28. So That’s It, Then?
28
SO THAT’S IT, THEN?
ARCHER
I stupidly thought we were having a good time.
O’Connor and I had all day Friday to roll around that mansion of a hotel room, and we took advantage. We tried to have sex in the huge sunken bathtub, but no matter how we worked it, someone was always enduring mild pain: elbows jammed up against the sides, knees crushed against the floor, water sloshing everywhere. We gave up, laughing. I sat on the side of the bath and she sat on me in reverse cowgirl. Nice. Our feet were warm in the tub, anyway.
Somehow, it was all just fun. We dressed in jeans and sweaters and took Charlotte to the dog park and then for a long wander along the lakefront. O’Connor and I held gloved hands and talked about the best products to protect against chapped lips.
We ate foods we liked without apologizing to anyone for eating healthfully.
For the afternoon, we did what she called “work.” That meant she made notes for her next podcast and set up an evening appointment with Kevin, the personal shopper.
Since I didn’t really know what I was supposed to be doing during “work” time, I checked social media for mentions of Aftermath.
And hey—there were a few to check!
We were getting more and more attention. Fan pictures from our concerts across the country. Reviews of our songs. An entire subculture devoted to Charlotte, and who could blame them? Other influencers were posting what they could about us. Southdown’s Variety and The Scoop were interviewing people who had been to our shows.
It had been too long since I’d scanned the internet for Aftermath news. O’Connor had been a serious distraction. Now that I was more in the know, I thought I’d send a summary email to the guys and Nicky, only to find that I’d missed a lot of messages over the past two days.
Nicky was shipping another box of hoodies to the New Caledonian. We were supposed to have a shirt-signing party that evening so she could sell them (at double the price) to eager customers. And she wanted to get a new ink print of Charlotte’s foot so we could “sign” her name too.
And Phil MacGregor was flying in on Saturday to join us for our gig at The Salt Shed. Because we were just that big. Oh yeah.
We were really earning the benefits of our one-two punch: the combo of Phil MacGregor leaning on SiriusXM and O’Connor keeping me a steady focus on her podcast. This was a very good time to break out my new look: that badass duster. And maybe a new song, too, if the guys thought it was ready.
O’Connor dropped a kiss on my head and announced that she was leaving, wheeling her tech trunk behind her.
“Wait, where you going?”
“To interview Kevin. The personal shopper? ”
“I know who Kevin is. Why aren’t you meeting him here?”
She laughed merrily. “Because he makes his living from clients who are very likely to be getting drinks in the bar, of course! I’ve got a hotel room in a crappy part of town, and I’ll put him in silhouette and mask his voice. He says he’s got dirt on Oprah, and he loves Michelle Obama, and he’s got a Kanye story that won’t raise any eyebrows, but people love to listen to that shit anyway.”
“How crappy a hotel? Should I come with you?”
Her cheek went up in a slow, one-sided smile. “You’re sweet. Aren’t you going to pick up Mal and Ian in an hour?”
“They can take a cab.”
“I’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.”
“Hey, take Charlotte. She wouldn’t actually hurt anyone, but she’d scare the fuck out of any bad guys. She did actually growl at someone once, so there’s that.”
O’Connor frowned as she thought about it. “Okay. I guess that’s a good idea.”
I relaxed. O’Connor knew how to interview groundskeepers in California, but Chicago was a pretty rough city. If I couldn’t go with her, at least my dog could watch out for her.
I realized I was feeling absurdly, stupidly pleased with myself. I’d taken care of O’Connor. Wasn’t that awesome of me?
It turned out to be a good thing that I didn’t have Charlotte when I picked up Mal, Ian, and Nicky because Mal had dredged up an old girlfriend from his time at the Manhattan School of Music, and the five of us wouldn’t have fit into the BFT if Mal had had to sit on the floor with Charlotte.
His date, Hana, turned out to be a concert viola player or viola-ist or whatever. She thought this descent into the rock ’n’ roll underworld was fascinating. She spent the entire time observing sharply like she was on a dig with Indiana Jones. She was hysterical.
Because life works out that way, the two women were already seated in the truck when Mal, Ian, and I met at the tailgate to load in luggage. We had an entire conversation in eyebrows only, not a word spoken. But we understood each other.
Ian: What happened, Archer? You look good.
Archer: You know. Whatever. I feel good.
Mal: Dude, you totally nailed O’Connor.
