42. Beyond Unprofessional
42
BEYOND UNPROFESSIONAL
FELIX
Dial Tone By Catch Your Breath
D ex’s drumsticks descend like thunder, colliding with a crash that reverberates through my chest, while the rest of us unleash our final chord, a crescendo that ends our set with a ferocity that feels like it could crack the sky. The stage lights flare, painting the crowd in a kaleidoscope of colors as their cheers erupt, a wall of sound that surges over us. It’s chaos, beautiful and deafening, and it feels amazing.
I wave, a grin stretching wide across my face, and send a kiss sailing to our fans before stepping off the stage. Sweat clings to my skin, my heart still racing from the adrenaline. There’s no meet and greet tonight, which means I’ve got my mind set on retreating to the quiet sanctuary of my bus—until I spot Dylan, leaning casually against a speaker backstage, waiting for me.
My smile falters, and my muscles tighten instinctively. Please don’t let this be about Maggie. I can’t handle that right now—not after finally finding my rhythm again. The guys catch sight of Dylan too, and I see the knowing glances they exchange, like I’m about to get a lecture from Dad.
“Felix,” Dylan calls, his voice cutting through the backstage chatter.
I roll my eyes and wave the guys off, tossing my sweat-soaked shirt over my shoulder as I weave through the tangle of crew and equipment to reach him. It’s been weeks since Maggie left, and Dylan hasn’t reached out in all that time, so his sudden appearance has my curiosity piqued—and my guard up.
“Great performance,” Dylan says, his easy smile giving nothing away.
“Thanks,” I reply, grabbing a cold bottle of water from a nearby bucket.
I can’t help but feel wary. Dylan’s been in Maggie’s orbit. He’s seen her, spoken to her. That alone ties my stomach in knots.
“You didn’t come all this way just to tell me that, did you?” I toss my empty water bottle into the bin and slip my shirt back on.
“No,” Dylan laughs, falling into step beside me as we head out of the backstage area and onto the lawn. “I had some other business, but I wanted to see if you’d thought about who you want to back you up on the album.”
The mention of the album sends a jolt through me, like a live wire sparking to life. It’s one of the things that’s been keeping me grounded through this whirlwind tour.
I think of the guys. They weren’t my first choice in the beginning, but I can’t imagine cutting this album without them.
“I want the guys. We are Velvet Drift, after all,” I say, the conviction in my voice surprising even me.
Dylan’s grin mirrors my own. “Great. I’ll tell the guys.”
“I’d like to tell them, if you don’t mind.”
Dylan nods. “Did you want to use a studio in Michigan or L.A.?”
“I didn’t know there was a choice.” The thought of returning to Michigan after the tour stirs something bittersweet in me—a mix of joy and unease.
“You don’t have to decide now,” Dylan says, sensing my hesitation. “Just let me know before the tour ends so I can book the studio. In the meantime, I’ll start putting together a team of producers and techs.”
Everything is happening the way I wanted, the way I dreamed it would.
“But I heard you’re not taking full advantage of after-parties or press,” he says as we step into a quieter corner.
“Is that a requirement?” I ask a little harsher than I mean.
“No, but I don’t have to tell you that those press junkets are what get the band noticed, brings in the crowds, and the after-parties are for networking—not getting drunk and pissing off influencers.”
I run a hand through my hair in frustration. “After-parties were never really my thing. I just wanna play music, not the game.”
“That’s something you’re gonna have to get over. If you want ears on that album and you want to get play time, you need to make friends in the business,” Dylan says.
“Did Bash rat me out about the podcaster?” I ask angrily. “Because an interview wasn’t all she was after.”
“I don’t give a fuck what she was after,” Dylan raises his voice. “One million subscribers, Felix. And billions of listeners. To even have her want to interview you is a big deal and you pass because why… because you’re above playing the game?” he asks with clear agitation.
I exhale sharply, my fists tightening at my sides. Dylan’s words cut deeper than they should, probably because some part of me knows he’s right. “It’s not about being above the game, Dylan,” I snap. “It’s about not wanting to sell pieces of myself just to fit into it.”
“Pieces of yourself ?” Dylan scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Spare me the tortured artist routine, Felix. You think every big name out there didn’t have to do some things they hated to get where they are? Look at Paper Skies?—.”
“I don’t give a fuck what Paper Skies does…””
“That’s the problem, you should. You want to get to their level, then start paying attention.”
I look away, staring out at the tour buses parked under the dim glow of the backlot. The din of the crowd still lingers faintly in the air, clashing against the silence between us. I hate that he’s right. “It’s not just about me,” I mutter. “It’s about the music. I don’t want it to… to lose what makes it real.”
“And you think sitting out of every opportunity is preserving that?” Dylan’s voice remains firm. “Look, I get it, but art doesn’t exist in a vacuum, Felix. It needs to breathe, to live in the world. You’ve got something special, and you’re treating it like it’s too fragile to share. You’re shutting doors before anyone can even knock.”
