12:58. It’s our support act, high on the night, asking if I want to meet “friends.” I tell them I like all my teeth and shut the door without being a jerk.
I text Lou in bed by one and a photo of the digital clock because I know she’ll send it to the group chat and I want the record.
She replies with a thumbs-up and a proud of you that lands harder than it should. I sleep.
San Diego is prettier and softer. The crew doubles the bet. “No way he keeps this up,” the stage left tech says.
I pretend I don’t hear it.
We load in, do the afternoon thing, eat catering that tastes like catering, and play a tight show.
I walk past two hotel bars on my way to the elevator.
Both smell like the version of me that used to end nights on the floor of somebody’s story.
I keep walking. The elevator doors close on a guy shouting my name. I let them.
12:38. In bed. Lights out. I dream about nothing, which is just how I like it.
Seattle is the one that matters. The room has history and an echo in the walls. We’ve got radio in the afternoon, a short acoustic, then doors, then the full set.
No room for stupid. No room for old habits.
Backstage is a hallway with too many memories. The paint is new over old tags I could still draw from memory. I’m flipping sticks in my hands when I see him before I hear him.
“Salem,” Mike Halligan says, like a person who found treasure.
He hobbles in on his carbon prosthesis. White guy, hair dyed black, thinning, jaw tight, eyes wired.
He used to be a drummer. He lost the leg in an accident.
He never got his talent back the way he wanted.
A year later, he won the lotto. Since then, he pops up backstage like a ghost looking for a chorus. We were in trouble together once.
That version of us needs to stay dead.
Houston clocks him and takes a left into catering. Knox clocks him and goes the other way toward the stage. They leave him to me because back in the day, he and I were stupid together.
“Mike. How’s it going?”
He has a little entourage. Two women in heels not built for backstage, and a guy with a jacket that cost a mortgage payment. Mike shakes something in his pocket. Pills rattle together. “Time to party.”
I know that sound. I hold a hand up. “No, thanks. By all means, go ahead.”
He tilts his head. “I’ve got others. Powder. Vape. Bongs. Needles, if you’re going hard these days. These girls, they’ll do anything for a taste. Whatever you want, I’ve got you covered.”
“Not my scene anymore. But don’t let me stop you.”
He smirks. “Since when?”
“Since for a while.”
“You got religion?” he says.
“I got a girl,” I say. And self-respect. But if I say that, it’ll sound like I’m judging him. I am. But I don’t want him to know that.
He laughs as if I’ve told a joke. “You don’t have a girl. You got a part of a girl. You share her.”
Heat hits my ears. I keep my arms loose. “Watch your mouth.”
“They don’t care if you got part of a girl either. They’ll suck you dry. It’ll be like old times—see who finishes last.” He laughs and smacks my chest with the back of his hand, not seeing how much he’s pissing me off.
My stomach twists at the memory of those nights. Nights when I lost myself to pills and booze and women I don’t remember. Not even their faces. The same way Troy was in the hotel when I came for Lou’s stuff.
“That’s not who I am anymore, Mike.”
“You don’t wanna party, I’m not gonna make you. But be honest about why.”
“I am.”
He leans in. “Just because you found your little Yoko doesn’t mean you forget your friends, Salem.”
I look at the floor for a beat so I don’t break his face. When I look back up, I keep my voice flat. “She’s not a Yoko. Yoko wasn’t even a Yoko, not how you mean it. And reliving the old days won’t make you young again, Mike.”
He swings at me. Sloppy. Wide. Stoned.
I don’t give him the dignity of a full counter. I step in, open hand, and slap the taste out of his mouth. Fuck, that feels good.
He stumbles into the wall. The carbon leg clacks. One of the women gasps. The jacket guy puts his hands up like he’s the peacemaker. Security appears. They were waiting for the cue. Must have spotted his stoned ass a mile away.
Mike spits pink into a napkin and grins through it. “There he is. I knew I could find you.”
“You found a boundary. Don’t cross it again.”
“Man, you changed.”
“That’s what I keep hearing. Let’s call you a rideshare,” I say to his entourage, ignoring the bait. To security, “He doesn’t come back tonight. He doesn’t come back again. Ever.”
“Copy,” the guard says.
Mike points at me like I’m a mark in a bar bet. “You’ll call me when she breaks your heart.”
“No, I really won’t.” You don’t call people you outgrew years ago.
They walk him and his people out. He keeps talking until the door shuts on his voice. I shake my hands once and let the adrenaline run its circuit. Houston reappears and raises a brow. Knox steps back in and checks my jaw like I’m a little brother who got in a playground scuffle.
“He missed.”
