44. Interlude 12
Lightning Crashes
The release of our third album is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
The hype is huge. Our faces have been plastered everywhere, on every magazine cover and every music channel that exists.
I should be jumping for fucking joy. Only when the cameras turn away and the lights go down, I’m not sure I’m actually happy anymore.
I don’t know if any of us are.
But after three years in the spotlight, we’ve been conditioned to hide it well, which is why there isn’t a single person here wondering why four supposed best friends and bandmates haven’t spent more than a minute in each other’s company, at a party that is supposedly all about them.
To be fair, Cohen and I have stood arm-in-arm in the middle of the throng for a while now. Our past album launches and celebrations have always been downtown, not necessarily in The Neck, but close enough to feel familiar.
This time, Viktor Vetrov, the head of our record label, apparently hooked us up with this crazy mansion in The Head.
Lou had sold us on the idea by claiming that we had “moved up in the world,” but it doesn’t feel like it.
Judging by Dutch’s face and his too-strained smile as he chats with some suit on the other side of this gigantic room, I’m not the only one.
Meanwhile, there’s no sign of Dax anywhere, probably because he hates the phony small talk that comes along with shit like this.
A faraway voice calls my name, “Rain? Rainy?”
“Ray-Ray?”
It’s that awful nickname that brings me back to earth, and I realize Cohen and Lou have been calling my name.
We’ve barely been at this party for two hours, and I’ve already lost track of how many drinks have been put in my hand.
Cohen shakes my arm to get my attention.
Maybe the alcohol is hitting me harder than I realize, and that’s why I’m so spaced out.
“What?” I snap. “I’m here.” Even though I’m really not. I’m anywhere but.
“Lou wants to introduce us to someone,” my boyfriend says, pointing to our manager, whose sly eyes follow me.
They stay too long on my body. They always do.
It’s a look I’ve grown used to, not just from Lou Braun, but from way too many men in our rock and roll world.
I’d make a fast fucking exit if it wasn’t for Co’s fierce grip tightening on my arm.
He turns us as one, and my jaw drops. All thoughts of running, gone.
Blue Grace. The legendary Blue Grace, named frontman for Blue and the Graces.
The man whose songs we spent a whole summer covering, whose song, ‘Spit Quick,’ we sang in our first viral video.
I always say it was that song that got us here.
Right in front of me is my favourite musician and lyricist of all time.
“Holy shit!” Cohen gasps. He’s just as starstruck as I am. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out, because I swear, I’ve temporarily forgotten how to form words.
“Rain, Cohen, I’d like to introduce Blue Grace.”
Blue dips his chin to acknowledge Cohen first. His spiked, bleach-blonde hair is long and roughly styled. I watch my boyfriend and my musical hero exchange a few words, but in my head I’m too busy rehearsing an attempt at a greeting so I don’t embarrass myself.
In the end, the words never leave my mouth. They can’t because my throat is drier than the damn desert. Because Blue Grace, one of the biggest rockstars in the world, reaches for my hand and kisses my knuckles. Then he smiles at me.
“The Rain Gamble? The lyricist who wrote Lightspeed?”
“You-u-u-u know my song?” I manage to stutter. My cheeks are about a thousand degrees, and if Cohen wasn’t still holding me, I would probably faint right now.
“Of course. I’ve been telling Lou for months that I wanted to meet the girl who managed to bump my songs from the top of the charts. Not once, but three separate times.”
He’s still smiling, though his tone is cooler than his initial greeting. The music industry is by nature a competitive business, and we’ve gotten super lucky that our last three singles have all debuted at number one. Knocking Blue and the Graces to the second spot, all three times.
“Luck,” I mumble and shrug by way of apology. I know I’m good, but truth is, I know there’s also a huge amount of luck in every bit of success we’ve had so far.
“Hmmm, luck, yes, of course.”
He doesn’t sound convinced, but his attitude shifts again when I feel Cohen pull away.
I’m certain he’s about to lose it because he always does when any other man pays me the slightest bit of attention, though it’s clear that’s not the case this one time.
