27-Zach
I haven’t slept well in days.
Every time I close my lids, dreams spread their jaws and try to chomp me in half. The pretty-boy god dresses himself as Kit, unmasked and bare, and hunts me through the woods. He chips at the walls I built, trying to claw his way back into my mind so he can manipulate me some more.
The fucker has plagued me for years, whispering that he existed in the flesh. I never believed him. Now I can’t separate the Kit of reality, and the one who torments my dreams.
I’m barely holding together.
“Neil needs a rough cut of the introductory interviews.” Cooper leans over my shoulder to peek at my screen, passion-fruit gum and the overpriced coffee he insists on drinking all day heavy on his breath. “The label wants to premiere the trailer and a release date at the final show.”
“I know, okay?” I slam the laptop shut harder than necessary, and it cracks through the van like a gunshot. Cooper flinches.
“Just send them what you have. I’m sure it’ll be better than nothing at this point. Neil’s freaking out so bad he’s actually upgraded from texts to voice messages. Voice messages, Zach. I can’t handle this much attention from that man.”
I groan, rubbing my temples. Everything’s too loud, bright and sharp. “Oh, I know.”
I’ve ghosted Neil for days, and now he’s resorted to harassing Cooper, the one person who hates phone calls more than I do. It’s practically stalking at this point. Neil won’t be happy when he realizes I still haven’t gotten Judas on camera.
But the possibility that Neil will go to the record company and tell them Judas isn’t complying terrifies me more than his scrutiny. I don’t owe that wanker anything, but I don’t want the rest of the band to suffer because of Judas’s stubbornness, or whatever the hell is going on with him.
Tonight is our second night in Tampa Bay. We’ve been on tour for nearly a month, making our way across the southern states. I’ve already conducted enough interviews with the crew to complete the documentary, just to do something with the time I’m supposed to be with Judas.
He refuses to be on camera unless he’s on stage, and I told him that doesn’t count.
Even with a smile on his face, belting his soul out, he finds a way to glare at me through those stupid little sockets. And the few times he’s caught me filming backstage, I genuinely thought he was going to strangle me. Or worse, break my camera. He came close last week.
He’s a fucking maniac.
“Look,” I exhale sharply, “I know Neil’s on your ass about this footage, but it’ll be no good to send them anything without Judas.”
Cooper snorts. “What are you gonna do? Tie him down, strap a voice scrambler to him, and hope for the best?”
“Something like that,” I say with a smirk, and his laugh dies when he registers the look on my face.
“I’m going to get some coffee, cuz whatever you’re thinking,” he says, sliding the van door open and jumping out, “I want nothing to do with it.”
I’m done waiting for Judas to magically cooperate. I pull my phone from my jeans and dial.
“Greg speakin’,” he answers on the second ring.
“Come to my van. We need to talk about Judas. I’m done fucking around.”
Knocking on the van door twice before cracking it open, Greg pokes his head inside.
He arrives faster than I expect, which means he was either nearby or he sprinted across the parking lot the second he heard the edge in my voice. Knowing Greg, it’s the latter.
“Get in,” I say, waving him inside.
He climbs in, shutting the door behind him. Greg perches on the edge of the bench seat like he expects it to bite him. I squat before him and lean forward, elbows on my knees.
“We’re almost a month into this tour. I’ve interviewed the entire crew. The band. The techs. The merch team. The lighting director. The bus drivers. Hell, I even interviewed the guy who cleans the confetti cannons.”
Greg swallows. “Okay—”
“But the one person this documentary is literally about?” I jab a finger toward the stage entrance outside the van window. “He refuses to speak to me, or to be filmed offstage without acting like I kicked his balls, which I’m now considering, by the way.”
Greg winces. “He’s—”
“Impossible,” I state. “And I’m tired of pretending otherwise.”
The van creaks as Cooper climbs in through the side door, holding two coffees.
“Oh.” He hands one to me, giving Greg a pressed frown, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “We’re doing this now.”
Greg gazes between us like a trapped animal. “I know Judas can be difficult. But he’s under a lot of pressure. The label. The—”
“I don’t care about his pressure. I care about my job.” I point at my laptop. “Neil wants a rough cut of the introductions. The label wants a fucking trailer by closing night, and I can’t give them anything without Judas.”
Greg’s wide shoulders slump, his whitening hair falling over them. “He’s not gonna like bein’ pushed.”
“I don’t give a shit,” I say, standing back up to leer over him as best I can in the confined space. “I’m done tiptoeing around him. Suck it up, do your job, and manage your fucking client.”
My hands shake, but I don’t back down.
“Before I do.”