28. You Can’t Be Serious
NICKY
Any rock-star movie I’d ever seen had led me to believe that when a band went into a recording studio, it was a breathtaking, exciting event in which a song as familiar as my own heartbeat burst forth whole to be captured by the adoring microphones.
In reality, it was an astonishingly tedious process. Aftermath put together what was really a reasonably simple and short song as if it were a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, layering sound over sound with only maddeningly small variations. At no time were they even in the studio together.
The teacher who taught film production and editing at the University of Phoenix didn’t mind, however. He and his student moved in and out of the studio, filming the making of the song and getting shots of all the guys in the sound booth. Plus, they followed Charlotte around with eager devotion, getting footage of her with each of the guys, with her boot, and with a high flag of a tail when she raced across the tiny scrap of landscaping outside the studio.
“Put that in slow motion? Next to misty images of her sleeping on Archer’s foot?” The professor did a chef’s kiss. He was getting what he needed, which was lucky. If we didn’t clear out for Las Vegas by 2:00 p.m., Bruce had threatened to fire the band.
The sound engineer wasn’t even a little bit like the movies. He never stopped anyone midrecording to demand that they “feel the music, baby.” He rarely spoke at all. It was Ian who pieced the song together.
Archer did his parts (bass and vocals) and then did an impromptu dance while cuddling Charlotte. The film team loved that and made him do it three more times. When Archer fell asleep on a ratty sofa, Charlotte sprawling over his chest, the film professor did an unconscious little happy dance of his own before directing his student to adjust the lighting.
The only other moment of any interest at all came when Ian noticed a piano in the corner of the studio and told Mal to make up a piano part . . . which he did, just like that.
Nice.
I mostly sat around and texted Selene and Judy about how beautiful Ian was while they took turns berating me for passing on Archer and then declaring that they were going to have their night of Archer bliss when they came to the Independence Festival in Los Angeles. I refrained from telling them that they’d need to teach Archer how to kiss without teeth. Let them experience the man in all his, um, glory.
In the end, recording the song took less than six hours. We still had fifteen minutes of booked studio time left when Ian, Archer, and Mal listened to the playback and announced that it was as good as could be expected. They got a copy to the film guys, signed payment invoices on Ian’s credit card, and were ready to mount up when Ken pulled into the parking lot.
“On time!” He was impressed. “I never knew a band of musicians who could keep to a schedule!”
Mal slung an arm around my shoulders. “That’s because they didn’t have the Amazing Nicky,” he said stoutly.
“That’s because Bruce said he’d fire us if we got to the Las Vegas venue a minute past six tonight,” I corrected. “We’re missing sound check as it is.”
“That Bruce.” Ken sighed. “He knows how bad the traffic is going to be. All right, strap in, rocketeers. Let’s get going.”
Archer sprawled at the kitchenette. “Well. That was a good day’s work!”
“Day’s not over,” Ian said. “We only have to perform in front of a Vegas crowd in . . . seven hours.”
“Sorry to get in the way of your beauty sleep,” I said, “but your first interview is in twenty minutes. We didn’t have time to meet the press before the concert, so you’re Zooming with a few reporters. You, too, puppy. I’ll get you all set up.”
My guys complained, but I knew they liked the attention—and I had five interested bloggers, reporters, and a social media influencer lined up before we even got to Vegas.
Things were going so well.
I should have known it wouldn’t last.
At the first of two Las Vegas concerts, Sheree was brilliant, covering Dean Martin’s wildly inappropriate “Standing on the Corner” while comedically ogling her assortment of male dancers as they swaggered past her, the final one bare chested and wearing a six-foot-tall, Las-Vegas-showgirl feathered headdress. The audience went wild with delight.
The VIP suite was, as usual, filled with people who wanted to meet Sheree, but I was gratified by the many hands that reached out to shake with Archer, Ian, and Mal, too—and by the many who wanted their photo taken with Charlotte. The VIP suite was even more dazzling with celebrities than usual, but I was watching the clock. Since we had a second concert the following night, we’d all been checked into the hotel, and I wanted to get Ian alone at last in the privacy of our room.
“Hey, intern,” Bruce growled at me as the event wound down. Really? Still couldn’t remember my name? “Hang on. I need to meet with you once everyone’s gone. Wait in my office. I’ll get Bianca from the merch stand.”
It was after one in the morning. Time to get out of here. But I sent Ian on without me and sat in the small conference room that Bruce had commandeered for his office.
What was I supposed to expect? Was it something about the Aftermath hoodie? Bruce had given me the final month of the tour to sell the shirt, and I hadn’t been able to get delivery until the fourth, when we were in Los Angeles. That meant we were missing the chance to sell in Albuquerque, but that was just one concert, with twelve more cities still ahead of us. Maybe he was maybe mad I hadn’t gotten the merch in sooner?
