25. Jackson
25
jackson
We’ve just finished an amazing set when I collapse into a folding chair next to Mya at the merch table. The place is packed with people watching Crooner Sins, and the energy rumbling through the crowd could keep me wired all night.
We’re not playing huge stadiums. Most of the venues are all standing room only, dimly lit, and have an untamed pulse that makes me relish in the chaos. Something almost always goes wrong. The venue staff can hardly point fingers at who was supposed to take care of what, but these are the venues I love the most. I love being so close to the overcharged energy from the crowd being drunk on cheap beer and great music. Hell, even Marty has fun at these places, usually disappearing into the crowd after our set and trying to use what little clout we have as a way to get a girl to talk to him.
I love it here. I love the organic movement from the crowd that comes from no one having a ticketed seat. I love having Mya inside the venue selling merchandise while Brian is perched on the side of the stage. And I love how even if we’re all split up, like we are now, it still feels like we have a finger on each other. Dave and Brady are at the bar having a beer, Brian stands in the back, surveying the night, and Marty is . . . being Marty.
“You did great tonight!” Mya moves her chair closer to mine to be heard over the live performance and roaring crowd. The line for merch died down as soon as the headlining band started, so she won’t have a line for a bit.
I grin, happily taking the compliment. Tonight was flawless. It was one of those sets that felt perfect. The crowd was chanting every word, the guys were in a great mood, and all the staff here actually knew what to do with us when we arrived.
“How were sales tonight?”
Her eyes widen mischievously. “Want to see?”
She must take my puzzled look as a yes, because before I can answer, she quickly pulls the cash box from a small holder fastened to the underside of the table. Tilting it my way, she opens the small, metal box, and I nearly choke at the stack of twenties.
Sitting up straight, I lean toward the box, my eyes jumping from it to her a few times before I manage to sputter, “Holy shit.”
Mya doesn’t bother hiding her excitement. “Right? We’re only taking cash right now because I haven’t gotten the card reader yet, but I ordered twice as much as last time and I’m almost sold out!” Shaking her head in awe, she closes the box and puts it back where it belongs. “I’m probably going to have to pick up a second cash box for nights like this.”
I chuff a laugh and lean back in my chair again. “I’m glad you ordered more stuff than I told you to.”
She gives me a leveling look. “I always order more than you tell me to. You’re terrible at inventory.”
Her disappointment only makes my smile grow. “How did you get so good at this, anyway?”
She grins at the compliment. “Well, let’s see. I’ve been to . . .” She looks up, like she’s doing the math in her head before her green eyes settle back on me. “Over one hundred shows in the past three years.”
My eyebrows shoot up, and she laughs.
“Every weekend,” she says with a reassuring nod. “There’s a small venue near my apartment that always has great bands most people have never heard of. I actually saw American Thieves play there when you opened for Sidecar.”
I don’t bother hiding my surprise. “No shit?”
“No shit,” she confirms. “When Brian got into the business, I think I asked him a million questions. His last band was good, but not really my vibe. When he signed with you guys, begged him to let me come work for him.”
“You did?”
“Yup,” she says with a sharp nod. “I told him to give me three shows. If I couldn’t make a profit in three shows, I’d catch a ride back home.”
My eyes fall to where she secured the cashbox. “Well, you’ve certainly done that.”
“Even with your lousy inventory help.” She gives me a playful sideways glance.
“I just find this . . .”—I gesture toward the room around us—“a little hard to believe.”
“Well, believe it.” She gets to her feet and greets a fan who wants to buy one of our shirts, so I smile at the girl. I’m still not sure if anyone would recognize my face or if they just know the band name. Sometimes I think people assume I’m Mya’s lazy assistant. When the girl quickly smiles but then gives her full attention back to Mya, I pull out my phone to let Mya work her magic. I swear half the reason we run out of inventory all the time is because she ends up selling people more things than they came for. I don’t think anyone can say no to her.
As soon as my phone screen lights up, I check for Margot’s name, but there’s nothing. I think she tries to give me space on the nights she knows we have a show. It’s like she thinks she’ll take away from my experience, but she wouldn’t. Having a text from her, telling me about her day or some random remark made by someone at the paper would only make this better. Maybe I should tell her when I see her. Maybe she needs to hear it.
I contemplate sending her a text on the off chance she’s still awake, but my thumbs hover over the keys. What would I tell her? That I can’t wait to see her? That I wish she were here? That Brian has been interviewing drivers for the RV, but Mya doesn’t think he’ll ever hire anyone because he’s such a picky bastard?
Redundant.
Redundant.
And . . . not important.
