Chapter 16
Hannah
On the road at night, you can see Vegas coming from a mile away. All the spotlights directed up at the sky from casinos make it look like a supernova, a celestial being trapped here on earth, sending columns of light up to the heavens.
Ginny peeks at my notebook. “A celestial being? That’s a little heavy-handed.”
I swat her away and get back to writing.
Ever since we left San Francisco, chugging toward our next show in Vegas, I haven’t been able to stop.
Words and melodies are flowing through my head, sometimes too fast to pin down.
I’ve practically ignored the rest of the band for hours, holing up in the bus’s tiny living room.
“We’re almost there,” Bowie announces, though his eyes don’t leave his phone.
Ever since Theo upgraded us from vans to a giant tour bus—meaning Bowie no longer has to chauffeur us around North America—he’s been acting like he got a promotion to sultan.
He’s currently stretched out in an armchair, his feet up on a pillow, playing games on his phone.
When we crossed the Nevada state line, he even asked one of the guitar techs to bring him some fresh fruit.
I’m surprised he didn’t insist someone start fanning him.
“I call first dibs on hotel rooms,” Ripper says from the couch. Naturally, he’s shirtless and strumming the stupid black Jazzmaster he bought before we left San Francisco. I’ve privately named it the Spitemaster.
“I’ve heard the MGM has a meditation room.” Kenny’s sitting at the small dining table, reading a book of Charles Olson poetry. I learned the hard way not to ask him about it, or risk an hour-long lecture on projective verse. “That’s where I’ll be holed up, trying to deflect Vegas’s energy.”
Theo emerges from the only private bedroom on the bus.
We’ve got a kitchen, two bathrooms, and stacks of bunk beds like on cruise ships, on top of the one separate bedroom with a full-size bed.
We’re supposed to take turns using it, but knowing what we do about Ripper’s self-care habits, none of the crew will touch the bed. I guess no one warned Theo.
He yawns and stretches, lifting the hem of his T-shirt. I remember the taste of his skin from the rooftop and cut my eyes away. It was the Molly, obviously, getting into both our heads.
“You guys let me sleep forever,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face.
Ripper and Kenny start laughing so hard a few crew members duck their heads in from the other room and immediately crack up. I force my gaze up to Theo’s face. Oh no.
“He got dicked.” Ginny cackles.
Someone—Ripper, probably—has taken advantage of the fact that Theo was out like a light to draw crude, elementary-style penises on both of his cheeks. The tips face outward, pointing toward his ears. It’s impossible to look at him without laughing.
Theo rubs a hand through his bed head self-consciously as a group gathers around him. “What am I missing?” he asks me.
I graze my cheek with my fingers. “You’ve got a little, uh . . . ”
“Dick on your face,” Bowie says bluntly. He gives Ripper, Kenny, and the crew members who are laughing a white-hot glare. “Real cool, guys. Real mature.”
Ripper kicks his feet up on the couch. “Hannah, back me up: What’s the number one rule of touring?
” I shrug apologetically at Theo. “First one to fall asleep gets a dick on their face. It’s a college-era rule.
” “Let me get you a washcloth,” Bowie says, hurrying for the small sink, muttering about what Roger Braverman would think.
Theo shakes his head, dark hair tumbling over his forehead.
“Bowie, it’s okay. This isn’t my first inking. ”
I think back to what he told me about being bullied when he was a kid. Maybe that’s why he’s so good at taking our punches. “Just so you know,” I find myself saying. “The dicks have come for us all at one point. So don’t go feeling special.”
He flashes a small smile before accepting Bowie’s washcloth and rubbing alcohol. Before I know it, he’s sitting down next to me and leaning over my notebook, the washcloth pressed to his cheek. “You writing new songs?”
I stiffen and pull it away. “Trying to.”
“Excellent.” Theo scrubs at his face. His tone turns conspicuously casual. “Bowie told me you guys are holding secret practices.”
Kenny groans and shakes his head. “Bowman Jericho, aka Benedict Arnold.”
Bowie’s voice is high-pitched. “He was going to find out eventually!”
“I wish you’d let me sit in.” Theo pulls the washcloth away, revealing a mess of marker on his cheek.
It’s impossible not to stare. We’ve entered the Vegas Strip, and there’s enough light through the windows to illuminate his features, casting painterly shadows under his eyelashes and lips.
The bad scribbled ink is a stark contrast to the art of his face.
Physically, it’s the closest we’ve been since Dr. G’s party—when, for a moment on the rooftop, Theo was the only thing I could think about, and it was like I’d cracked a window to let some sunshine into a forgotten room.
As cool as I’d played it, the experience had left me unsettled. Unsettled, and writing.
“We’re here,” Kenny sings as we round the corner into the MGM.
The whole bus explodes into action, Ripper and Bowie launching from their seats to stare out the window.
We’ve played Vegas before, but at small, shitty venues.
This time, Manifest got us suites and we’re playing the Park MGM’s massive Dolby Live theater.
It’s not sold out—it seats four thousand people—but yet again, it’s more major league than we’ve been before.
Rumor is, the Theater’s talent booker bumped another band for us.
