Chapter 25
twenty-five
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
“Don’t fuck this up, kid. You’re on top of the world. Listen to that crowd.” The rumbling voice coming from the other side of the door sets my teeth on edge. And the roar of the distant crowd makes my chest ache.
Only minutes off stage, the performance-induced adrenaline spike’s still lacerating through my veins.
Heart pounding like a bass drum and breaths sawing in and out as I grasp the zipper at the base of my skull and ease it up.
Slipping out of the mask I’ve worn like armor feels like emerging from the undertow.
My lungs expand, greedy for a future that’s unknown, but also, for the first time in four years, solely mine.
A loud knock on the door is followed by, “Let’s talk.
It’s not too late to change your mind. You’re on track to be the biggest name in music.
You’d have to be a fucking idiot to throw that away.
” He’s the type of guy who’s relentless when he hears the word no.
Power transforms people into the worst versions of themselves.
Which is why I need out now.
I leave my sweaty stage clothes in a heap on the floor and change into jeans, a fresh hoodie, and my worn-out Vans in record time. Opening the app on my phone, I order an Uber. Ted, in a red Toyota Prius, is on his way.
The knocking and the edge to his voice are evolving into irritation, a villain transforming into super villain.
As one of the most successful music executives in the world, he’s not a man familiar with losing.
People eat out of his hand. I should know, naively, I was one of them not so long ago.
“Do you know how many people would sell their souls to trade places with you, you ungrateful little bastard? We gave you everything. We made you,” he spits the words.
Pulling the bill of my hat low over my eyes and my hood up, I take a deep breath and open the door.
I’m not the type of guy to use my size to intimidate, but when I tuck my chin to look down at him, it’s the first time in a long time I haven’t felt small in his presence.
“You set expectations, and I bled out exceeding them. My contract’s fulfilled, now kindly and respectfully leave me the fuck alone,” I growl.
His face reddens, but to his credit, he steps aside. The look on my face and the tone of my voice are enough to advertise I am the last person he wants to mess with tonight.
“We’ve got you by the balls, boy. This isn’t over,” he threatens as I walk away.
Head down, fists stuffed into pockets, I navigate the hallways of the underbelly of the arena and exit through the first exterior door I find.
Fans fill the street outside, and dressed in all black like most everyone else, I ease effortlessly into the flow unnoticed.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I’ll never regret the mask and the persona it created, because it makes this, anonymity, possible.
Crossing the street shoulder-to-shoulder with the crowd, my hoodie clings to me uncomfortably.
Despite the cool night air, I’m beyond sweaty.
Ninety minutes on stage under the lights will do that.
Normally I would’ve showered, but tonight I didn’t have time.
I said my thank yous and goodbyes to the crew and the session musicians I tour with before we went on stage, so I could make an immediate escape after the encore.
When I climb into the backseat of the Prius waiting for me in the ride share lane, the driver, who’s probably my age, asks, “Did you go to the concert?”
I nod as I buckle my seat belt, and say, “Yeah.” I almost apologize for smelling rank but roll the window down instead.
Pulling into traffic, he says, “I’m so jealous. I tried to get tickets, but they sold out in minutes. How was it?”
I’m exhausted physically and mentally, but I engage because he seems genuinely nice, and though I was accused of it not long ago, I’m not an ungrateful bastard.
“It was good. The crowd was unhinged.” It’s true.
Twenty-eight thousand screaming along with me to every song, and not just the new songs but the older ones too.
We’re stopped at a red light, and he’s talking to me in the rearview mirror. “Right on. There’s chatter in the fandom that Raven is done, and this could be the last show for Treachery’s Riot. Damn, I hope not. You think there’s any truth to it?”
Raven is my stage name, my real name and identity concealed.
The band has always been shrouded in secrecy.
Outside of the music label, my management, and the musicians I tour with, the man who raised me is the only person who knows about my alter ego.
The label is going to officially announce the breakup to coincide with an upcoming Rolling Stone cover and article, so the world will find out soon enough.
“I don’t know, man. Lots of fodder to fuel the rumor mill these days. I do think Raven is tired.” So goddamn tired.
