Chapter 3
“For the health of ourselves, our bandmates, and our crew, we’re making some changes to the upcoming fall tour. Gavin, if you will please.”
Bennett had to give Gino credit. Over the past week, he’d moved heaven and earth to make the tour Bennett needed happen. As their manager went over the shows that had been cut, mostly second and third nights in the same city or shows in towns where they’d played numerous times before, Bennett wondered if the sea of reporters could tell his insides were as rough and tumble as the ocean had looked that morning under a dark gray sky, a rare summer storm rolling in. Did they have any idea that under his usual leather and denim, he felt as fragile as Gino’s mom’s fine china? Hell, the only things holding him together today were the hour-long call with Britt that morning and Gino’s hand wrapped around his on the table.
“Will there be more dates announced to make up for the canceled ones?”
a reporter asked once Gavin finished going over the details.
“Will there be a back half of the tour?”
another shouted.
“I’ll take that one, Gavin.”
Gino leaned forward in his chair, the lines of his shoulders and back tense. Did the reporters see beneath his jeans and tee that he was as strung tight as his upright bass? Probably not, distracted as everyone was by the sexy smile that made fans swoon. “Yeah, so, I’ve never lied to y’all, and I’m not gonna start now.”
Wasn’t that the truth. One of their early labels had suggested they keep their romantic relationship a secret. That same night, Gino had called his mother and told her to do her worst with the wedding. And Liz had—they had their nuptials at her Rancho Santa Fe mansion, big and ostentatious, the opposite of under the radar, their truth out there for everyone to see. And today, Gino was bearing more truths. “Bennett and I have been on the road for more than two decades, and these last five years, man, they’ve been incredible. Beyond our wildest dreams, and we are so very grateful, especially to our fans. But things lately have been hard. We’ve been rehearsing for the new tour, and we’re realizing we’re not twenty-somethings anymore. Hell, we’re closer to fifty than forty at this point. We’re tired, and we hurt, in our joints, in our minds, and in our hearts.”
Bennett swept the room with his gaze. Long faces, some angry ones too, but the latter were outnumbered by understanding expressions and nods of commiseration.
“We need to slow down,”
Gino said. “We need to go at a pace that makes sense for us.”
Then lowered the hammer. “So we can go out on top.”
Eyes grew wide and hands shot up, the earlier reporter getting in the first, most obvious, question. “Are you saying this is a farewell tour?”
“I think if someone wants to see Middle Cut, they should do it this tour.”
Internally, Bennett cringed just thinking about the secondary market price for tickets.
“To that end,”
Gino said, “Gavin has some new ticket opportunities to tell you about. Thanks for your time today.”
With that, Gino tugged him up by the hand, and they exited the stage while Gavin explained they would be adding more fan club tickets, plus lottery seats and passes at each remaining show. Those were Gino’s stipulations, and Bennett didn’t disagree.
Same as he hadn’t disagreed with informing the rest of the band first, none of whom had stuck around for the press conference. Bennett wasn’t surprised. “Do you think they’ll stick with us through the tour?”
he asked when he and Gino found a quiet hallway.
“I hope so,”
he said. “It’s not what any of us expected, but it will do us all good to remember what we love about making music.”
“You don’t have to sugarcoat it, G. This is my fault.”
Gino drew him closer, pushing up his sunglasses so he could meet his eyes, surely seeing the misery Bennett couldn’t hide. He skated a thumb beneath his left one, catching the tear before it fell. “We’ve been going a hundred miles an hour since we broke through. Thank you for being the one who recognized we need to slow down. To remember what we love about it.”
He dropped his forehead onto Gino’s shoulder. “I hope you still feel that way when the shitposting starts on social media.”
Gino’s big hand on the back of his neck was as warm and comforting as his “Fuck ’em.”
He squeezed and drew him closer. “We’ve earned the right to do things our way.”