CHAPTER 35
TYLER
At the awards that evening, Cary walked the red carpet in a suit by a local designer.
He always backed Canadian talent—fashion, art, music, didn’t matter.
One photo of him on social media could launch someone’s career into the stratosphere.
People everywhere wanted to be like him, and honestly, Tyler couldn’t blame them.
Once inside the arena, Tyler ushered Cary’s parents to their seats in the music industry section of the venue, close enough to the stage but not on the floor where the fans were standing.
“Sebastien will sit here, then Cary,” Tyler told the Kingstons. “And you can sit on the other side of him.”
His mother smiled. “Why don’t you sit beside Cary, dear? We’ll just be one seat over.”
“That’s okay, Mrs. Kingston,” she said, not wanting to make a fuss.
“It’s Pamela.” She shook her head sternly. “And I won’t hear of it.”
Moments later, Cary and Sebastien climbed the steps. Her boss trailed behind the rock star, huffing, sweating, and struggling to keep up.
Tyler gave Cary a crooked smile and he winked, raising his eyebrows. He sat beside her while a gust of cologne swirled up her nose, playing the synthesizer part from Animotion’s “Obsession.”
The lights dimmed and she closed her eyes, steadying herself with a breath. Yestown was up first—and the show was televised. If they screwed it up, it’d live on forever.
“I’m nervous,” she whispered as the band walked across the stage.
“I can help with that,” Cary murmured, sliding his hand between their seats, fingers inching up her thigh.
She crossed her legs, tugging her A-line skirt over her knees and draping her coat across their laps like a blanket.
“Your parents are right there,” she hissed.
He shrugged, completely unfazed, and kept teasing her until the set ended and she was ready to burst.
Then, eyes still fixed on the stage, he slowly withdrew his hand. “Still nervous?”
She couldn’t speak. She just shook her head.
After Tyler gained composure she turned to Pamela. “Cary wrote that song.”
His mother gave her a toothy grin. “Isn’t he talented?”
You’ve got no idea, Mrs. Kingston.
Cary leaned over the armrest. “I’m bringing them on tour.”
“You don’t have an opening act,” she reminded him.
“I do now. You were right. They’re great.”
Halfway through the awards a young man with a clipboard came by to collect Cary. The time had come for his Lifetime Achievement award and induction into the Hall of Fame.
The tribute started with a video montage showing highlights from his career. The impossible task of compressing twenty years into ten minutes had been challenging, but she’d pulled it off.
Luckily everyone had jumped at the chance to congratulate Cary. Unlike Sebastien, people liked him.
As the video ended, Cary stepped up to the microphone and placed a hand over his chest. “Hello, Saskatoon! It feels good to be back in the Prairies . . . the Paris of the Prairies!”
The crowd erupted in cheers.
“I want to thank my fans. I couldn’t do this without you.” More cheers.
He smiled. “I also want to thank Sebastien, Bob Shaw, and everyone at SDM. Tommy, my agent—”
From the music industry section came a unified shout: “Fucking Tommy!”
Laughter rippled through the venue.
“My band and crew. Vegas and Kim—you two somehow make it look easy.” Tyler turned and nodded toward her best friend. “My label and publisher. My ASCAP family. Thank you for being here tonight. And my parents, John and Pamela, for my first guitar—oh wait, sorry, that was from Santa.”
The audience laughed again, and Pamela squeezed Tyler’s hand.
Cary’s gaze swept the room. “And last but not least . . . my girlfriend. You’re the love of my life, babe.”
The flute solo from Titanic echoed in Tyler’s head as tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Thank you for everything.”
The audience rose to their feet in a standing ovation, and Cary took a bow.
Sebastien turned to her, shaking his head. “You and Cary?” he asked, voice rough with disbelief.
She nodded without meeting his eyes.
“You could’ve saved me the cost of an extra hotel room.”
Fuck off, Sebastien.
After the awards, Tyler and Cary met up with Kim and Vegas, and the four of them piled into a limousine headed for the Warner Music party.
Sebastien, Tommy, and Lara—Bob had bowed out—planned to hit the Universal Music bash first and catch up with them later.
But it was a fool’s errand. The Warner party would be at capacity within the hour.
They arrived at the party and the rock star posed for pictures before heading inside. An open bar was waiting for them, and live music too. And no Sebastien, Tommy, or Lara to ruin the mood.
The Warner Music party had a “no phones” policy. If you had to make a call or send a text you had to go outside. Surprisingly it wasn’t too difficult to self-police, and it should have been the industry standard, not those phone pouches.
With a little help from her friends at Warner Music in Los Angeles, Tyler had arranged for Yestown to play a set at the party. There was no better way to get the music industry’s attention than to play at a private event with free alcohol.