Changing lanes, he sighs and agrees. “Fans are crazy. Honestly, I don’t blame him for wanting out if half the stuff I read online is true. The stalking and harassment must be scary.” He pauses and unexpectedly his voice hitches, “But…”
I wait as he composes himself, thankful we’re almost to my destination. I’m having trouble with my own emotions at the moment; I’m not sure I can take on his too.
“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “It’s just…his songs saved my life. I went through some shit two years ago, and if I hadn’t found his music…I wouldn’t be here.” He signals and turns into the lot of the storage facility where my van has been parked for the past three months I’ve been on tour.
As he shifts the car into park, I’m not sure what to say.
Unfortunately, the toxicity of fame has overshadowed the purity of true connection, and I’ve withdrawn.
I’ve been so desperate to get out and salvage and reconstruct my sanity that I never considered that gaining my freedom might be someone else’s loss.
Maybe I am an ungrateful bastard after all.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out some bills and hand them to him.
He tries to turn down the money. “No, you already paid with the app.”
When I insist, he takes it.
“If Raven was here right now, he’d tell you you’re the reason you’re still here, and he’s glad you decided to stay. Hang in there, Ted.” I open the door and exit before he can respond.
When I get to the door of my van, he rolls down the window. “Dude, it’s way too much! I can’t take this!” he yells.
“You got me here in one piece, you earned it!” Little does he know he assisted in the equivalent of a prison break. And he just reminded me why I started writing music—to feel. And to be felt.
“Thanks!” He waves, and as he drives off, relief, fear, loneliness, and peace are all battling for supremacy within. My head is a mess.
When I open the door of my van, it’s musty. It’s been locked up for months. I know I’m not supposed to sleep in here while it’s parked in this lot, but I’m too tired to drive somewhere else, and I need to steal a few hours of rest before I get behind the wheel.
The bed feels so damn good when I crawl under the sheets. Forget platinum albums and sold-out arenas, I’m home. Its peace hands me over to dreams better than Ambien or edibles ever do.
The sunrise glowing on the horizon makes the rock formations look like they’re backlit by fire.
It’s my favorite time of day because the slate’s clean and possibility reigns.
At least until reality creeps in. I’m on the highway headed east out of Phoenix.
Windows down, hot coffee in the cupholder, an antidepressant waltzing through my bloodstream, and the new Deftones album blaring through the van’s speakers—the combination quiets the noise in my head.
The manufactured calm screeches to a halt when the music cuts out, and my cell rings. The ringtone is triggering until I glance at the screen and see it’s my brother, Jesse. Our relationship ebbs and flows, but lately we’ve been texting and calling weekly. I answer without hesitation.
“Hey.” My voice is deep and scratchy from sleep.
“Hey, Ev. I didn’t wake you, did I? Adjusting to the time zone change is kicking my ass.
” He was living overseas but is back in the States now.
His entire life, he’s never been one to coast. He’s full throttle without a kill switch and unpredictable.
Where I’m more measured and cautious, he’s never been afraid to try anything.
I’ve always admired that, even when it gets him into trouble.
“Nah, it’s all good. I’m on the road already.” Like our mom, he knows nothing about my music career. As far as he’s concerned, I’ve been living in this van like a nomad, taking jobs as they come and exploring the country.
“Listen, I need you in Dallas by Friday. Can you—” Loud barking in the background interrupts him. “Noodle, stand down, little woman. It’s not a home invasion. It’s DoorDash,” he says, before he shifts back to me. “I’m staying with a friend, and his roommate’s sausage dog is a psychopath.”
I can’t help but laugh, and it feels good. “That’s a lot of bark for a little dog.”
After a muffled, “Thanks. Have a good one,” to the delivery person, he says, “Noodle could disembowel a grizzly bear. She’s a fucking wolverine. Anyway, back to business. I have a job for us, but we need to get started right away.”
“Is it legal?” I’m joking. Kind of. With Jess it never hurts to ask.
“It’s legit. Once in a lifetime-type shit. You remember my buddy from high school, Ben?”
“The one you used to play open mic nights in Amarillo with?”
During his junior and senior years, he lived with his dad and granny in Texas.
He used to send me videos of the two of them at dive bars.
They covered old outlaw country songs. The music wasn’t loud or heavy enough for my taste, but Ben was a decent guitar player, my brother has forever been the life of the party, and they sang harmony well.
