16. Zak
“God damn!” Dallas shouted. “It looks like the seventies threw up all over the place.”
Zak had been the first one inside the tour bus. She had a dog to smuggle aboard, after all. Which turned out to be easier than anticipated thanks to their driver turned co-conspirator, Mason, who was currently sneaking Snickerdoodle breakfast sandwich crumbs in the cockpit.
Zak fell back on the black leather couch, stuffed with graphic pillows in the shape of lips, stars, and miscellaneous shapes, and kicked off her shoes to feel the soft fibers of the tangerine-orange shag carpet in between her toes.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I like it.”
The colorful posters on the walls, the dome reading lights inside of each bunk bed cubby, the wave mural running the length of the bus across the ceiling. It was like a window back in time, making her feel like a part of the era when so much of the music that inspired her had been produced. She wondered if any of those artists had ever traveled on this same bus.
“There was carpet like this in my parents’ house when we moved in. You would not believe the kind of stuff we used to find buried in it.” Edge shuddered.
On second thought, Zak lifted her foot and tucked it beneath her thigh. “Ready for your first lesson?” she asked Chase as he made it up the steps, the guitar she’d gotten him for Christmas in hand.
“You’re kidding, right?” Dallas opened the fridge, pouting when he saw it hadn’t come pre-stocked. “The sun ain’t even up yet.”
“So? There’s a perfectly good lamp right here.” To demonstrate, she turned it on.
Chase sat next to her, chuckling softly. “That, there is.” Though Dallas had a point—he had probably planned to catch up on sleep—Chase laid the guitar case on the ground and flipped up the latches.
Edge bent over to make eye contact with him. “Blink twice if you need help, Chase.”
Chase held his eyelidswide open.
“Aww. Mandilón,” Edge told Zak.
“Either you’re a glutton for punishment,” said Alex, “or Zak’s got a fourteen-carat gold-plated pussy.”
“Obviously the second one,” Chase said, straight-faced.
Alex let out an obnoxious whoop.
Zak frowned. “Can we ban my pussy as a topic of conversation on this bus?”
“That sounds like an excellent idea.”
She immediately regretted turning the light on because that wasn’t Chase’s voice. It wasn’t Alex’s, Dallas’s, or Edge’s. It was Scott’s. And thanks to the lamp that started it all, he could surely see the redness all over her cheeks as he climbed up the steps to the bus and plopped down in the dinette seat.
To her left, Chase froze. To her right, Edge made a one-eighty turn to muffle his laughter against the backrest of the couch. Dallas opened the fridge again and unsubtly chuckled into the vacant space. And Alex pressed his lips together, clutching his stomach to contain himself.
She would have stood and shoved him, but it turned out she didn’t have to, as the bus pulled forward and he nearly toppled onto Scott’s lap.
“Gonna have to work on your balance, drummer,” Scott said offhandedly. He slapped his clipboard on his knee and reviewed the equipment checklist on top, the page sloppy with strikethroughs and notes.
Zak wiped the look of mortification off her face. “I didn’t realize you were riding with us.”
“It’s either this bus or the other one, and that Jensen kid is an obnoxious fucking ass-kisser,” Scott grunted. “First time I met him, he went on and on about how much he loved ‘I’d Die For You’ and then asked me if I was sure when I told him that was a Bon Jovi song.”
Jensen was almost thirty, older than any other member of either band and far from a “kid,” but Zak didn’t bring that up because she didn’t necessarily disagree, either. Though she would wager Scott’s reason for being on Saint of Spades’ bus had more to do with them and less to do with the other band.
“That is a banger though.” Dallas paused on his way to the back bedroom, leaning against the hallway. “Gotta love B.J.”
“No one calls him that,” Edge said. “For obvious reasons.”
“How do you know? Papa Parker, have you met B.J.?”
“You meet a lot of other musicians in this line of work,” Scott answered vaguely, no longer paying attention to Zak’s friends. His attention had been captured by the guitar Chase placed on his knee. “Is that yours? Can’t say I’ve ever seen those fret inlays on a Dove. Or that body color. Where’d you find that thing?”