“Um, excuse me?”
I look up to find the girl Mya was just helping, now holding a T-shirt, hat, and band photo we all scrambled to take last week when Mya insisted we needed one for the table. She’s staring at me with wide, brown eyes, her shoulder-length hair swaying from side to side as she shifts on her feet.
“Sorry,” she says as soon as my eyes meet hers. “Um, you’re Jackson Phillips, right?”
I blink. She’s acting . . . nervous. And it’s because of me? Planting my feet firmly on the ground, I lean forward in the chair and give her my full attention. “Uh, yeah. What’s up?”
She smiles, relief flooding through her features like she was afraid I might be an asshole. “Sorry to bother you, but can you sign this?” She holds out the band photo.
I look down at the photo and then back at her. “You want me to sign it?”
“Of course, she does,” Mya says with a laugh as she jams a Sharpie into my hand. “She was just telling me how much she loves American Thieves. ”
My eyes jump from Mya to the girl, only snapping out of my shock when Mya widens her eyes at me. People have asked for my autograph before, but they were all local. That was at home. Here, we’re just the warm-up band. We’re the ones killing time until they can see who they really bought tickets for.
“Right,” I say, doing my best to hide my shock. “I’d be happy to.” Taking the photo from her, I set it down in front of me. It’s a black and white image Mya took on her phone, but it looks good. It might even be able to pass for a professional photo with the way she edited it. I scrawl my name in the sky near where I’m standing and hand it back to the girl. “Here you go.”
“Thank you!” She does a quick hop on her toes before clutching the photo to her chest with the rest of her items. Turning on her heels she disappears back into the crowd.
“Look who’s getting famous. ” Mya playfully pushes my shoulder, and I swat her hand away with a laugh.
Famous.
The thought is ridiculous. I’m in this to play music in front of an audience of people like we did earlier tonight. The thought of celebrity sends a spike of anxiety through me.
“Looks like you’re not the only one getting attention tonight.” Mya sits in her chair, and I realize I’ve been zoning out with my fist pressed against my lips.
Lifting my head, I follow her gaze. At first, I have no idea what she’s talking about. Then, I see it. Marty has some blonde pressed up against the back wall of the club.
“Jesus,” I mutter with a shake of my head. Fucking Marty. He’s going to gloat about this for weeks, I can already feel it. I figured Dave would be the one we’d have to worry about on tour with him being newly single, but as far as I know, he’s been focused on the music and nothing else.
“You know, I’m kind of impressed.” Mya tilts her head, her eyes never leaving Marty and his latest conquest. “I didn’t think Marty had game, but she looks close.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Close? From making out?”
Mya gives me a sideways glance, amusement glittering in her green eyes. “Um, open your eyes, Lover Boy. He’s hand-fucking her.” She shakes her head before standing to help another customer, but I don’t look to see who walks up to the table this time.
This time, my eyes are fixed on Marty.
His mouth is on the girl’s neck, and I just know he’ll leave a mark. He’s devouring her, and the movement of his hand under her shirt suggests he’s rolling and pinching her nipple with as much enthusiasm. His other hand—the one I didn’t pay attention to before—is slipped into the front of her unzipped jeans. It’s hard to see with the way his body covers hers, but there’s no mistaking it now. I have no idea how I missed it the first time.
Mya’s right. The girl is close. She looks like she’s telling him what to do. It only takes a few more moments for her eyes to roll back. Marty covers her mouth with his and hardly waits for her to come down from her high before he pulls her toward the bathrooms.
“Don’t look so horrified.” Mya laughs. She’s been watching me. “You’re a rockstar. That’s what rockstars do.”
With a shake of my head, I say, “The only horrifying thing about that is the fact that it’s Marty.”
“Fair,” she says as she grabs an item for a customer, handing it to them and taking their payment. Over her shoulder she adds, “By the looks of this line, you could have your fair share of fun, too.”
The pull between my brows quickly turns to surprise when I see the line she’s talking about. Close to two dozen women stand with their friends in front of the merch table. “What the hell . . . ”
Mya multitasks, accommodating the next customer as she talks to me. “Notice how they’re not looking at the merchandise? They’re looking at you. ” She laughs. “That girl must have told her friends the hot guitarist from American Thieves was hanging out near the table. Looks like word got around.”
I blink, taking in the scene in front of me with fresh eyes. She’s right. The girls are giggling and pointing at me as they talk to their friends. My eyes wander to the girl with short black hair at the very front of the table as Mya hands her a keychain. She’s already looking my way, and when our eyes meet, her cheeks flare and she drops her gaze to the ground.
What the hell is going on?