“Yeah, the little dude.” It sounds like a taunt.
“Piss off, Yeti.” It’s quiet, but the drawn-out drawl makes me think it must be Ben.
I never met him, but I do remember their height difference in the videos being excessive. My brother is tall like me, but Ben didn’t reach his armpit.
“Long story short,” he huffs a laugh at the unintended pun and then continues, “Ben and I lost track of each other for a decade, but last month I stumbled into a bar in Germany and who’s up on stage, but this guy.
He’s been recording and touring for years, and, like a dumbass, I had no idea.
So, we exchange numbers and start talking, and he tells me about this documentary his girlfriend is gonna film to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of his debut album.
He’s driving cross country and playing some of the same bars he did on that first tour. ”
“That’s a great idea,” I say, and I mean it. Good for him. Ten years is a lifetime to survive in this industry.
“Right?” Jess sounds excited, and that makes me nervous. “That’s where we come in. He needs an opening act.”
I pull over on the shoulder and slam the van into park. “What the fuck, Jess?” I whisper. My pulse is jackhammering.
“I know, I know. Calm down. You froze up in middle school during Battle of the Bands, but, hell…that was, what…twelve, thirteen years ago? You’re not a kid anymore. I’m sure the stage fright passed.”
With a helluva lot of effort, it did pass. I’ve played Europe’s biggest festivals and sold-out stadiums around the world; performance anxiety isn’t the issue. Resting my forehead against the steering wheel, I focus on breathing. I just need a break.
“Ev?” he questions, because I’ve been quiet so long. When I don’t respond, he continues with his sales pitch. “All you have to do is sit on a stool and play a few songs on your acoustic.”
Sighing, I ask, “What are you gonna do?”
“What I do best, sing and look pretty.” It’s such a Jesse answer that part of me wants to laugh, despite the stress. “I even thought of the perfect band name, Thicker Than Water. Get it? We’re blood. And blood is…”
“…Thicker than water. I get it.” It’s clever.
And I know it wasn’t supposed to feel like a guilt rock, but it does.
Lately, I feel guilty about everything. My resolve hardens.
“I can’t do it.” I don’t know if I’m talking to him or to me.
I’m not sure what I need out of life right now, but this isn’t it.
My brother is the most persistent person I know, so it’s not surprising when he doesn’t take no for an answer. “Ev, when are the two of us gonna get the chance to hang out together for two months?”
We haven’t spent two months in the same place since we were teenagers.
He continues, undeterred, “It’s a few warm-up gigs and then fourteen stops on Ben’s tour.
Crowds will be around a hundred, and let’s face it, they’ll be there for Ben.
We’ll be background noise while the crowd gets drunk.
We don’t have to be perfect, just entertaining.
You know, you get a little bourbon in me, and I can handle that easy. ”
He’s extroverted; he doesn’t need liquid courage.
What he’s describing is a far cry from a months-long arena tour plagued with a grueling schedule, security issues, NDA breaches, and ever-changing and unrealistic expectations.
I could do this in my sleep if I wanted to.
But I don’t. Music feels like a lover who fucked me.
Literally and then figuratively. Blind lust that burned so bright I was engulfed in the flames before I realized, too late, it was a pyre, and I was a sacrifice.
His voice softens, and the Jesse who’s usually locked away deep inside peeks out. “Emily left me in December. The divorce was final last month.”
The gut punch I feel on his behalf is real. “Shit. Why didn’t you tell me?” They’ve been married for three years. I haven’t seen many solid relationships in my life, but I thought theirs was. He adored her.
“Telling someone you failed at the only thing you ever thought you got right is harder than you’d think, little brother.”
I swallow hard, because he’s right. “Yeah, I get that.” Better than you know.
“I started seeing a therapist. That’s a sentence I never thought would come out of my mouth,” he adds under his breath.
“It’s helped. She sees through my bullshit.
She thinks this opportunity with Ben is a good next step for me.
It gives me purpose and surrounds me with people who care about me and who will support me.
I need you, Ev.” When his voice breaks on that final sentence, it nearly breaks me.
And it’s the reason I say, “Text me Ben’s address. I’ll see you late tonight.” Because fuck self-preservation when your brother needs you.