“Yeah, I know. But you still don’t look like you.”
I brush his hand aside. “Asshole.”
He laughs. “Seriously. I thought we lost you for the night. And maybe forever, if you fucked those girls and messed shit up with Lou.”
“I’m not fucking this up with her. Or the tour. Or the album.” I lift a shoulder. “That’s not who I am anymore.”
“Glad to hear it.”
We play the show. The room is good. The crowd is better. Seattle sings the last chorus back like they wrote it. After, I follow my rules. No bar. No party. In bed by 12:51 because I’m wired and want to ruin it and don’t.
I’m proud and pissed at the same time.
Morning hits with a headline on a tabloid site that thinks it has a scoop.
A photo of me and Mike nose to nose, a blur of my hand, a caption that says YOKO STRIKES AGAIN?
LOU NAVARRO TEARING BAND APART—BACKSTAGE brAWL.
There’s a second link that says LOTTO BAD BOY MAY SUE TURNER DRUMMER with a still from someone’s phone.
The write-up is trash. They say I lost it because she made me soft. They spell my name wrong once and then right. I don’t care about the lawsuit talk. I care about her.
I find Knox at the venue café with his laptop open and coffee that tastes like carpet. He’s already reading it. He hates it in his quiet way. Houston texts from the treadmill: saw it. don’t feed. Quincy Facetimes while I’m still standing there. “Tell me you didn’t hit him.”
“I didn’t hit him. I slapped him when he swung on me. Security saw it. They’ll write it that way if they have to write it.”
“Not perfect, but I’ll take it.”
“What we’re not doing,” I say, “is letting anyone call Lou a Yoko and letting that sit.”
“Agreed,” he says. “But—”
“No but, Quincy. We post what she made for us, credit by credit. Art director, projection mapping, behind-the-scenes system, tour key art, microsite. We show her work. We make it impossible to sell the Yoko angle to anyone with eyes.”
Quincy groans. “Rolling out credits looks defensive.”
“It’s the truth.”
Knox closes the laptop and nods. “He’s right.”
“Fine,” Quincy says. “I’ll take care of it.”
By noon, he’s adjusted the crediting, and people are noticing.
Fans respond with the energy I want. They talk about her work instead of her personal life.
One of Mike’s drug groupies shared a video of the altercation, so now the phrase, “Yoko wasn’t even a Yoko,” is flying everywhere.
Hopefully, they’ll learn what happened with her too.
The dumb comments still come, because dumb comments always come, but they’re not the chorus. That helps.
Mike’s “may sue” item cycles through a few aggregator accounts. Our counsel sends a bland statement: Security addressed a brief altercation initiated by a guest. No further comment. That’s it. We don’t feed it.
We leave Seattle for Vegas and land in Vegas at dusk. The Strip does that thing it always does, where it pretends the sun is for someone else. We roll through the garage and take the back elevator.
The suite smells like coffee and paper and a person who works here. Lou is at the table with a cutting mat and a stack of posters. Her hair is up. The locket is on. My hands relax without asking me first.
She stands when she sees us. She hugs Houston first, then Knox. I wait because I don’t want to look like I’m asking for the spotlight. She turns to me and I step in. It lands right behind my ribs.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Annoyed. But okay.”
“I saw the posts. Thank you.”
“Needed doing.”
She tips her head. “How was the road?”
“Short. Better than usual.”
She smiles. “Look at you with restraint.”
“I made rules. No hotel bars. No after-parties. In bed by one.”
“And?”
“I stuck to them. The crew owes me on the bet.”
She laughs. “I’m impressed.”
“Keep being—” I say, then stop because I’m not here to sell myself to her. I rub my hands on my jeans and say the thing I’ve been wanting to say since Phoenix. “Teach me normal.”
She blinks like she didn’t expect that string of words from me. “Normal how?”
“Like whatever you do when a day isn’t burning through you. Breakfast. Walks. Not talking to cops. Not fighting in hallways. Sleeping because you can. Telling myself no and not hating it. The boring stuff that turns into not making the same mistakes.”
She looks me over like she’s measuring a shelf. “You think you can do normal?”
“I don’t want to be a man who only knows how to be loud.”
She smiles. “I’d be happy to. We start tomorrow. Breakfast before ten. Shoes by the door. Phone face down.”
“Copy,” I say, ridiculous with relief.
“You’ll mess up. You’ll also get better.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She goes back to the table and flips a proof to show me a minor tweak in the type. I lean in and look because that’s normal too, I think.
My hands stop buzzing. My jaw stops clenching. I didn’t think I’d get to feel that this year. Or ever.
But Lou thinks I can do this, so I can. I will.