He’s actually being actively pulled away by Lou.
“Don’t worry, gentlemen.” Blue waves them off. “I’ll look after the young lady.”
Dallas, Cohen mouths at me with a grim face, before going willingly.
Our bassist has grown more and more withdrawn in recent months.
Ever since he OD’d. He’s lost weight he didn’t have to lose and has taken to randomly disappearing after gigs.
We’re all worried about him, and out of all of us, Cohen has the best chance of working out what’s going on.
He also blames himself for what happened.
Blue’s arm replaces my boyfriend’s, wrapping my waist in a way I’m not sure I like. But it’s Blue Grace. He’s a big fucking deal in our business, and it’s not like he’s trying to grope me or anything, so I decide not to rock the boat.
“I want to hear more about this lucky writing process of yours.” He steers me towards the fancy-looking and well-stocked bar.
“But first, let’s get you another drink, shall we?”
I didn’t realize my glass was empty. Damn, I finished that last drink too quickly.
I blame my nerves. The bar is positioned along the far side of the ballroom, because yes, this insane mansion has its own ballroom.
I’m too busy staring at the endless swirls of white marble and trying not to stick out amongst the posh cunts everywhere to notice what he orders for us both.
I’m grateful when he hands me back a fancy glass.
I take a sip of my drink, and the burn of what I guess is whiskey is a good distraction from the fact that I’m still just Necker trash that doesn’t belong in places like this.
Blue, at least, like me and the guys, has his fair share of piercings and visible tattoos, which actually makes me feel more comfortable even though his level of superstardom dwarfs the little bit of fame we’ve managed to achieve.
Maybe my discomfort shows because Blue suggests we head outside to talk.
There is a beautifully lit patio and pool, and I’m sure Cohen won’t mind, because it’s not exactly like we’re alone.
All around us, people are smoking, two girls are making out in the pool, and there are still people everywhere, but the cool night breeze over the Calder hills feels more welcoming than the heat and opulence of inside.
There’s fancy rattan patio furniture everywhere. Chairs, loungers, couches. Blue and I manage to snag one of those, and my body sags with relief. I’m used to wearing big boots and platforms on stage, but I’m too hot, and too tired, and I long to kick off my heels.
Blue asks me about our new album, Crash Meet Burn, and how I wrote ‘Concrete Graveyard’, and he says he thinks it was the best song on our second album.
At first, I answer them all while keeping my eyes out for any signs of my bandmates.
It’s been too long since I’ve seen any of them, and this party is supposed to be about us after all.
But I don’t want to be rude, so I keep answering Blue’s questions.
About our music, about Cohen, and Dallas and Dutch.
And we keep drinking. A bottle of whiskey appears from somewhere, and my glass is refilled.
And refilled again. Until my mind is totally muddled and I’ve lost all track of exactly how much hooch is in my system.
“Ex-hic—ex-hic,” I try to say as I excuse myself. Hiccups win the battle, and my legs lose the war.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Blue grabs me as I tumble back into him.
I know I should get up. I want to get up.
I don’t want to be here anymore. Not here with Blue Grace.
Not outside. Not here at this party. I want Cohen, or Dutch, or Dax.
I want Grams, and The Neck and a cozy backyard shed.
But my legs won’t work. And my eyes won’t stay open.
And I can’t fight off the sweeping heaviness that coats my every move.
That heaviness takes over, and though I long to fight it, my brain won’t connect to my limbs long enough to push away the arms that scoop me up.
I’m loosely aware I’m being carried, but I can’t seem to remember by whom. I ask them to put me down, but my speech comes out so slurred even I don’t understand it. There are more footsteps around me now.
“Shhhhh,” a too-familiar voice whispers. My body is jostled side to side until I’m tossed down on a soft surface. I long to snuggle into it, even though I’m not sure how I got here. Or where here is.
“Shhhhh, Ray,-Ray,” the voice says again, and my reflex is to kick out at it.
“None of that now. Maybe this’ll teach you to show me a little more gratitude.”
The statement sounds more like a threat than a comfort.
End Interlude