Archer: I don’t kiss and tell.
Ian and Mal: Right.
Mal: So the drought is over?
Archer: What drought?
Ian: Get in the truck.
The New Caledonian was a big hit with the new arrivals. By that time, all the bellboys knew me because of Charlotte—and some because of Aftermath—so we made a grand entrance into the lobby.
“Shit,” Mal said. “You weren’t kidding about this place.”
“Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Brother Malachi. Here comes the manager with your keys. Hey, dude.”
I enjoyed the wide-eyed tour of their suites as if I hadn’t been exactly the same forty-eight hours earlier. Welcome to life with O’Connor.
We agreed to meet at The Presidential Palace (or whatever it was called) at seven. That would give them time to get settled and have some hot sex before joining me at the huge dining table for the dinner the hotel was eager to serve us. Hana begged off immediately. With apologies, she said she was heading for a chamber music concert—was that okay?
“But I want to attend Malcolm’s popular music concert tomorrow night for sure!”
She was darling. Off she went.
O’Connor wasn’t back yet, so Aftermath gathered around the vast table, which had been buffed to a mirrored shine. No sign of O’Connor’s naked backside anywhere to be seen .
“After dinner, you’re all signing hoodies,” Nicky said. “And let’s talk about the new merch. Do you think I’m crazy if we have four separate T-shirts for sale? An Ian shirt, an Archer shirt, a Mal shirt, and a Charlotte shirt? That way, fans can pick their favorite, and superfans will want to collect them all.”
“Argh!” Mal groaned. “Archer’s going to outsell us. He’ll be unlivable.”
“Suck it.” I grinned. “You know the dog will outsell all of us combined.”
That seemed to make Mal feel better.
Nicky had also persuaded Phil MacGregor to end our no-comment period. “From now on, you guys are doing press again.”
Excellent. I was rubbing my hands. There was nothing I liked more than talking about myself.
“Phil is setting up the interviews, and I have to tell you, the guy really knows his stuff. He’s got contacts everywhere. By the time you get to Minneapolis in three weeks, you should set aside time for an interview with Rolling Stone .”
All three of us tried to play it cool. A gig at Prince’s “house” and an interview with Rolling Stone ? Sure. Just another day. My foot drummed nervously on the black-and-white checkerboard floor, and Mal uttered a giggle and then clapped his hand over his mouth. Ian had clearly heard the news first from Nicky. He was giving her his almost-whole smile.
“And Phil wants to talk about which record label you all sign with next, which will depend on whether you have another album waiting or not.”
I raised my hand like a shy kid in school. “Maybe I have something for the new album.”
The front feet of Mal’s chair tipped back onto the floor. Ian let go of Nicky’s hand and turned to me. “You’ve got a new song?”
“Maybe. You guys tell me what you think. ”
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Mal said.
Ian nodded. “Sing it.”
So I did.
Then I sang it five more times as they worked with me through melody, meter, harmony, tone, dynamics—all the things those musical guys cared about. Ian left to get his guitar from their suite, and Mal had a drum machine app on his phone.
“Where’s your bass?” Mal asked, confused.
“Still in the BFT,” I admitted. “I haven’t been playing much.”
He and Nicky exchanged a smug smile. “Sure you haven’t,” Nicky said. “Give me the keys. I’ll go track down the truck and get it for you.”
We had to do a whole song and dance about the valet having the keys, but ultimately my bass was in hand, Ian finished changing the strings on his Fender, and Mal had announced that the acoustics were best in the bathroom, which surprised O’Connor when she arrived.
Actually, Charlotte was the first on the scene. She must have heard voices as they came through the suite’s door because I heard a startled “Hey!” and then Charlotte was attempting to knock down Ian, Mal, and Nicky in an orgy of dog-slobber love.
“My dog!” Nicky cried. She flopped to the ground and Charlotte immediately followed, putting her head in Nicky’s lap while her feet scrabbled that long canine body in an endless arc. A dog windshield wiper flicking back and forth in search of scritches and belly rubs, which Mal and Ian both crouched down to provide.
“What are you all doing in here?” O’Connor stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the November chill. Absolutely stunning. She came forward and kissed me easily, laying claim to me in front of my band. They were all grinning, and I was trying to look casual instead of thrilled. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” I slid an arm around her hips. I was sitting on one of the vanity stools, my guitar across my thighs, but I wanted to be able to touch her anyway. “These are the best acoustics. We’re working on ‘The BFT.’ ”
She arched an eyebrow. “So they liked it.”
