15. Miami
IAN
Nicky appeared at sound check. Fourth concert on the tour, and I’d never even seen her backstage. Looked to me like the girl was holding back a smile, and based on how she was shifting her weight from side to side, she was either excited or really had to pee.
Yago, in charge of front-of-house sound, ignored us as usual. He had bigger fish to fry when Sheree was up for her sound check.
But Zeke was the generous monitor engineer who made sure we had the sound we wanted in our ears, even if we weren’t allowed to fuck much with the whole-stadium sound. So, Nicky had to do her little dance for a few minutes while we worked with Zeke.
Still, the opening band isn’t very important on a stadium tour, and they finished with us quickly. I surrendered my Fender to the second guitar tech, Tilly, and went to see what had Nicky all worked up.
“Get the guys!” she hissed at me, flapping her hand at Archer, who was flirting with Tilly. Mal heard her and corralled Archer, perp walking him to Nicky in the wings.
“Hiya, gorgeous!” Archer was in a good mood. As he’d pointed out to us, the bronzer had brought out the highlights in his hair, and he was walking on air. “What’s up?” He slipped an arm around Nicky’s waist and kissed her temple.
He’d learned the move in high school—discovered he could walk up to just about any woman and kiss her face if he combined a Labrador retriever friendliness with his own masculinity. The day we graduated, he did it to our algebra II teacher, and she blushed and giggled.
How many times had I been amused at the reaction? How many times had I quietly applauded his unfailing confidence?
But not this time. This time, he was stepping on Nicky’s enthusiasm, and it annoyed me. She had something to tell us, and here she was, flustered and wearing a flare of red high on her cheekbones.
“Oh,” she said. “Um.”
“Let her go, Arch,” I said. “Let her inhale long enough to tell us what she’s doing here.”
He laughed and stepped back, sweeping his arm into a low bow. “After you, milady.”
Nicky blinked at him and regrouped. “Have you guys ever heard of The Sounds of the Southeast Music Report by Dickie?”
“Uh, what?” Mal spoke the confusion we were all feeling. “What is that?”
Nicky waved her hand as if she were erasing something written on the air. “Don’t worry about it. He has a music blog. Not a huge audience, but it’s not bad. And he’s here. He wants to record an episode with you. Right now.”
She wanted a bigger reaction, I could tell from the eyebrows she had up in her hairline. But we were still not tracking right.
“Well,” Archer said. “Why? Who is this guy? How does he know about us?”
“I emailed him,” she said. She got behind us and urged us ahead of her to get us walking. “I emailed a lot of media, but he’s the one who showed up. Come on—he wants to be done before Sheree hits the pressroom.”
She was sheepdogging us through the stadium while the three of us got our feet under us, metaphorically.
“We’re going to be interviewed?” Mal asked, catching on. “For a music blog? In Florida? We have no following in Florida. This is awesome!”
“You do have a following in Florida,” Nicky said, urging us up one of the arena staircases to the concourse level. “They’re going to sing ‘The Salesman’ with you tonight. And this grumpy guy named Dickie wants to talk to you about it. Hurry up.”
“That is excellent,” Archer said. His legs were now taking the stairs two at a time until we got to the concourse. Then he turned to Nicky, this time with no artifice. He wasn’t playing or flirting. He took her hand. “Thanks, Nicky. This is really great.”
His sincerity flustered her more than the flirting. “Yeah,” she said on an exhaled breath.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
She shook her head like a dog throwing off water. “Bruce couldn’t free up a room where Dickie could record you, so we’re going to the only quiet place I know, which is the storeroom behind the merch booth. Sorry.”
“It’s perfect.” He kissed the hand he held, and she swallowed. “Which way?”
She pointed with her free hand, and he and Mal were off. I trailed behind to walk with Nicky.
“So,” I said uncertainly. “This is, like, a voice-only recording?”
“No cameras,” she confirmed. Then she figured it out. “Oh—your new look.” She peered at me in sympathy. “Hey, you found a fuse for your medallion! That looks great. It’s the perfect touch to your look. I swear to you, Ian, no one else will be as worried about your scar as you are.”
“I know,” I said. Even though I definitely did not know.
She eyed me as we walked. “You’re going onstage in front of thousands tonight. One little blogger named Dickie has you worried?” She hit the name with such good comedic flair that she surprised an actual laugh out of me.