“Actually—” Chase searched her face for approval, and she shrugged as she averted her eyes. “Zak made it.”
“Refurbished it,” she corrected.
As much as she wished she could’ve avoided Scott in the days leading up to the tour, they had to share several calls since the dinner in New York. Her father seemed to get the hint that she was unwilling to discuss non-business matters with him after she’d hung up on his first five attempts.
Now, though, the look he gave her was only personal as he said, “That’s nice. Very nice.”
Scott turned back to his work. Leaving Zak with temporary amnesia about the guitar, the lessons she was supposed to be giving on it, and how to play an instrument in the first place. What was standard tuning order again?
She snapped back to Chase, trying, and failing, to smile. “Let’s see how well you’ve been paying attention to all the musician-talk.”
Chase drew soothing circles at the base of her spine. “Paying attention and understanding are two very different things, Parker.”
She quizzed him on the fundamental guitar parts and terminology that he might’ve picked up just from being around the band. Then, ran him through the strings and fret markers, notes and patterns.
Chase didn’t get very far into playing, though, before a thump came from one of the bunks in the back.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Dallas shouted. “You’re starting him on scales? Fuckin’ snoozefest, Z.”
Zak glared at him. “Scales are the basis of understanding how music works. Plus, they help with finger dexterity and are a great entryway to more complex theory and songwriting, which is the most important skill for a singer to—”
“Chase,” Dallas interrupted her, stumbling down the aisle. He wedged himself in between her and Chase and pulled the guitar halfway onto his lap. “Go like this.”
“What are you doing?” she protested. “I thought it was too early for guitar lessons.”
“Too early for shitty ones.”
Chase craned his neck to meet her eyes over Dallas’s shoulders. “For the record, I don’t think they’re shitty.”
“Yeah, you do,” Dallas insisted. “You just don’t know it yet.”
He made the shape of a G-chord to demonstrate, then handed it back over. Chase’s index, middle, and ring fingers were all on the wrong frets as he strummed out a loud, dissonant sound that Zak had never heard before and never wanted to hear again.
“No.” Her molars grated together. “Ring on third fret, high E. Middle on third fret, low E. Pointer on A-string, second fret.”
Chase took a moment’s pause to stare down at the neck as he repositioned his fingers. And Zak took that same moment to reposition herself further down the seat from Dallas’s bony, intrusive ass. The next G-chord still had more string buzz than she knew was possible, but it was a vast improvement.
“See?” Zak kicked Dallas’s foot. “Notes and scales.”
He swatted her hand away to continue his impromptu instructional moment with E-minor and C. And when Chase could finger those three chords accurately, fifteen percent of the time, Dallas gave him a not-entirely-consensual high-five and announced to the entire bus, “There. Now you’re ready.”
“For a coffee break?” Chase inquired hopefully.
“No, rookie. Your first song.”
“This oughta be good,” she murmured to Edge as Dallas started clapping out a tempo and calling out chords.
Chase switched between them with the speed and grace of an arthritic senior citizen.
“What do you think he’s trying to teach him?” Edge asked as they watched on in morbid fascination. “‘Like a Virgin’?”
She thought on it. “Nah, he’d need D and B minor for that one.”
Chase cringed at the sound of his own playing. “This is a song?”
“You bet your bottom dollar it is.” Dallas took the guitar from him and ramped up the speed, adding little flourishes.
The recognition set in right before Dallas began to sing “Viva Las Vegas” at the top of his lungs.
His voice was an off-key tenor that nowhere near matched the enthusiasm of his Elvis impersonation, but his dance moves couldn’t have been more faithful to the original performance. He jumped up and pranced around the cramped living space, holding the strapless guitar steady under his elbow as he moved his hips. Alex slid across the laminate floor in the kitchen and rapped out the bongo rhythm on the countertop.
“Break that guitar and I’ll break your face,” Zak threatened unconvincingly as she fell back against Chase’s chest, slipping into hysterics along with everyone else.
