Chapter 4
Gino couldn’t say how long he’d been sitting behind the hotel bar piano when Roscoe slid onto the bench beside him. He reeked of booze and sweat, his flannel and undershirt drenched, his mop of hair wet, but his eyes were sharp and assessing. “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”
he asked, specks of glitter shining on the leftover knot of his nose, the bridge broken numerous times over. “Big day tomorrow.”
Gino tossed his pen atop the sheet music he’d been scribbling on and shifted sideways, giving his drummer a glaring once-over that was likely belied by the laughter in his voice. “And where are you just getting in from?”
“Maybe I was already here,”
he drawled in his honeyed Southern accent. “Maybe I just came downstairs to check on you.”
He dragged a hand through his damp hair, depositing more glitter where it didn’t belong, and Gino lost the battle to his laughter.
“Or maybe you forgot your room key when you went to the rooftop club and came down to the lobby to get a replacement.”
And maybe Gino had insisted on staying in this hotel because said club was on the premises, and Roscoe couldn’t end up somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be the night before their first show and cause Bennett to spend all day tomorrow searching for him.
Not the meditation Britt had recommended before each show.
“How’s Bennett?”
Roscoe asked, uncannily reading the direction of his thoughts.
Gino shifted forward again, fingers resting atop the keys. While he preferred to perform with the bass, he had always composed best at the piano. “Asleep,”
he said as he struck up the melody that had chased him out of bed.
“I’m sure he’d prefer you be there with him.”
Maybe? They’d had six weeks to negotiate a shortened, stripped-down tour, to get used to the new setup and set lists, to adjust Bennett’s meds, and to meet with Trish, the couple’s therapist Britt had referred them to. That last one had finally happened the day before yesterday, and it had wrung them both out, leaving them tender and tentative with each other.
“Should we be worried?”
Roscoe asked. “We—you guys—are clearly making some big changes.”
“We’re working on it.”
“For what it’s worth, he’s looked better during rehearsals.”
Gino had noticed that too. Bennett’s easy manner with the acoustic guitar, the easier time he had moving around the less cluttered stage, the easier set of his shoulders and easier breaths that led to the deeper, richer tone of his voice. Clear signs Bennett felt better about the direction of things. But what about the rest of the band? Was it easier on them too, beyond telling Gino what he wanted to hear? “How’s the rest of the band doing? With the acoustics and the farewell of it all?”
While Roscoe was their wildest, most unpredictable bandmate, he was their drummer, the keeper of the rhythm, the glue that held Middle Cut together.
“Surprised, bummed, but excited for this tour. It’s fun to change things up. For me, it’s the first time playing a full tour acoustic. I got off the ice, plugged in, and here I am.”
He wiped his hands together in a that-was-that gesture, more glitter raining between them. Roscoe was a musical and athletic prodigy, the latter taking him to the NHL, the former offering a second career after the first was cut short by injury.
“Do you think you’ll do more acoustic stuff after this tour? It’s what caught mine and Bennett’s attention about you in the first place.”
“Dunno.”
He shrugged. “I’m gonna spend some time at the cabin in Asheville, then maybe see what gigs I can pick up between there and Nashville.”
“You know you can write your ticket anywhere.”
Gino clasped his shoulder. “Any band would be lucky to have you.”
He quirked a bushy brow. “But will any band put up with my shit the way you and Bennett do?”
“That’s something only you can answer. But do you think maybe you can tone it down for this tour? For Bennett’s sake?”
“Was already planning to.”
Gino replied with a raised brow of his own.
“I get to have some secrets too. Speaking of, what’s that?”
He jutted his chin at the sheet music atop the piano. “New song?”
“Maybe.”
Roscoe grinned. “Writing? On the farewell tour?”
“Melodies won’t stop coming.”
He shrugged, helpless when it came to the muse that had tossed him around for a lifetime. “It’s like there’s space now without the pressure.”
With a nod, Roscoe peeled his flannel down his arms and off, balled it beside him, then righted himself, fingers tickling the keys. “You want some help? That way you can get back to your husband sooner.”
“Won’t say no to that.”
“Where are we?”
Smiling, Gino drew the sheet music closer, pointed a line up from where he’d left off, and started playing on the bass end of the keys.
Roscoe listened once, twice, then seamlessly added another layer of melody atop Gino’s, flourishing right past where Gino was stuck and dragging him into the next verse. Roscoe shot him a sly smile and a wink. “Keep up.”