Chapter 16
Sloan
Inever reached out. Ultimately, I decided I’ve made the last two moves and Luke knows where I live and he has my number. If he wants something from me, he knows where I am.
But he didn’t call or text on our most recent four-week tour stretch, nor has he reached out now that we’re back home for the week.
“What the fuck, Sloan?” Brett says from the chair next to mine, startling me out of my daze.
“Could you guys figure out how to put the words fuck and Sloan into a sentence without always making it sound like I messed something up?” I ask from my own chair, stilling my hands on my guitar strings.
“I can think of plenty of good options. For example, Sir or ma’am, would you like to fuck Sloan?
Another good option, Why don’t we all stop fucking with Sloan.
Or my personal favorite, Who would you like to fuck, Sloan?
Honestly, your lack of creativity has me fearful for our next album. ”
I’m spending most of my time these days around either Brett’s or Noah’s pools when we’re not on the road.
Jen’s had to work more overtime and it’s just not good for me to spend hours at home by myself.
I wasn’t a huge fan to begin with, but ever since Luke demolished my peace of mind, being on my own now is torture.
“Are you done?” Brett asks, less than enthused with my tirade. “I meant what was that?”
“What was what?” I’m annoyed because I was in the middle of a sweet chorus that I probably won’t remember…hazard of drinking margaritas while also playing the guitar.
“Did you hear that?” Brett asks Noah who is on the other side of the pool deck.
“For fuck’s sake, Brett, try using actual nouns, man,” I call to our drummer.
Ryan cuts his eyes to me from the steps where he’s playing with Riddik, telling me I’m on the verge of being an ass.
I’ve gotten that look a lot in the few weeks it’s been since I walked away from Luke for the last time outside of IceMaker.
Tour has me on edge more than usual and not sleeping due to the return of my fucking trauma dreams has turned me into a sulking asshole no one wants to be around.
Well, no one other than Jen. Thankfully she’s still got my back and despite telling me to work my shit out with Luke, she hasn’t pushed the issue.
“No, and I have to agree with Sloany here. Which that are you talking about?” Noah says back to Brett.
Brett points an accusatory finger at me. “You were singing.”
Oh. Shit. I was?
I shrug, playing it off because I swear my bandmates can smell fear. “So? You sing. Ryan sings. We all hum shit and I know everyone sings in the shower. Hell, Noah sings when he comes for God’s sake.”
“No, I mean you were singing. And it was good. Do it again.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t sing.”
“I just heard you!”
“Well pretend you didn’t hear me.”
“Are you serious with this right now? You’re in a rock band, Sloan. One that’s fighting to keep their spot at the top of the charts and if I heard that correctly, you would sound amazing harmonizing with Kink. Now fucking sing.”
“What Brett means,” Noah starts, flashing a glare at our hot-headed drummer, “is that if you’ve got a talent that could take us to the next level, we’d love to hear it. Having something fresh going into the next album could be really helpful.”
I look at each of the guys and know there’s no getting out of this. Going toe to toe with Brett is nothing new, but I respect Noah too much to ignore his request.
“Fine, but you’re singing with me,” I tell Noah. “I hate performing alone.”
“Do you, though?” Ryan asks, not even trying to hide his smile.
His joke is corny as hell, but it makes me snort a laugh anyway.
Before we lose the moment and get side tracked, Noah starts in on the opening song of our newest album. You’d think hearing him day in and day out for six years of live shows, recording sessions, jam sessions, shower songs, whatever, his voice would get old.
It doesn’t.
Noah Kinkaid’s voice is the epitome of perfection. So much so, I kind of regret asking him to sing with me, but it’s too late to bow out now. I start playing the acoustic guitar in my lap and join Noah, harmonizing an octave lower simply because my speaking voice is deeper than his.
I close my eyes and lose myself in the words and melody, feeling every word of this song in my barely-beating heart.
This one should hurt. I wrote it.
There were days you built me up,
And nights you burned me down.
I hid behind a mask of smiles,
So you’d never see my frown.
Hiding is what caused this.
It’s ironic we lost this.
I only ever sought this
You only ever fought this.
But why?
For who?
Why now?
Come back home… to me.
As a metalcore band, occasionally our lyrics are screamed, not sung.
Noah’s screaming voice is just as auditorily pleasing as his singing voice, but when I rip into the screamed verse, even I have to admit, the bass of my voice makes this song come alive.