At first, she didn’t notice Scott’s seriousness cracking under the pressure of her friends’ antics. But once she did, his laughter rose above all else. It wasn’t the most striking. It was a subdued, almost secretive sound, but it stood out to her from across the room, through music and hilarity. Although many years had passed since he walked out on her, it had been even longer since she’d heard the genuine sound of his laugh, and until now, she hadn’t remembered it.
She certainly had never recalled it sounding so similar to hers.
Her eyes locked with Scott’s, and that familiar jolt struck again. Every possible emotion dogpiled on top of her chest until she couldn’t fucking breathe. But then the rustle of the curtain to the driver’s cockpit caught Scott’s eye, as Snickerdoodle finally made an appearance to check out the commotion. She made a beeline for Scott, jumping up and placing her paws on his thighs. Reaching for any visible skin with her big, slobbery tongue.
“What is this?” Scott fumed.
“An overgrown dust-bunny,” Dallas said. “Watch out for your shoes. And socks. And underwear.”
Zak threw her resolve not to fight with her father out the bus window at sixty miles per hour. And she had no desire to pick it back up at the last mile marker. “You’ve never seen a dog before?”
“I’ve seen a dog before, thank you.” Scott used the back of his clipboard to push said dog away. “I just wasn’t aware of you bringing a dog on the tour bus.”
“I don’t remember anyone telling me I couldn’t.”
He stared back at her. Astounded. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Trevor is going to be pissed, you know. We’re gonna lose our cleaning deposit andget fined for having an animal in the vehicle.”
“Trevor can kiss my ass. I accepted one of the lowest advances Tribute has offered this year. He can afford to cough up the fees. Plus, Mason loves her. Right, Mason?”
“Who wouldn’t?” The husky, older man peeled back the curtain and whistled for Snickerdoodle, who perked her ears up and returned to the nice human with the food.
Scott shook his head as he stood and pulled his cell phone out of his backpack. “I need to make a call, and I need you all—you, especially”—he pointed at her with the phone antenna—“to stay out of it. I’ll figure out a way to smooth this over.”
“Good fucking riddance,” Zak muttered as she watched him walk to the back of the bus.
“I see the two of you haven’t settled your differences?” Edge said.
“I don’t know that we have any differences.” She picked at her nail polish. “Apart from the one where he thinks he should have some sort of involvement in my life, and I think he should fuck off.”
He laid his arm on the back of the couch. “Is that really what you think?”
She wished it was.
“This isn’t about thoughts. This is about reality. He’s your typical addict. Maybe he’s on a good run now, but he’s not going to change. And I’m not going to stick around to find out.”
“Interesting. You never stopped forgiving Link and Dallas for the stupid shit they’ve done, and you’ve never given up on either one of them,” Edge said. “You, more than anyone I know, understand how complicated it can be.”
She arrested him with a narrowed stare. “Are you psychoanalyzing me?”
“Absolutely not. Just pointing out the inconsistency. I don’t think you need any psychoanalysis. Because I think you already know your real issue has nothing to do with who he is now or who he will be. It’s the fact that he walked out on you in the first place.”
Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner.
“And is there something so wrong with that? He left me to play sister-mom to Jaclyn’s litter while the good replacement dads pretended I didn’t exist and the shitty ones screamed in my face.”
Chase’s arm tightened around her.
“No,” Edge said impassively. “You can handle it however you want. Just figured I’d see if you wanted to talk about it. As your friend. Especially since we all have to work with the guy.”
Edge’s pacifism was one of the qualities she admired most about him, but it was also eternally at odds with her inclination to disown, discard, and cut off anyone who pissed her off.
She didn’t know how to be just nice enough to cooperate. How to trust just enough to not get hurt.
“I’ll make an effort to be more professional,” she said. “But that’s all I can promise.”
Edge rolled his eyes. “As if anyone would know what professionalism looks like on you. I haven’t seen it in the past decade.”