Bowie turns from the window. “You know . . . it’s starting to feel like this viral moment we’re having is more than a moment.”
A pop of light goes off outside the bus. “Hannah Cortland!” yells a nasally voice. “Ripper, my man! Welcome to Las Vegas!”
As one, we squint. A wiry man with graying hair stands in the bus loading zone, holding up a camera. He’s snapping pictures at a superhuman rate.
“Holy shit.” Ripper’s tone awed. “Is this our first paparazzi?”
“I think the singular is paparazzo,” Bowie says.
We gaze for a moment in silent wonder.
“I’m going to introduce myself first,” Kenny says, rushing off the bus, and we all scramble after him.
The paparazzo’s name is Kevin, and he’s a father of four who lives in one of the suburbs outside Vegas and once dreamed of exhibiting his photos in galleries, but now feeds his family selling pictures to online gossip accounts.
Kenny gets all this out of him in the first two minutes after shaking his hand.
“Suit!” Kenny shouts, tossing Theo his phone. “Take one of me and Kevin.”
By the time we hustle into the hotel lobby, Kevin has more content than he knows what to do with. The lobby’s massive, bigger than 95 percent of the venues we’ve played, all marble and full of fresh-cut flowers.
“There they are!” calls an unmistakable voice, the British-accented baritone that launched a million record sales. Booker Morris, lead singer of Dead to Rights, cuts a path through the lobby, a longneck beer in one hand, lit cigarette in the other. Even the hotel staff turn to stare.
Booker slaps Kenny’s hand and hugs Ripper with one arm, narrowly avoiding lighting him with the cigarette, then turns to me.
Years ago, before they blew up, we toured with Dead to Rights, so our friendship goes way back.
“When I said to meet us at the MGM, I didn’t mean camp out in the lobby, stalker. ”
Booker tosses his cigarette on the floor and grabs my face with both hands, kissing me on the forehead while his beer sloshes against my cheek. “Hannah fucking Cortland.” He pulls back. “You’re on fire, girl. Every time I open my phone, there you are.”
“That’s me. Famous for face-planting.”
Booker slings an arm around me. “And you stole our gig at the Dolby.”
Alarm and surprise flood me. “We did? Book, I had no idea—”
He waves me away. “Don’t worry. We’re playing Brooklyn Bowl now, and it’s going to be even better, all intimate and shit.
Look at you.” He squeezes my shoulders. “The wildest woman in rock, finally having her day. Let’s go climb some shit and get ourselves arrested.
Remember that time in Jersey? Come on, the rest of the band’s at Caesars. ”
“You guys are playing Saturday?” Kenny asks. Booker’s already walking and pulling me with him, so Kenny and Ripper fall into step.
“If I’m still alive after tonight.” Booker stops, looks at me, and blanches. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . And sorry for not calling after Ginny . . . uh. I was really sorry to hear.”
“That’s okay.” I make a face I hope approximates smiling. “Let’s just go to Caesars and get drunk.”
“Hey, man.” Theo intercepts us, sticking out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” Even though his words are directed at Booker, he’s scanning my face. Searching for a hint of my feelings after Booker’s mention of my sister, no doubt.
I gesture between them. “Theo, this is Booker from Dead to—”
“Rights,” Theo finishes. “I know who he is.”
“Booker, this is our manager, Theo Ford. From Manifest.”
“We call him Suit,” Kenny says.
“Got it. The boss man.” Booker slaps Theo’s hand instead of shak-ing it—then his eyes widen. “Hey, wait a sec. I’ve heard of you. You kicked some buddies of mine off their contract when they hit a slump. You have a nickname and everything. The Closer? The Killer?”
Theo presses his lips together.
Booker snaps. “The Grim Reaper! Hey, hands off the Saints, okay? These guys are too talented for you to axe.”
Then Booker chuckles and continues ambling across the lobby, but the four of us—me, Kenny, Ripper, and Theo—remain stock-still, rooted to the marble floor.
Kenny’s voice is uncharacteristically sharp. “They call you the Grim Reaper?”
“Guys.” Theo holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s just a nickname.”
“Manifest sent you to axe us?” Ripper crosses his arms. “But you made such a big deal about being here to help. Help who?”
I snort, because the answer’s obvious, even if we were all beginning to lose sight of it. Theo’s on Manifest’s team, not ours.
“It’s n-not what i-it—” Theo stutters, his cheeks flushing. “Look, it might’ve started out as one thing, but—”
“No big deal,” I say, cutting him off. I’ve drained any hint of hurt from my voice because Theo doesn’t deserve to know that this news cuts.
I’ll deal with the sting later, over a bottle of tequila.
“Turns out we were right about him from the start. Go us. Now get out of our way, Suit. We’ve got actual friends to hang out with tonight. ”
“I’ll give you this,” says Ripper, brushing past him. “You really know how to put on a good show.”
“You let us dick you on the tour bus,” Kenny says, shaking his head. Nearby a family beelines in the opposite direction, the mother shooting Kenny an aghast look. “Unforgivable.”
The last thing I see before we punch out of the doors of the MGM is Theo watching us from the lobby, looking crestfallen. Ripper is right. He is good.