Well—out of the left side of me, the right side still not pulling up.
“You’re a badass, Ian,” she said. “You’re a rock god. Lean into it.”
“Lean into it. Okay.” I could fake it, I decided, until I felt less naked. And meanwhile, Dickie the Indifferent Music Blogger could admire Archer and Mal. It would be fine.
Fine.
Dickie was an overweight guy who’d hauled himself up to sit on the store’s counter, to the annoyance of the crew unpacking merch. “They won’t let me into the storeroom,” he called out querulously when we arrived.
“No, I won’t,” the woman behind the counter said sternly. “I am not an idiot. No pass, no entrance. Sorry, pal.”
He shook his head in disgust, and Nicky stepped forward. “I have the pass, and I’ll take responsibility. We’re going to have an interview back there. It will take . . . twelve minutes. Thank you, Estelle.”
The woman didn’t agree, but she jerked her chin up in silent acceptance of Nicky’s newfound authority.
“Okay,” Nicky said, keying the storeroom open. “No one take anything. Have a good chat.”
“You’re not coming with us?” Mal asked.
She blinked. “You don’t need me.”
He took her arm firmly. “Yes, we do. You’re marketing and promotions. Come in and listen.”
I was glad. It felt better to have her with us.
Dickie had a little bit of the dictator in him and enjoyed making Mal and Archer arrange large boxes so we could sit in a small open space, surrounded by crates and Miami Dolphins merchandise. “I’ve recorded in worse,” he said contemptuously.
I tugged Nicky away to the next aisle. “What do I say about my scar?” I hissed.
“What do you mean?”
“If he asks. I don’t have a story.”
“Why do you need a story?”
I winced from the rising panic. “Because I’m—I mean—” I flapped a hand at my chest, trying to encompass the all-black clothes she had told me to put on. “I’m death, right?” God, that sounded stupid. “I need a backstory.”
“No backstory.” She pushed me back into the mix. “You’re still Ian O’Rourke. You had a mountain-biking accident. Doesn’t need to be anything but the truth.” Dickie was fussing with a handheld recorder as I half fell onto the box set up for my place at the discussion, and Nicky leaned in to whisper in my ear. “I’ll pay you five whole dollars if Dickie brings it up. Because he won’t.”
Astonishingly, she was absolutely right. Dickie couldn’t have cared less about our look, or that Archer was the angel and Mal was judgment. He started by complimenting Archer on “The Salesman,” which made Archer happy and loose. Then he asked Mal about the rhythm, which was smart. But I lost the ability to coolly assess Dickie’s worth as a rock journalist when he asked me if I felt my style had been influenced by Django Reinhardt, which . . . well, duh. Of course. After that, I was totally engaged in the conversation.
Before I knew it, Nicky was interrupting. “Guys, Sheree’s going to be in the VIP suite in ten minutes, and I know Dickie wants to be there. We’ve got time for one photo for your website, Dickie.” She sounded so professional. I corralled my ugly grin. “Do you mind?” She held up a heavily bedazzled denim jacket. “This will fit you, Archer.”
It was one of the fancy four-hundred-dollar jobs with the word “Sheree” picked out on the back in sequins.
“Mal, you and Ian stand on either side of Archer. Back to the camera, Archer, and look over your shoulder to smile at Dickie. Do you have enough light for the shot?”
Dickie had the photo he’d never asked for and his recorder in his pocket in about thirty seconds. She had Archer out of the coat, us out of the storeroom, and the door locked behind us before anyone could even ask a question or protest. “Guys, you’re on your own to get backstage. Dickie, I’ll take you up to the press suite.”
She was gone, trailing efficiency and competency behind her. Nice job.
“’Scuse me,” I heard. One of the young girls behind the merch counter was holding her phone. “You’re Archer Armstrong, aren’t you?”
Mal and I stood back while Archer brought the girl to her theoretical knees with a wink. He did his thing, and a small group gathered around him for photos. “That’s going to make our concert even better,” Mal said happily.
I nodded. Archer flattered was Archer unstoppable.
Mal was right. Our gig in Miami was as good as the one in New Orleans, but it was an unsure thing at first. To stand in the raking, vicious glare of those spotlights with my hideous face on full display . . . I’d wondered if I’d be able to play.