“Zak’s going to be professional?” Dallas flopped back in one of the bean bag chairs. “The woman who cussed out her boss, her tour manager, and our GM, made out with her co-worker on stage mid-concert, and brought her dog on tour? You’re the reason we need a fuckin’ HR department, Z.”
“If we had an HR department, you’d be just as fucked as me,” she said. “Now hand Chase his guitar back. We’ve still got three hours left on the road.”
Dallas held the guitar out by its neck. “When we do get an HR department, you need to launch the first complaint, my man. She won’t be satisfied until you’re a fingertip-amputee, too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll build calluses before that happens.”
She felt the first tug of laughter from Chase’s stomach before she sat up to let him take back his guitar.
“Okay, boss,” Chase said. “What’s next?”
Compared to the bustle on Amped, the atmosphere backstage on tour was serene. The space was larger and mercifully absent of film crews. Pre-show responsibilities were a checklist, interspersed by downtime instead of interviews and requests for more footage. They had the morning sound check, the full rehearsal, and then everyone was free to relax before getting ready to go on at seven.
Everyone except Chase, who was out with Izzy. Having cameras shoved in their faces over a sexy, romantic date at some Vegas showroom.
The fact stood: Zak wasn’t jealous. She was one hundred percent fine. There was no way Chase’s shiny new PR relationship was going to bother her. As established earlier, she was going to be a complete professional about the whole ordeal. Izzy was her friend, and as difficult as it was for Zak to trust anyone, somehow, she trusted Chase.
With the amount of work they had to do on tour, she probably wouldn’t even notice if he had to be gone for a couple of hours every once in a while. She could hang out with Edge, see if Dallas wanted to fuck around with guitar effects, or get demolished at video games by Alex. Maybe she’d workshop with Bobby and Gemma from Abstraction.
Or not. She scrapped the last idea. Bobby was painfully fucking boring, and Gemma had made it crystal clear that the last thing she wanted to do with her free time was more work.
Zak could always keep doing what she was doing now. Hanging out in her hotel room and listening to music as she did her hair and makeup. This could be her time to decompress and pat herself on the back for how very not jealous she was.
Because she wasn’t jealous of Izzy. But maybe, just maybe, when she heard a knock on the door and saw Izzy through the peephole, she was curious about what it would be like to go on a date with the guy she loved. To explore Vegas and every other city along the way like they had explored New York.
“Hey there, rock star! Long time no see.” They’d exchanged nearly unconscious hellos at four o’clock this morning, but in Izzyland, she supposed that didn’t count.
Izzy doled out another one of her signature hugs, like she was trying to squeeze Zak’s organs out through her mouth like toothpaste from the bottom of the tube.
Zak managed a garbled, “Hey,” in return.
“You don’t look like you were expecting me.” Izzy raised an eyebrow at Zak’s short satin robe, under which she did wear the top part of her stage costume.
The jeans, she wasn’t sure whether she’d be able to get outof without a pair of scissors or a box cutter. But since she had gotten to pick her own wardrobe rentals this time around, she had no one to blame but herself.
“I have no idea what you’re insinuating. I’m just getting ready for our show.” Zak stepped aside. “Come on in. Tell me all about your first date with my, uh, boyfriend?”
“Good Lord, you’d think the word ‘boyfriend’ was a slur.”
Izzy shut the door and flopped stomach-down on the bed, a cloud of bronzer and shimmery makeup dust puffing from her skin on impact. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose, shiny waves, showing off the dimensions of her new honey-colored highlights. Her light brown eyes were framed by a cat-like smokey shadow.
“Ugh, I’m sorry, I forgot about all that. It’s like Junior prom in here, only without the braces and that awful date who smelled like moldy hash browns and hit on my sister while we were taking pictures.” Her powdered face wrinkled as she tried to dust the loose makeup off the white comforter.
Zak grimaced at the mental image, never more grateful for the fact that she hadn’t gone to her Junior prom. She’d had to work that night anyway, but the irony of her school’s effort to punish her truancy violations by telling her she couldn’t attend school functions hadn’t been lost on her.