I flinch at his words, not because they sting, but because they strike too close to a truth I’ve been trying to avoid. It’s not just because Maggie left. Dylan isn’t wrong, and deep down, I know it.
“I’m not saying don’t have your boundaries,” Dylan continues, his tone easing up just a bit. “I’m just saying figure out your shit.”
Dylan stares down at his phone. Then he loses his shit.
“Fuck! This is a business— my business,” Dylan lets go of all restraint as if a rubber band snapped. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who gives a shit.” He looks up at the sky as if waiting for some divine intervention that never comes.
“Are you… okay?” I make sure to keep a couple feet distance between us because he looks like he’s gonna snap any minute.
“No,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and shoving the phone back in his pocket. “Morgan won’t fucking listen to reason. She makes me mental.”
I don’t know who this Morgan is or why she’s got him all riled up but I’m sure as hell not gonna ask about it. Sometimes I forget how young Dylan is. On the phone, he comes across as all business, but here, he could almost pass as one of us.Especially in his current psychotic state.
He runs a hand through his hair, causing a few dark strands to flop lazily over his forehead in a messy tangle. “Maggie just up and leaves the tour, and you,”—he throws a hand at me and I brace myself to be bitched at some more—“won’t sit for a fucking interview.”
I press my lips together but as much as I don’t want to get into a discussion about Maggie, I can’t not say something.
“Maggie didn’t just up and leave,” I point out, trying to defend her. I don’t know what she told him about the circumstance or about us, but as angry as I was about her leaving, she doesn’t deserve shit from Dylan. “It’s complicated.”
“I know that, fuck!” He leans down, resting his hands on his thighs as if trying to compose himself. “I went off on her, and now she won’t talk to me,” he admits.
I cock an eyebrow, wondering how all that went down because if I know Maggie, she probably kicked him in the balls on the way out.
“She is so damn talented, but she’s her own worst enemy,” Dylan shakes his head. “She gets in her head, thinks she’s gonna ruin this for you and that’s my fault for making her feel that way,” Dylan continues, but I’m still stuck on the fact that she thinks she’s going to ruin my career.
I swallow hard, my mind racing, trying to process Dylan’s words. Maggie thought she would ruin things for me? All this time, I’d been stuck in my own head, convinced she’d left because she was running again, too scared to face her own feelings just when things got too intense.
“Is that what she said?” I ask, confused. “Nope, no, I don’t even want to get into this with you.” I shake my head and pace in front of him. I can’t believe I got sucked into this when I said I wouldn’t.
“This is so beyond unprofessional right now,” I lament.
Dylan straightens up with an exaggerated groan, like the weight of everyone’s bad decisions—including his own—is pressing down on him. He claps his hands together once, the loud smack echoing in the quiet of the night. “You’re right. This is unprofessional. Welcome to the fucking circus.”
I fold my arms. “Glad we’ve identified the problem. Now, do you want to lecture me on after-parties some more, or should we talk about saving your existential crisis for therapy?”
He glares at me, and for a second, I think he might throw me into the nearest bush. But then, he just exhales through his nose.
“Are you gonna stop being such a pain in my ass?” He narrows his eyes.
“Okay, how about this? Get my song on the radio.”
“Oh, is that it? Just like that?” he deadpans. “Sure, Felix. Let me whip up some radio magic, bake you a cake, and grab you a Grammy while I’m at it. Anything else on your wish list?”
I can’t help it—the corner of my mouth quirks up into a smile. “Now that you mention it, a cake doesn’t sound half bad. Chocolate maybe. With frosting. Might really boost morale.”
He stares at me flatly. “You think you’re funny now?”
“What can I say? I’m multi-talented,” I reply with an exaggerated shrug.
He exhales in a long, drawn-out sigh before leveling me with one of his infamous death glares. “Alright, smartass. Maybe you can explain to me how I’m supposed to get a song on the radio when you haven’t even recorded it yet.”
“Record it live,” I state bluntly.
He opens his mouth, about to fire back some snark of his own, but then pauses, his brow furrowing in thought instead. For a split second, I can see the gears turning behind his eyes. “Huh,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That’s… actually a really good idea.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, his scowl returning the moment he glances at the screen. Whatever text or call had set him off earlier still has its claws in him. Without another word, he spins around and presses the phone to his ear, walking off into the shadows of the lot, leaving me with only my thoughts.
I can feel my anger start to ebb away but the heartache remains like an echo, knowing that if Dylan gets my song on the radio, the first person I want to hear it is Maggie.
The scrape of boots on pavement pulls me from my thoughts, and Dylan comes bounding back into the light, his energy renewed. Unlike before, there’s a hard edge of purpose in his stride now, and his voice has that clipped, businesslike tone.
“Okay,” he says, stopping in front of me. “Live’s not going to work logistically. Too many moving parts. But we can push that demo you sent me. It’s raw, but that might actually play in our favor.”
It takes me a moment to process what he’s saying, the whirlwind of his efficiency leaving me momentarily stunned. Then, slowly, I nod. “Yeah. I can live with that.”