Chapter 2
Hannah
It’s merciful the way the whole world narrows after a show.
The chaos of our crew running around backstage, guitar techs hauling equipment, sound producers yelling about the lack of acoustics in this dive bar—it all fades as I shrink back into myself, becoming a private person again, concentrate on simply putting one foot in front of the other.
The crew pauses as I pass, bumping my shoulder and telling me what a good job I did.
But I keep my gaze on the floor, afraid their eyes will reveal a different truth.
When I was a kid, I would rush backstage to find my dad after every concert, my heart in my throat, so eager for his feedback.
But it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted anyone else’s opinion.
I cut a path to the greenroom, where I know there’s beer in the fridge, courtesy of Aki, the Hideout’s owner, who still treats us like we’re stars no matter how obvious it is that we fell short of our potential.
I pop the tab on one and pour it into a glass engraved with the Hideout’s logo, an upside-down microphone hanging by a wire.
You can find a dozen of these in my attic, buried in old boxes.
My high school friends and I used to steal them every time we snuck into shows.
Hideout rats, Aki used to call us, with equal parts frustration and affection.
It’s fitting that I’m back in my childhood hometown for the band’s last show.
Ripper, Kenny, Bowie, the whole crew—they think it’s just the last show of this year’s shitty tour, but I no longer see the point of pretending my career is going anywhere.
Chasing your dreams doesn’t change the fact that in the end, we all just exist on this planet for a handful of years until our time is up, and then poof!
We’re gone, dust in the wind, all our trying and hoping amounting to nothing.
At least there’s some poetry to throwing in the towel here where I began.
Bonita Vista, witness to all my youthful failures, will preside over one more.
Ginny pops out of nowhere and I almost spit out my beer.
“Jesus,” she says. “That new song at the end—where’ve you been hiding that?”
I swallow. “Did you like it?” Ginny’s the only exception to my feedback rule. But even with her, I prefer getting it over with quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
“You kidding?” Her blond eyebrows nearly meet her hairline.
She’s a couple inches shorter than me, with light hair, perpetually tan skin, a smattering of freckles, and ocean-blue eyes.
The beach personified— one look at her and you’re dreaming of sunshine.
“Once I got over wanting to slit my wrists, yeah, the song was good. What I don’t get is why you kept it a secret from me. ”
I shrug. “You know I never know what I’m going to do until I’m up there doing it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you’re a real treat to work with.”
“Well.” I take another sip of beer. Sometimes performing has the unfortunate side effect of sobering me up. “Soon I won’t be anyone’s problem.”
“I’ve told you a million times.” Ginny’s tone is uncharacteristically serious. “You shouldn’t do this.”
“My hands are on fire,” Kenny shouts, barreling into the room.
Ripper follows him at a slower clip, and, as usual, they’re both larger than life: Kenny a whirlwind of warm, manic energy, an old hippie trapped in a twenty-eight-year-old’s body; Ripper cool as ice, eyeing his surroundings with the knife-edge awareness of someone looking to boost something.
“I need to soak these puppies in ice. Think Aki would bring me a bucket?”
“I told you if you stopped jerking off so much, you’d have the wrist strength left to play,” Ripper says.
Kenny ignores him. “‘Six Feet Under’ worked, Banana. I think it could be our next single.”
I gave up trying to get Kenny to stop calling me Hannah Banana years ago. He’s the only person in the world I’d let get away with it. Ginny claims it’s proof I’m secretly soft as a marshmallow.
“If you make that your next single,” Ginny counters, “your fans won’t know what to think. It’s like night and day. I don’t know if it’s commercial.”
Ripper flops on the couch in the middle of the greenroom, kicking his sneakers up on the dented coffee table. “What was that falling thing you did at the end?”
I take another sip of beer. By now, the sweat from performing has cooled into a film over my skin. My knees still sting. “Nothing.”
“I thought you were going to stop singing for a second.”
“Well, I didn’t.” I hold up my beer. “Want one?”
Ripper stretches on the couch. “A warning next time would be nice. That’s all I’m saying.”
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to tell him there won’t be a next time.
But then our tour manager, Bowie, busts into the room, buzzing with his usual postshow energy.
“Okay, guys, Branson’s an idiot and cut himself loading the amps again, so I have to take him to the ER, but don’t worry, it’s just a couple of stitches.