“We like it a lot,” Mal said. “You mind if we take over your bathroom here? Which I notice that we all easily fit in, by the way?”
“Knock yourselves out. I’ve got a ton of editing to do. I got awesome stories. I’ll tell you later. Have fun.”
She left, and I confronted the three of them, grinning at me.
Nicky waggled her eyebrows. “How are the teeth?” she asked archly.
“What teeth?” My profession of innocence fooled them not at all. Nicky slapped Mal’s outstretched hand, then she kissed Ian’s head, still bent over Charlotte, and called our session to order. “Let’s get to this,” she said. “If you’re going to debut this tomorrow, you don’t have a lot of time.”
It felt like coming home to make music with my guys. We worked on “Freedom” (Nicky insisted we stop calling it “The BFT”; she said we’d forget and say it in a gig, and she was right.)
We ran through our set list and rejiggered the order. We tightened up some harmonies and pet the Great Dane with our feet. And then O’Connor was there, too, on the floor next to Nicky. She had her feet in the sunken bathtub and Charlotte’s head in her lap. She was singing along.
Didn’t mean anything. Right? Just a group of people having a good time. Nothing to get all puffed up about.
Still, I backed her up against the wall in the impressive entryway once the others had gone to their beds. I got my hands on O’Connor and made up for lost time. She gasped and sighed and surrendered to me, trusting me to put her where I wanted her, arrange her to suit both of us.
Afterward, cocooned in that football-field–sized bed, she nestled into me. “What did they think of the song? ”
“Liked it.” I still had one arm over my eyes, coming down from the powerful orgasm, but I had the strength to grin at the memory. “Ian says it’s a shoo-in for one of the best-of-summer playlists.”
“It’s November.” She was looking out the dark slab of window, where sleet was stinging the glass.
“It won’t always be.” I rolled, pulling her closer to me. “By the time we get it recorded and build some interest, we’ll be dealing with beach weather. And I look good in beach weather.”
“Well, I fry in beach weather. Did Mal or Ian think the song was about you?”
I opened one eye. “If they did, they didn’t say anything. It’s probably just your craziness.”
“Yeah. Craziness.” She sighed and puckered those beautiful lips just enough to kiss my neck. “Crazy like a fox.”
“Foxy fox,” I sighed. We slipped into sleep.
Phil MacGregor arrived with the dawn, and with just as much disruption. He’d already forced The Salt Shed to surrender its rehearsal hall in the basement, and he browbeat everyone in sight until we had our full setup arranged.
“Play through the set once,” he said. “Let me hear how you’ve evolved in the last month. No, don’t give me that look, Mr. Becker.” Mal was, in fact, glaring. “I’m not going to give you any direction musically. We’ll find you the best producer in the business to do that. I’m here to get the overview of the band. Go ahead. I’ll just sit here quietly. Do your thing.”
He’d worked with everyone in the music industry, so okay. We’d give in.
Ian started us on our usual warm-up, which was a really old Mexican song by Los Panchos he’d found called “Perfidia.” The harmonies were insane. We sounded so good on it. Ian had the delicate guitar down pat, and Mal tapped out the sexy Central American rhythm .
“Interesting,” Phil said. He seemed honestly surprised. “What does that have to do with rock ’n’ roll?”
Ian, who rarely liked to talk unless the subject had something to do with music history, opened his big yap, but I cut him off. “It’s how we warm up. Get in tune with each other. Don’t worry, it’s not for the next album.”
“I’m not so sure,” he mused. “Once we select a producer, we’ll see.”
“Anyway, our opener is ‘Lizabella.’ Let’s do that, guys.”
We ran through our set, working some songs several times and barely calling the cadence for the ones we could do in our sleep. “Freedom” sounded pretty good and would be even better once we had an audience.
When we were satisfied, Phil gave us a crash course in press interviews, which delighted Nicky. She and O’Connor sat back and watched as Phil attempted to upgrade our game.
“Mal, you need to talk a little more. Don’t let Archer hog the spotlight.”
“Spotlight is what Archer does, man.” I slapped my guy a low five.
“Ian,” Phil went on, “you barely talk at all except to answer the music questions. Can you bear to answer a personal question or two?”
“Like what?” Ian asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know. How did you get that scar?”
Mal and I jumped in. “Knife fight,” he said while I shouted, “Alien invasion!”