“You can use the bedding as a makeup rag for all I care.” Zak sat on top of the dressing table. “Not like I planned on sleeping in here.”
“It’s sickening.” Izzy rested her chin on the heel of her palm. “I feel like I’m third-wheeling on ya’lls honeymoon.”
The word honeymoon struck pure terror into Zak’s heart, but she managed to push that aside. “Not at all. If anything, you’re getting the raw end of the deal. You should be sowing your wild oats. Bedding the thousands of men across the nation who are dying to worship at the altar of Izzy Sartori.”
“Eh. Secret rendezvous are kind of hot, barring the whole NDA thing. I guess I have Trevor to thank for the built-in STD prevention. And also, for the fun prevention.” An irritated smile stretched Izzy’s glossy red lips. “Your man was miserable on that date, by the way.”
Zak arched a brow at Izzy’s exaggeration. At his most miserable, Chase could still manage a friendly facade.
“Okay, so maybe not miserable,” Izzy conceded. “In fact, he was polite and kind and a very good listener. And he didn’t make me feel like he wished I was you even though I knowhe did. Honestly, I can’t believe the man is a celebrity. I thought they were all self-absorbed assholes.”
“Izzy, you are a celebrity now.”
Izzy waved dismissively. “Whatever. Anyway. He reminds me of my dad. It was like being on a date with my dad, ya know?”
Zak thought back to the dinner in New York. Polite and kind and a “very good listener” were not the descriptors that came to mind. “Not really.”
“Shit.” Izzy covered her mouth with her hand. “I forgot.”
“It’s fine. I’ve had my whole life to be cool with it.” She turned her attention to the hot rollers next to her hip, finally warmed, and slid down to the vanity seat to begin twisting her hair up in them. But before she could start, she caught sight of the perfect conversation redirector poking out of her makeup bag. “Hey, I picked up a copy of your album when we were at our signing. You sound incredible.”
She held up the CD with Izzy’s lips in black lipstick on the cover, silver blood dripping from the corner, and Lovers spelled out above in pastel pills.
“Oh, I don’t know if I’d call it my album,” Izzy said with a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “It sounds like it, I guess, when I’m the one singing on it. But I think there are about three songs on there that are truly mine. Our initial reviews from the critics were raving, though. They think it’ll be a hit with the new-wave industrial metal crowd, and so far they haven’t been wrong, so I’m trying to stay positive. Make them my own, you know?”
“If it makes you feel better, it’s not so nice on the flipside either,” Zak commiserated. “We really did write all the songs on our album. And the critics really hated them.”
Saint of Spades had opened up their own formal review the day after the album was released to find… exactly what they’d expected. The comments were so predictable, Zak had developed a new conspiracy theory that all music critics were really just one person operating under a myriad of aliases. On their life’s mission to make uniquely insulting comments about people with more talent than them.
A gruesome autopsy into the history of rock music… but only the phases we wanted to forget.
You have to appreciate an album that warns of how self-indulgent it intends to be by plucking its namesake from a deceased man who never produced a single song.
Evidence that technical musicianship can be easily overshadowed by a propensity for nauseatingly crass and chaotic songwriting.
“Better to be hated for something real than loved for something fake,” Izzy said. “And the critics get it wrong all the time. I thought Missing Link rocked. It was flying off the shelves in St. Louis when we did our signing. People were asking me about you guys left and right. Clearly, you know what you’re doing.”
”You know what you’re doing, too,” Zak said. Because it was the truth, but also because it sounded like Izzy was trying to reassure herself by reassuring someone else. “All you’ve gotta do is stick it out until your contract’s up. Then, use those raving reviews and this huge platform they’ve given you to get your way next time.”
“You’re right.” Izzy picked at the threads in the comforter. “Yeah, I know. It’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing else going on?”
Izzy replaced the contemplative look on her face with a smile. “Anything other than the twelve thousand people getting ready to watch us play tonight? I don’t think so.”