Carrie’s going to oversee the rest of the loading while I’m gone, and before you say anything, I told her how you like things done—”
“Bowie, bro.” Kenny grips both of Bowie’s shoulders. “What’s the verdict? Final show of the tour—what’d you think?”
The three of us watch him, waiting, and Bowie turns red.
He’s the best tour manager around, and there’s genuinely no bigger fan of our music, but the dude melts under a spotlight.
I used to have this recurring fantasy of bringing him onstage to thank him in front of the fans, but I’m pretty sure he’d go into cardiac arrest if I so much as uttered his name into a mic.
“The song at the end was powerful,” Bowie says carefully.
Ripper groans. “I knew it. We sucked. Toss me a beer.”
I oblige, tossing a can at his head. He catches it, glaring, then turns to Bowie. “I’m telling you. Let me play lead guitar, and it’ll be a game changer. I’ll take us to the next level.”
I roll my eyes. Ripper’s been campaigning to play lead guitar for months, and there’s no opportunity he won’t seize to make his case.
“He’s such an attention whore,” Ginny whispers. “What did I see in him?”
I shoot her a warning look but she keeps going, a mischievous grin curling her lips. “Oh yeah, his giant dick. Did I ever tell you—”
“No,” I say quickly, and Bowie turns to me, his face growing redder.
“I didn’t mean you sucked,” Bowie backpedals. “I swear—”
“Hey!” A man pops his head into the open doorway. “What a maze back here.”
“No autographs,” Ripper barks, then gestures for me to hand him a glass for his beer.
Bowie starts toward the guy, herding him out. “Sorry, man. If you want to wait out by the van, the band can sign your stuff later.”
The guy gives us a dazzling smile. It changes his face, lighting up his eyes and causing little crinkles to form in the corners.
“That’s a great idea,” he says, striding into the room.
“But actually—” He holds out his hand. “I’m Theo Ford.
Roger Braverman sent me from Manifest. I’m your new manager.
I think you got some calls and emails about it? For, um, the last few months?”
Instantly, a mix of shock, embarrassment, and fury fills me.
The label. We’d tried to appease those corporate bloodsuckers with new music, and when they didn’t like it, we’d fought with them, then iced them out.
Now they had the nerve to show up on our tour?
We told them we didn’t want a new manager, that we’d handle our shit on our own.
Even the thought of someone new makes me want to light something on fire.
No one moves. You could hear a pin drop.
Theo retracts his hand and runs it through his hair, as if that was his intention all along.
He has perfectly disheveled hair. In fact, if a couture designer drew a rock musician, it would be this guy, with his dark brown hair sweeping across high cheekbones, long-lashed hazel eyes, thick eyebrows, and lips too full to be anything but objectively beautiful.
He wears carefully cool clothes, like the kind you see on the cover of Rolling Stone.
All in all, he gives the impression of an actor playing a role.
Which makes sense, since—no matter how pretty or cool he looks—he’s a corporate goon.
An industry exec sent to take more control away from me.
“Shit,” Ginny whispers. “Are label reps legally allowed to be this hot?”
Right now, I’m too focused on the way his T-shirt lays over his collarbone just so. “He’s a fake, is what he is.”
Theo frowns. “Excuse me?”
It’s enough to jolt everyone out of their shock. Bowie lunges forward, pumping Theo’s hand. “Bowman Jericho, tour manager. Sorry for the mix-up. We weren’t expecting you. The, uh, emails must not have gone through.” Bowie knows for a fact that I stopped opening those a long time ago.
At the warmer reception, Theo’s smile returns. “No worries. I’m glad I ended up coming in person. Gave me a chance to witness the Future Saints in action.”
He was in the crowd the whole time. He saw me stumble, heard me get heckled.
He watched me fall on my knees. I squeeze the glass in my hand.
“So, what? You thought you’d spy on us, maybe catch us breaking some rules you could report to Roger?
” I’m aware, from the early emails I did read, that several venue managers on our tour have complained about our “unruly behavior.” They can go to hell.
“I wasn’t spying. I was enjoying your show.” Theo shoves both his hands in his pockets. “I’m a fan.”
Kenny, always too tenderhearted, drops his scowl. “Oh, yeah? What’d you think of the set?” I clear my throat and he shoots me a guilty look.
This seems to be the opening Theo was waiting for.