It’s my scream that makes it sound the way I intended when I wrote it.
You were willing to die.
You were willing to bleed.
I need you to survive.
Fuck them, choose me.
I finish the verse and fall silent. What is there to say? They all know who it’s about now.
Brett clamps a hand on my shoulder but doesn’t press for me to continue.
“Dude, that was fucking insane.” His serious tone speaks volumes.
Solemnly, Ryan adds, “Sloan, man, if you could do that live…you and Kink would bring fifty thousand people to their knees.”
Noah’s eyes light up the way they do when he gets turned on by a musical idea he loves.
“Let’s do it! Let’s not tell anyone or advertise or anything. Let’s just let Sloan take that song at our next show and see what happens.”
“Whoa, slow down,” I plead. “I couldn’t even make it through two verses, the chorus, and the bridge on that song and you want me to do the whole thing?”
“Not the whole thing,” Noah clarifies. “But your scream is better than mine, man. I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on us. Come on, let’s go to the studio and dick around with it a little. Figure out which parts you and I should do together.”
“Noah, I don’t know about this.”
Noah once said we all get to use our instruments as a buffer between us and the crowd — and he doesn’t have that.
He gets stripped every night he sings. Sienna fills him back up and has made it bearable for him but if I bear my soul like that, I worry if Jen can fill me back up when she isn’t the reason I’m empty in the first place.
“You can do this, Sloan. Hell, it should’ve been you all along. You feel those lyrics in a way the rest of us don’t.”
Yeah, like a bullet to the chest.
Turns out, Noah was right. The first time I sang, it was total pandemonium.
The fans lost their fucking minds once they realized it was me.
On stage, we could tell they were confused because it got really quiet so Noah stopped singing, put his microphone down by his side and pointed at me as I emotionally bled out.
I ended up on the phone with our record label for an hour afterward, half getting chewed out and half being praised for my vocals.
According to our PR team, within an hour of our final bow, the performance had been shared on over forty-five thousand social media accounts with over nine million likes, shares, comments, etc…
Back on the bus, heading toward our next venue, my phone rings when I get out of the shower. Wrapped in a towel, I smile when I see Jen’s name.
“Hey Jen.”
“Hey yourself,” she purrs into the phone. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“You tell me.” I switch the phone call to video mode and smile when I see her. I can tell she’s at the hospital. She looks tired and I wish I was there to kiss her until she felt reenergized.
“Christ almighty, Sloan. You are a sight for tired, sore, aching, frustrated eyes. It’d be better if you lost the towel though.”
Behind me, at the small kitchen table and chairs, Ryan yells, “Better for you maybe. Sloan, do not drop that towel.”
I drop the towel.
Obviously.
Jen groans obscenely as Noah comes out from the back room and doesn’t even bat an eyelash at my dick bobbing in the hallway.
“I need you and your dick to move,” he grumbles, wanting to get by me in the small space.
We’re all ready for our next break. We’ve played three back-to-back shows and our next two concerts are being live-streamed.
One from Chicago and one from Madison Square Garden.
Then we’re home for a short break again.
Tour is a lot harder when the people you love are thousands of miles away every night.
“Is Brett still back there?” I ask Noah, hoping to get in the back room for some privacy.
“Yeah, and he’s talking to Bri.”
Damn it. With everyone trying to find space and privacy to talk to their significant others, this bus feels awfully fucking small these days.
I climb in my bunk, turn the small light on, and zip the privacy curtain. It’ll have to do.
“Remember those things aren’t soundproof,” Ryan calls.
“Remember I don’t give a shit,” I call back.
Jen giggles and lowers her voice. “I miss you. My social media has videos of you singing tonight. You sounded amazing. I wish I could have been there for your debut performance.”
“I’ll give you a private show when I get home. Tell me what’s got you frustrated.”
“Just work. People are so fucking rude. Like, I’m trying to help you. Between entitled patients and their demanding family members, I’m not even sure I want to do this anymore,” she laments.
“So, don’t,” I offer.
“Well, I have to do something. And I’ve worked so hard on my nursing degree.”
“Have you talked to Emma? You know she went through this same thing.”
“Not yet. I’m just in a slump. I really need to get out of here.”
“You know what you need?” I whisper, a smile spreading across my face.
She laughs and her eyes brighten. “Dick is your answer for everything. But it just so happens, I agree with you this time.”