But no one screamed in horror. For once, I was grateful the audience was killing time until Sheree came on. They weren’t paying attention. So when Mal hit the opening riff to “Lizabella,” my fingers followed. I faced the white emptiness and tried not to care that the blaze of heat from the spots was frying the scar—or, at least, it felt that way.
But then Archer began to sing. Mal and I laid in the harmonies. We fit together again, as we had in Charlotte and New Orleans. We’d hit a new groove.
I was naked before the world. And no one cared.
Okay, then.
I didn’t relax all at once, but the tension in my muscles slid away without conscious thought. It felt good to play—and play with my guys. I was standing comfortably. I’d gotten the hipshot walk back. My fingers flew, and the music became something alive and wonderful.
Mal, Archer, and I tossed our songs back and forth between us like a baseball. The audience began to pay attention. I didn’t see Sheree in the wings this time, but her lighting guys knew what to do. They raised the lights for “The Salesman” again, and this time, Archer led them in the song instead of being surprised into silence.
The whole place rocked. Strange circuits in the world’s machinery clicked on in unknown junctions, and everything fit into place.
I was who I was supposed to be.
Sheree said later that we’d adjusted to the stadiums, and I supposed she was right. When Archer went solo, I would miss this, so I needed to drink in every moment while I could.
After our set, we waited in the wings while Sheree brought the crowd to its feet. She was a master at working that audience. The energy that flowed from the stage and back was crackling in the air. She made them dance for five songs in a row and then eased them down with the slow sweetness of “Untethered.” That calmed them so she could speak between songs, and they’d actually hear her.
“I get to tour all of North America on this leg of my tour,” she said. Her sound techs were masters; every word she said was crystal clear. “And that’s an opportunity not many people have. It’s very exciting!”
The crowd stomped and clapped, every one of them delighted that they’d been able to score a ticket to the hottest concert tour of the summer.
“And what I’m learning is that no two places are the same. I know that seems stupid to say, but from up here on this stage, it’s hard to learn that while you can buy an empanada in my hometown of New York City, those empanadas aren’t a patch on the ones in Miami.”
She grinned, unafraid of the wall of approval that was shaking the foundations of the stadium.
“And that made me think. Could I experience each city the way I like to see the world? And by that, I don’t mean empanadas. I mean music.” She didn’t let the applause get away from her before she spoke over them. “So I asked a friend. What could I learn—what could I study—that would express the joy and excitement of Miami?” The dialogue she was having with the audience was hard to hear from their end, but the enthusiasm was undeniable as various suggestions were shouted. “In the end, I decided I wanted to honor one of the greats, and to do it, I needed some help.” She introduced the two local horn players, who waved in excitement from the horns section. “And I asked my opening act, Aftermath, to help out too. Weren’t they great?”
She gestured to us, and the applause was maybe a little more than polite as Archer stood by Sheree to sing his part, and Mal and I joined the backup singers.
“I can’t do it as well as the original,” Sheree said with a blinding smile, “but then again, who else could really do this but the great Celia Cruz?”
The crowd roared, and the Cuban rhythms kicked in. We began chanting our background chorus, dancers flowed past us with hips aflame, and Sheree sang the opening verse.
It was clear from the very first note that even if she’d screwed up the song completely, the crowd wouldn’t have noticed or cared—they were that thrilled to have the song to dance to.
But of course, she didn’t screw up. The song was a triumph. The response from the audience was almost overwhelming, an order of magnitude more intense than when the lights came up in the audience for “The Salesman.”
At my side, Mal was grinning as he chanted along with Sheree’s magnificent backup singers. I slung my arm over Mal’s shoulder, and he bumped his hip into mine in rhythm. We sang, trying to keep up with the energy. Like attempting to fill a teacup from the fire brigade’s high-pressure hose.
An astonishing experience.
When Sheree and Archer brought the song to its conclusion, we stood onstage all but pushed backward by the wall of screaming approval from the stadium. We bowed automatically and watched with pride when Sheree kissed Archer’s cheek. Then she made the two local horn players step forward for their own bow, and the audience shrieked in approval.