He pulls his hands out of his pockets and cracks his knuckles.
“Look, I promise I’ll never bullshit you guys.
Later, we’re going to talk about why the three of you are going through the motions up there.
But right now, I don’t care. That’s a minor problem.
Whatever that song was you played at the end—” His gaze sweeps to me, and we lock eyes.
For a moment, a charge sparks: the kind you can’t predict, a knee-jerk response to a person who gets under your skin.
Then I see the sympathy in his eyes. Like he’s trying to tell me he saw me up there and he gets what I’m going through. I want to throw the glass in my hand against the wall, but I take the high road and slam it on the counter.
Theo startles. “All I’m saying is that song was the best I’ve heard in a long time. It gave me chills. Now, I know Roger wasn’t too keen on the sample you sent of your new stuff, but did you include that last one—”
“What’s your opinion on making things fresh by letting me play lead guitar?” Ripper asks.
I want to murder him, but I force myself to bend and pick up my backpack. It would be best for everyone, especially me, if I left before I exploded.
“Look, I don’t know,” Theo says. “We can discuss it. I’m just excited you’re open to talking about the next album. Now that your tour is over, I’m thinking we can devote all our time to it, treat writing and recording like a nine to five. You have a good start with that last song—what’s it called?”
“‘Six Feet Under,’” says Kenny, the traitor.
“‘Six Feet Under.’” Theo runs the words over his tongue. “I like it. I think we can turn out a record in no time. Look, I’ve helped a lot of bands who’ve been in your position. You could even say I’ve developed a bit of a reputation—”
Backpack hoisted, I spin around. “No, thanks,” I say, cutting him off. Everyone, from Ginny to Theo to Bowie, stares. I was going to walk out without a word, but something about Theo’s cockiness, his talk about the other bands, makes something snap in me, sudden and
sharp. “Return to sender.”
Theo frowns. “If you’d give me a shot, I promise—”
“We have no interest in giving you a shot, do we?” I look at Kenny and Ripper.
I’ve dealt with plenty of guys like Theo.
The story’s always the same: corporate goons don’t actually care about us.
We’re a product funneling money into their coffers.
And if you’re not funneling money, you might as well be gum on the bottom of their shoes.
I don’t trust Theo’s offer to help us put together an album.
There has to be something else behind it.
At my prodding, Kenny shakes his head. “Nah, man. Sorry. Appreciate you coming out, but your services aren’t needed.”
Ripper kicks off the couch and stands, towering over the rest of us. “Feel free to grab some merch on your way out, though.”
They’re both making their way to leave, and I feel a storm of ridiculous, heart-pounding relief that even now, with the three of us at our lowest, Kenny and Ripper are still my family.
I give Theo my dead-eye stare. Bowie shifts uncomfortably, standing close enough to Theo to get caught in the crosshairs. “You think we don’t see through you?” I wave a hand at him. “Just because you’re dressed like us doesn’t mean we can’t tell you’re a suit.”
“Yeah. We’re not looking for a hostile takeover.” Ripper bumps his backpack up his shoulders.
“Go back to the suit factory,” I say, and watch as Theo’s face shutters. “Tell Roger thanks but no thanks. We’ll do this on our own.”
“Good for you,” Ginny says, in a rare moment of earnestness. She’s looking at me like she can read everything inside my head. “Don’t let anyone step on you.”
“Hey,” Theo says, his voice turning unexpectedly gentle. “I should’ve said this from the beginning—I just got too excited to talk about your music. But I’m really sorry about your last manager.”
My heart drops into my stomach. Beside me, Ginny blanches.
“I know you’re still in mourning,” Theo says, “and the last thing I want you to think is that I’m trying to fill your old manager’s shoes.
I just want to help you. Because I’m going to be honest—Manifest is ready to let you go. It’s either play ball with us or Roger’s going to cancel your contract and sue you for the money.”
There it is—the snake lurking in the grass. The truth behind Theo’s offer. For the second time since he’s walked through the door, discomfort hangs over the room. One by one, all eyes turn to me.
“Tell Roger he can go fuck himself,” I say. I turn to Kenny, Ripper, and Bowie. “I’m done with the Saints.”
Kenny takes a sharp breath, but Ripper is stone-faced.
“What do you mean, you’re done?” Theo asks.
“Exactly what it sounds like.” I turn my back and walk out the door. “I quit.”