31. His New Normal
IAN
Nicky was back. Her sunny personality was like a cork. You could push it under the surface, but not for long.
The strange thing was that she seemed to have infected me with a little bit of cork-ness too. Sheree came to us at sound check and said her dancer had gotten a big hit when he put on a huge, feathered headdress during Sheree’s “Standing on the Corner.” She asked if Aftermath would wear the headdresses in order to sing backup with her.
To my astonishment, I agreed.
Willingly.
I found it—as strange as it seemed to admit—funny.
I even persuaded Mal and Archer to join me in a little cancan while Sheree was singing, which made her snort into the microphone. The audience went wild.
And there I was, grinning along with the rest of them. Me with my horrible half grin.
Well, three-quarters of a grin.
It was all Nicky’s fault.
When we got to the VIP suite during Sheree’s intermission, Nicky hugged each of us in delight and stole my breath with her kiss. “You guys were brilliant! I have three more journalists who want to talk to you. Come on, I’ll show you to your pressroom!”
We passed Bruce on the way out. He seemed confused when Nicky favored him with a brilliant smile. You expected her to be a whipped little girl, didn’t you? I thought. You wanted her to fear you. How’s that working out for you?
I gave him my sunniest smile, hideous and twisted as it was, and Mal chucked him on the shoulder in friendly fashion. Bruce staggered under the hit. Archer passed by with a cocked eyebrow. “Bruce,” he said in acknowledgment. That was all, but old Brucey got the message.
Nicky was not alone.
On the road to Albuquerque, Nicky got the final video from the team in Phoenix. Mal thought it looked too soft-focus and syrupy, but Archer liked it. I looked to Nicky, and she nodded. “It’s done,” she said, and I agreed.
She posted it.
Half an hour later, Sheree boosted it.
By the time we got to Albuquerque, we were well over a million views, and two people on TikTok had used the song to replicate Archer’s dance, one holding a very large and angry-looking cat and one holding a stuffed animal.
As we were sniggering over that, two more popped up: a mom dancing with her baby, and a trio of guys on a New York City street corner who did the dance better than Archer did, while carrying New York Giants football helmets.
And that started a football war.
“Viral,” Nicky breathed as we pulled into the vast parking area below The University of New Mexico’s Pit arena. “You’ve gone viral. Look at these numbers!”
For the first time, Yago, the front-of-house sound engineer, paid attention to Aftermath at sound check. It wasn’t just Zeke, who managed the monitors, who wanted to make sure we were happy.
“Jesus,” Archer muttered as we left the stage. “Front-of-house attention. Guys, I think we’ve arrived.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Mal agreed. “It’s that video.”
It was Nicky. I kept the thought to myself. It seemed greedy to gloat that my girl was the source of our success.
That night during the gig, Archer lifted his foot off Charlotte’s leash. She didn’t notice for several songs. When she did, she got up peacefully and went to sniff the reaching hands at the edge of the stage; Archer had to rescue her. That night, as the bus pulled out for the drive to Kingman (two rest days in a hotel with Nicky—ideal), we talked about the stupidity of delaying Charlotte’s training.
“Start now,” Nicky said. She pulled out the vegetable-ink stamp pad she’d gotten and unrolled five feet of white wrapping paper. “We’ll teach her sit and come while we get her footprint.”
Archer and Mal knelt at one end of the paper, and I held Charlotte while Nicky gently pressed the pad to Charlotte’s paw. Then I held her still while Archer called to her.
Thrilled, the puppy bounded across the paper, ripping it to shreds and neatly inking the carpet below.
Nicky eyed the front of the bus guiltily, but Ken couldn’t see. “I have a cleaner. I’ll get it. Wipe off her foot, Archer. Here’s a wipe. We’ll do this differently.”
We cleaned up our pup and focused just on sit and come, which was not terribly successful.
“Constancy,” Nicky said calmly. “She’s still a baby, for all that she’s the size of a pony. Just four months old, aren’t you, baby? We’ll go slowly. Yes, you’re a good girl.”
Sheree had flown ahead to LA to do all the late-night shows, but the rest of us spent two days at a perfectly normal hotel in Kingman, waiting for the Fourth of July. The massive Independence Festival in LA would outstrip even Sheree’s stadium crowds. Over a hundred thousand people were expected, with jumbotrons set up in the streets around the venue to handle the overflow crowds. Aftermath wasn’t playing, but of course Sheree was closing the concert, followed by what was billed to be the biggest fireworks display in the world.