Bianca trailed after Bruce when they arrived. She glared at me, but that wasn’t unusual.
“All right.” Bruce yanked a chair out and pushed a tablet across the table at me. “You’re no longer allowed to monitor merchandise sales.”
I picked up the tablet, confused. “What? Why?”
His finger came over the top of the tablet and stabbed it out of my hands and back onto the tabletop with a slap. “Right here. Look at how far down we are with the merchandise.”
“What? I’m sorry?”
“We can’t figure out how you’re doing it. But while you and Afterbirth were making your little video, Bianca and I did a thorough inventory of what we’ve got left to sell. And guess what we found.”
He didn’t say it like a question. In fact, it sounded like an accusation. “What?” I asked. “Because my counts have been absolutely correct each time.”
“Absolutely correct? I don’t think so.” He whirled the tablet on the table to face him. “How about we’re supposed to have twenty-three cases of crop tops and we only have seventeen?”
“Seventeen?” I was having a hard time processing.
“And here—bracelets, sets of six. Each carton has two hundred sets. We’re down three cartons. What are you doing with six hundred sets of bracelets, intern?”
“What am I doing with them? I’m not doing anything with them!”
“Sure you’re not. Every time you’re in the merch storeroom, we lose at least one case of merchandise. And a shit ton of our merchandise has been showing up online on illegal sales sites. And it’s always priced higher than we’re selling this crap! I’m betting if we traced those sites back, they’d all be owned by you.”
“That’s not possible! I scan every box left after a concert, we subtract the number of items sold, and the total is perfect. Every time! Bruce, you verify it yourself!”
He shook his head. “We don’t know how you’re doing it, and the fact that we can’t figure it out is the only reason why you’re not talking to the police right now.”
“The police!”
“Yeah. I’d have you arrested if I could provide one scrap of evidence. But I know you’re doing it, so you’re out of the merch room from now on. And I’ve notified your adviser that I’m this close to firing you.”
“My adviser?” A black hole had opened under me, and I was falling. “You told Mr. Diventura about this?”
“I certainly did. Every word. I’d say the chances are pretty good you’re going to be booted from your grad program.”
My jaw fell open. What?
What?!
Bruce wasn’t finished. “The only reason I’m not dropping you from the tour is because that opening band is getting some attention, and I’m told you’re part of that. From now on, you focus exclusively on their marketing and promotions. Absolutely no merchandise for you.”
“But—the hoodies! My capstone project?” I was gasping, unable to piece this nightmare together.
“You’re to have absolutely nothing to do with that. The order has been placed and we’ll honor the contract, even if you’ve shown no honor at all. But from now on, you don’t go near it. Right now, no one on this tour would trust you around a corner. Do you understand?”
In my paralysis, I could do little more than blink. The only reason I wasn’t exploding from shock was because I was also slowly being crushed by the pressure.
“Give me your merch storeroom pass,” Bianca hissed at me. “You never should have had it in the first place.”
My hand went to the lanyard around my neck, but I didn’t move quickly enough for her. She leaned forward and snapped the pass off the collection.
“Now,” she growled, “I have to work the fucking merch booth at every concert. Do you know how many important people are going to be at the Independence Festival in Los Angeles? Do you know how many people you’re going to get to meet? You’re getting a goddamned reward, and I’m being punished. Because you’re a thief!”
“I’m not! I swear!”
“Psht,” she said succinctly. “Don’t ever try to get into the merch booth. Security knows about you now.”
“Security knows about me?”
“Come on, Bee. Let’s get out of here.” Bruce wheeled to me. “Not one more mistake from you, missy, or I’ll have your job, your MBA, and your freedom. It’ll be a prison sentence for you. Don’t test me.”
Then I was sitting in an empty room. In an empty stadium. The darkness around me was no larger than my own astonishment.
I sat there, wondering how everything had gone so rapidly wrong, when the lights in the suite snapped on to brilliance. A work crew had come to run scrubbers over the industrial-grade carpeting. Unless I managed to get to my feet and get out of there, they’d move on and leave me in true blackness.
But I didn’t seem to be able to . . . you know. Stand up.
I texted Ian.
I think I need your help
You okay?
No
Where are you
VIP suite
Omw
Should I get the guys?
Just you
I waited, feeling nothing, and still somehow managing to inhale after every exhale. The cleaners eyed me curiously but eventually finished and left. The lights must have been on a timer or a motion detector; they shut themselves off until the only illumination came from exit signs and the residual stadium lighting beyond the balcony.
“Nicky?” I heard Ian calling as he arrived.
“In here.”
He found me, safe and immobile and sitting like an idiot in the darkness. He stood in the door in confusion, a security guard peering over his shoulder.
In response, I burst into tears.