Phil rolled his eyes at us and looked at Ian.
“If it comes up,” Ian said, “I’ll answer.”
“Surely it’s come up before this?” Ian shook his head, silent as always. Mal and I grinned. Phil turned to me. “As for you, Archer, I was going to tell you to dial back on the arrogance, for god’s sake. But now I’m not so sure.” He looked to O’Connor, who nodded over her crossed arms .
“It’s hypnotic. A snakelike fascination. It’s hard to look away from that vanity.”
I grinned at her, and she tried to hide her answering smile. Phil threw his hands in the air. “Just be yourself, then, I guess.”
“Fuck yeah,” I said happily. “Being myself is what I do best in all the world.”
Phil had arranged for lunch to be brought to us while The Salt Shed’s stage crew disassembled our setup and reassembled it upstairs in the venue. We did a full sound check, and Phil was a lot harder on the sound-and-lighting techs than we’d ever been.
“I’ve got three journalists who want to speak to you,” Phil said. He was a bossy leader, but he got shit done. “Then you’ll have three hours to rest and get ready. Please do not leave this building, understand?”
“Yes, Dad,” Mal muttered, but not so Phil could hear.
I was taking my turn in the greenroom’s shower facilities when O’Connor pushed through the door. I saw her in the mirror and turned, dressed only in a towel. “Hey, Red,” I said, glad to see her.
“Archer.” She leaned against the door, so very far from me. “My flight is at 11:35 tonight.”
I blinked. “You’re going home?”
She flicked a perfectly lined eyebrow at me. “End of our three days, right?”
“Oh. Shit. Yeah, I guess it is.” God. That sucked.
She worried her thumbnail with her teeth. “I’m going back to California. And you’re going back to groupies.”
I shrugged and smiled at her uneasily. “That’s the plan, right?”
“Right.” She pushed off the wall and stalked to me. “Show me how you do it.”
I was confused. “What?”
“The groupies.” She put her hands on my shoulders and walked me backward until I hit the wall, my shoulder clipping a metal towel dispenser. Ow. “I know you fuck them in locker rooms. Is this so different?”
“O’Connor—”
“Show me so I can imagine it. How do you do it? Do you hold up one of her legs?” She grabbed my hand and hooked her knee over it.
“Babe—” It came to me that she wasn’t just being aggressive. The woman was furious .
“Or does she face the wall and stick her ass out like this? Is this how you fuck them, Archer?”
I blinked, confused. Where was this was coming from?
She didn’t let up. “Go ahead. Fuck me like this. Let this be our goodbye, right? Come on, Archer. I know you like it in toilet stalls. Should I straddle the toilet? That’s your way, isn’t it?”
I stepped back and held my hands up. “What are you doing?”
She gasped and turned her back to me. “What am I doing?” Her breath was trembling like she was crying.
What the hell?
I wasn’t sure what to do, so I stood still. She’d covered her eyes with her hands. It took a moment before she nodded firmly and gave me a big, fake smile. “It’s okay. I’m okay now. Are you going to rock that duster tonight or what?”
All that anger was still seething below the pretense, but even a little covering was preferable to the vengeful fury. I’d pretend with her to get us past this.
“I’m a god in that duster. You going to be here to see it?” I asked.
“I’ll be here for about the first half, then a car will meet me out front. Take me to the airport.”
“Your stuff at the hotel?—”
“It’s all packed up. I’ve handled the situation. You guys have the suites until tomorrow morning, and then they’ll pack you up too.”
“I don’t want to go back there without you.”
“That’s fine.” She smiled. “I can get the manager to send your stuff over. Shall I?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s good. Oh, sorry, Mal. Is it your turn? I’ll get out of your way.”
She fled.
Mal looked at me to see what was going on, but I had no idea what was going on. I shrugged.
She must have hidden herself away somewhere because I didn’t see her again.
The sound of an audience gathering filtered back to us, getting us pumped. The three of us ran through “Perfidia,” huddled together with our arms slung around each other’s shoulders. The harmonies cemented our connection. We were ready.
Ian kissed Nicky, and we took the stage.
The gig was electric. The crowd was hot, the dog was a total prima donna, the music clicked, “Freedom” was an instant hit.
And I rocked the fuck out of the duster O’Connor had bought for me. But she was gone before I got off the stage.
At first it stung. Then I looked around for a willing groupie.