We were all looking forward to it. Nicky’s two best friends had a friend who would let them sleep on the floor, and Nicky had gotten them venue tickets. They were thrilled, and I was looking forward to—and dreading—meeting them. What if they didn’t like me?
Our rest days were a little lacking in rest. We hung out with Aftermath and with others on the tour. Nicky worked on her capstone project while I was working on a new song. And we made that hotel bed creak.
Often.
With great enthusiasm.
I wouldn’t have bet Nicky would be so free and uninhibited sexually. The pert ponytail alone would have persuaded me that she was a meat-and-potatoes kind of lover. But the ponytail lied. She was warm and trusting and demanding and shy and eager. She encouraged me to explore fantasies, and she shared some of her own that were . . . memorable.
But as glorious as the sex was, it seemed most miraculous to be able to hold her afterward and listen to her sleep.
To sleep myself.
On the second day, Aftermath took Charlotte for a long walk, all four of us working on the sit and stay commands she was learning. When we got back and Charlotte thunked to the ground with her typical disregard for the bones she was slamming down, Nicky got the ink pad, peacefully held Charlotte’s paw to the surface, and then gently pressed the paw onto a pad of paper.
Charlotte sniffed happily. Nicky wiped off the ink. Char went to sleep.
And we had our model for the rubber stamp.
“Okay,” Nicky said when she turned back to us. “The shirts will be available for preorder tomorrow, and my guy in Delaware will get a hundred white hoodies to the distribution facility in four days. I’ll use this footprint to mock up a signed version for sale. We’ll be selling shirts on the site by the Seattle concert.”
“That’s excellent,” Archer was saying when he was interrupted by a knock on the door.
Raised eyebrows. We were in the room that Nicky and I shared, so I went to the door.
And look who it was. Bruce himself.
“Well, hi!” he said. “I come with good news. Can I come in?”
I had four inches on Bruce, and I knew how I looked. My job would be to look menacing and to frog walk him out if he gave us any trouble. I stood back and gestured him in, not saying a word.
The reaction in the room was like a ballet. Mal immediately sat next to Nicky on the sofa and put his arm around her protectively, nodding to me. Archer stood and moved forward. By unspoken agreement, he’d be our voice.
“Bruce,” Archer said, flexing his biceps as he crossed his arms over his chest. “How can we help you?”
Bruce looked past him and seemed unnerved to see Nicky sitting in the circle of Mal’s arms. “Honey, I’m here to talk to Aftermath. You want to give us a moment?”
Mal’s arm tightened on Nicky’s shoulder. I took a wider stance to increase the strength of any punch I had to launch. “Her name is Nicky, not honey,” Archer said. “And she stays.”
“Suit yourself.” Bruce shrugged and regrouped. “I said I had good news! Want to hear it?” He didn’t get a rise out of us and had to go on. “The Independence Festival organizers in LA are very impressed with the ‘Charlotte’s Lullaby’ video. Twenty-six million views! That’s more than Sheree’s latest!”
Archer nodded impassively. We were, of course, thrilled at our success, but Bruce was The Enemy. We weren’t going to let him know that.
“So, they want to offer Aftermath a slot at the festival!”
Bruce saw Archer’s excitement when it blazed out in a fast grin, and Mal cursed softly.
Bruce’s smile got predatory again. “Of course, it’s not a top spot. They’re offering you the opening session—third in line—with time for four songs. And they want one of the songs to be ‘Charlotte’s Lullaby.’ That’s great, right? You’ll go on a little after 2:00 p.m.”
Mal and Archer looked at me, and I studied them. Then I nodded, trying to mask my own excitement. Invited to one of the nation’s biggest music festivals—invited!
Nicky surprised us all by standing. “That is good news, Bruce,” she said. “Thank you for bringing it to the band. We’ll let you know the answer after we see the contract.”
Archer jumped, and Mal stared at her. “The contract,” Bruce repeated.
“Yes, the contract. Aftermath’s current contract does not include a performance in Los Angeles, so I assume the festival organizers are offering a single-performance contract. Is that right?”
Bruce was confused. “It’s a great honor to be invited to perform.”
Mal, Archer, and I were watching them like a tennis match.
“It certainly is. I’m sure I speak for the band when I say they’re very flattered. Are you implying that Lyre Records won’t be compensated in any way for one of their signed artists performing at the Independence Festival?”
“I don’t think we need to get into all those legal niceties,” Bruce blustered.