There was only one problem: Rick “the Dick” Harding.
Back in the day, Rick played in a mildly successful rock band. Now he was a mildly successful entertainment lawyer—still clinging to the dream, just with less hair and more paperwork.
Like many men in the business, he’d once aimed for stardom but landed on plan B: a desk job and a dramatic drop in groupie interest.
Actually, make that zero.
Like he did every year, Rick parked himself on the drum throne and held court while the country’s biggest rock stars played cover tunes. For them, it was a chance to let their hair down. For Rick, it was a chance to pretend he still had some.
“What are they waiting for?” Cary asked Tyler, waving to the guys in Yestown.
“Rick the Dick’s on drums,” she complained. “I’m surprised he’s not playing ‘Glory Days.’”
“The guys can join in, can’t they?” Cary asked.
“No, I want the whole band up there and Rick off that goddamn stage.”
“I’m going up!” he shouted over the music.
She grabbed his arm. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but I love playing.” Cary kissed her cheek, then walked over to Yestown, and said something as they nodded.
The crowd quietened when Cary lifted the microphone from its stand. It was a well-known fact that he didn’t play covers unless it was “O Canada.”
“How ’bout a little ‘La Villa Strangiato?’” he asked the crowd.
Everyone cheered and Rick exited the stage. The song was the most complex in Rush’s catalog and Rick sucked on drums—worse than the original drummer from KISS.
“Boys?” Cary waved the band over, and to Tyler’s pride they played the song with the precision of Lee, Lifeson, and Peart.
“I love this fucking band, man,” Allie said, hugging Tyler. “This is one of my favorite Rush tunes.”
“Mine too!”
“What do you make of Cary bringing Yestown on tour?” Allie’s eyes darkened as she frowned. “Was he serious?”
Tyler shrugged. “He sounded serious.”
“I’ll get their contracts ready. I don’t give a shit that it’s Sunday or about this stupid rule.” She pulled out her phone and hid it under her jacket. “Fuck me.”
“What?” Tyler asked.
“Fucking Tommy.” She scrolled through her phone. “He’s with Sebastien. They’re here, waiting in line.”
Tyler grabbed her phone from her purse: five missed calls from Sebastien.
Fuck.
Kim ran toward them with her phone in full view. “Dude, they’re outside.” She showed them her screen. “What should we do?”
“Sebastien’s such a buzzkill, man.” Allie stuck out her tongue in disgust. “So help me god, I’ll kill fucking Tommy if I see him, just for fun.”
“Remember this party last year?” Tyler asked. “When everyone sang ‘Sweet Caroline’ and Sebastien didn’t sing the ba-ba-ba part? I mean, really?”
“Who doesn’t sing the ba-ba-ba part?” Kim asked.
“Exactly.” Tyler arched an eyebrow. “We’re at the Warner party, right?” Allie and Kim nodded. “No phones allowed.”
The night was one for the books. Cary and Yestown played for a full hour while the crowd shouted out song requests like it was a wedding reception.
Tyler had asked for the “Hockey Song” by Stompin’ Tom Connors, not thinking Cary would know it—but he nailed every word.
Even a few Universal Music artists rolled in toward the end.
When the singer from Arkells jumped onstage for a duet, the women in the crowd nearly combusted from hotness overload—including Tyler.
When they got back to the hotel, Tyler flopped onto Cary’s bed. “I’m exhausted,” she mumbled, unzipping her boots.
Cary grinned. “I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun.”
“Really?” She rolled onto her side, giving him a look.
He smirked. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” She smiled, wry and knowing. “Aren’t you glad you did it?”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It was all you.” She sat up and twisted her hair into a knot with the elastic from her wrist. “I can’t thank you enough for getting Yestown on that show . . . and playing with them.”
He stepped closer, eyes twinkling. “I can think of a few ways you could thank me.”
Her elbows straightened, pushing forward on the bed. “Another three weeks until I see you again.”
“I know, but you can come visit.”
“I can’t, Cary. I’m busy at work.”
“Maybe it’s time for a move?”
“Where were you thinking?” She furrowed her brow. “LA? I can’t live there, and I certainly can’t work there. They make it impossible for Canadians unless you’re an athlete or an actor.”
“Toronto,” he said. “The Canadian music industry is based there. You’d be closer to your family, and I’d be—”
“No way.” She shook her head. “If I’m moving anywhere, I’m going back to Winnipeg.”
“Toronto is central to everything,” he said, as if she didn’t know that.
“Just so you know, Winnipeg is the actual center of Canada.” She thinned her lips, then plumped them. “You’re gone all the time anyway, so it shouldn’t matter where you live.”
“Okay, babe. Wherever you want. How about that thank you?”