Mal and I moved to make our very quiet exit, but Sheree spotted us sliding out. She grabbed us each for a hug. When she pulled me to her, it was like holding raw energy. She shouted in my ear, and I could barely hear her. “Tomorrow night, we’ll close the first set with it. This is going to be hard to follow up. Good idea, Ian!”
She was lying, of course. She had no problems getting the crowd pulled into her next song, the Grammy-winning “Rose Glasses” from her second album.
Offstage, we exchanged high fives with the horn players. The five of us were congratulating each other when Sheree’s manager came up—Clifford, Clinton, something like that.
“Sheree would like to invite all five of you to join her for the meet-and-greets after the concert is over. For people who paid extra to meet her,” he explained to the horn players. They rolled their eyes at him but agreed as rapidly as we did.
The manager guy wandered off to do whatever it was that manager guys did, the horn players went to brag to their friends, and Aftermath was left grinning at each other in a vast concrete hallway.
“Well,” Archer said, as if he’d been going to thousand-dollar-plus meet-and-greets all his life, “I’m going to need a shower before I meet anybody.”
Mal and I chuckled. Archer was our front man for a reason. The guy had style.
But I was sweaty too. We all went back to the greenroom.
Where we found our puppy on her feet and looking for us, the end of her leash trapped under the leg of a sofa.
“Baby!” Archer cried. He swooped down to cuddle her, and she licked his face in devotion. “I forgot! Martina couldn’t watch you while she was onstage! Guys, we need to figure something out for our Charlotte!”
As it turned out, Charlotte liked frisking in the huge locker-room shower with us, so I soaped her up and gave her a good rinse. She loved it.
“Now you’re as clean as we are, pupper,” Mal crooned as he dried her off. “Ready for your close-up, aren’t you, baby?”
There was a little too much wiggle in her excitement. “I wonder how long it’s been since she’s been out,” I asked, but of course none of us knew. So, once I was dressed, I leashed her up again and found her poop bags.
“Dude,” Archer said. “What are you doing in a red shirt?”
I looked down at myself. “Um . . .”
“You’re supposed to dress in all black. Look at Mal and me. Dressed like Aftermath, dude! How are you going to a meet-and-greet in a red T-shirt?”
I did my best to express contempt with eyebrows alone. “Char and I are going for a walk. I’ll find you up there.”
Charlotte was a very good dog. Somehow she understood the difference between a concrete wall under a roof and a concrete wall under open sky and didn’t begin peeing until we left the loading dock under the stadium.
A security guard glanced at the lanyard that held my backstage pass but went to one knee to have a long, happy conversation with my dog. If I wanted to stalk Sheree, I’d bring an adorable dog.
When we made our way back to the meet-and-greet area, the large security guard pursed his lips and tipped a heavily muscled skull at Charlotte.
“I don’t know that she can go in there,” he said. “I mean, people are allergic and stuff.”
Huh. I peered past him. Archer was toward the beginning of the long line that ended in Sheree, but he was chatting with his usual charm to a curly-blonde babe on the arm of an expensive business suit. Mal was sniggering in the corner with the percussion guy. Even Nicky was usefully employed, holding a stack of commemorative programs for Sheree to sign.
“Okay.” I shrugged. “If anyone asks, Charlotte and I are going back to the hotel.”
“Wish I could say the same, man,” the security guard said with unexpected humor. At my look of surprise, he nodded in acknowledgment. “Fist.”
“Fist?”
“My name. I’m Fist. You’re the lead guitarist for Aftermath.”
“Ian,” I said, my hand getting lost in his when we shook. “Tired of working the door?” I guessed.
“Checking passes, which have already been checked ten times already. But if something happens, I’m on the case.”
I had no doubt. Fist looked like a mountain had learned to walk.
Back at the hotel, I fed Charlotte, and she looked at me hopefully. She’d been in a greenroom all afternoon and evening. Just a baby, but a baby with a lot of energy. “Want to go for a walk, pup?”
She did. I did too. I had plenty of energy, and Charlotte was made of nothing but gray fur and elastic. We took ourselves out to the warm Miami night. In fact, I went so far that I ended up having to carry the puppy back while she drooled on my shoulder, but that was okay too.
A good day. Now all I needed was a long sleep in a silent hotel room. Still. Cool. Dark.
Next to the woman who made sleep possible.
Would she go for it again?