But Nicky was having none of it. “I think we do. So we’ll gladly give you the answer after we’ve had a chance to review the contract. The boys’ manager, Morey, will need to look at it, too, so we’ll need a few hours. I’m sure you understand.”
“The concert is tomorrow,” Bruce protested.
“Yes, so there’s no time to waste. We’ll be here once you get the contract. Shall I show you out? Ian?”
I closed the door in Bruce’s face. He was astonished, and anger was just beginning to break over his face.
“Holy shit,” Mal hissed, not sure Bruce wasn’t listening at the door.
“Holy crap!” Archer was noisier. He draped himself over Nicky like a cheap suit. “What the hell are you doing?! You’re one crazy warrior, girl! How did you know to do that?”
She slipped under his arm and went for her phone. “Because I’ve actually read your tour contract. Morey? Hey, it’s Nicky. Can you send me Aftermath’s contract with Lyre Records? No, I have the concert contract. Yeah, that one. Is it still in effect? Yeah? Okay, listen to what’s going on.”
When she and Morey finished, she turned to us. We were standing around slack-jawed like a trio of Neanderthals who were watching a Cro-Magnon babe build a fire or something.
“You guys have made two albums with Lyre, right?” We nodded. For my part, I was just grateful to have a question I understood. “Yeah? Well, I’m sure it will interest you to know that your obligations to Lyre are complete at the end of this tour.”
“What?” Archer was horrified. “Are you saying we’re no longer signed recording artists?”
Nicky smiled. “You’ll be independent recording artists with millions of views once the tour ends, at which point there will probably be a bidding war to sign you. You’re hot.”
Archer was still blinking. Mal shrugged. “She’s right,” he admitted. “We are hot.”
“Yeah we are!” Archer was grinning. Confusion over. “What do we do?”
“Well, the first thing is to make sure you guys are getting paid by the Independence Festival, not Lyre Records.”
“Yes,” Archer breathed. “Good.”
I found I was smiling. It was so much fun to watch Nicky at work.
Her phone made the ping of an incoming text. “Ah,” she said. “It’s from Dean the Leaner.”
Idk what you did to piss off Bruce but I’m supposed to send you this link
“Here it is. Hang on, let me just—okay. Let’s look at this contract. Oh, okay. See? This has already been filled out. And look here who’s getting paid.” Her phone rang. “Morey? You got it? I know. But you’ve got the festival contact information now . . . okay. We’ll wait to hear from you. Yep. Bye.” She turned to us with the light of triumph in her eyes. “Bruce was going to walk with the full five thousand.”
Mal grinned. “They want us to play four songs, and for that they’ll pay us five thousand dollars?”
Nicky nodded. “Less ten percent to Morey, but that will still leave fifteen hundred for each of you. Good?”
“What’s your cut?” Archer asked her. “Because god knows you deserve it!”
She laughed. “I’m an MBA intern. I’m here for the experience!”
I tugged her away from Mal’s embrace and pulled her in to hold her close.
Archer slapped my shoulder. “You get my money to help repay all you’ve invested in us, man.”
“Shit,” Mal said. “Me too. Absolutely.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“The hell we don’t,” Archer said, slinging an arm around Mal. “And I hope this will be the start of paying you back. You and your wizard of finance here.”
“Okay,” I said. “If Morey gets us a signed contract, then I’m taking all of us out to a real dinner.”
“Someplace where they’ll allow dogs,” Nicky insisted, her small hands a brand against my ribs.
“Someplace fancy,” I agreed, “but with a terrace. And not in Kingman. I’m aiming for a big-city option.”
It took a few hours to finalize the details, but by the end, Aftermath had a signed contract to perform in the first segment of the Independence Festival. We were congratulating ourselves when Nicky got another text from Dean.
What the hell
Are you TRYING to piss him off
She didn’t answer, but I could see she was uneasy.
I took the phone out of her hand and tossed it on the armchair. Lacing her fingers with mine, I reminded her, “You’re not alone.”
“We’ve got your back, Nicky,” Mal said. “Because you’ve got ours.”
“Amen to that sermon, Brother Malachi.” Archer added his own shoulders to the huddle. “The congregation says hallelujah.”
Nicky smiled, the worry lines disappearing from her forehead. “Then here’s to LA tomorrow, to seeing my girls again, and to finally getting to watch Aftermath perform from the audience! It’s going to be an amazing day!”
In the end, her words turned out to be prophetic.