Chapter 17
Theo
No matter how much begging I do, Kenny refuses to speak to me until I commit the mortal sin of opening my laptop in the MGM’s meditation room.
“Did you seriously bring your computer into a sacred space?” Kenny’s sitting cross-legged on the bamboo mat across from me, hands on his knees, one eye cracked open in a withering glare. “I’m trying to access my inner peace, Reaper. You’re jamming the vibes.”
I sigh. Last night, after Booker Morris outed me, I’d tried to explain how my job had evolved, but the band didn’t want to hear it.
After abandoning me in the lobby of the MGM, leaving me behind to grapple with their luggage, they ignored me at practice this morning with a rigor that was almost impressive.
Running into Kenny here in the meditation room felt like a small miracle until he resolutely kept his back to me.
It’s clear that I’m once again persona non grata with the band. All that progress for nothing.
I grit my teeth and scroll through my endless email inbox. MGM’s meditation room overlooks the casino’s packed pools and swim-up bars, and even though the window’s soundproof—thank god—it’s not sunlight-proof. I’m battling a glare that no amount of readjusting the screen will fix.
“Rude,” Kenny snips.
Finally, my frustration spills over. “Ken, do you know how much planning it takes to get you guys from one place to another? Or how many disasters pop up along the way? The festival hotel in Tennessee ran out of rooms, so now I need to find you another place to stay in a sold-out market. And our first studio session is coming up, so I have to find you top-notch producers with last-minute availability.”
“But why—”
“And don’t even get me started on the rights for the samples Ripper wants.
A legal nightmare.” I sigh. “The MGM’s business center is closed and the people in the room next to mine have been playing EDM through the walls since we got here.
This place is the only quiet space in all Las Vegas.
And no matter what you think of a stupid nickname, I still have to do all this shit for you guys, so excuse me if I jam your precious vibes for two minutes. ”
Kenny lifts his hands in surrender. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of micro-shorts that look like they’re made out of hemp. They’re giving me a visual I would’ve happily gone my entire life without. “Okay, jeez, Suit. I believe you. No one who came to axe us would bother working so hard.”
I blink at his sudden about-face.
“Your soul is screaming for meditation, man.” Kenny crawls across the mat and pats my leg. “Come on. Put down that laptop and take a seat in Mother Gaia’s chair.”
“I don’t think so, Ken.”
“You know, I think I’m starting to understand you. Your misguided devotion to corporate drudgery comes from a loving place. I forgive you for being the Grim Reaper.”
“The real nickname’s the Fixer, actually. That’s what they call me at the label.”
“Whatever. That was in your past, before us. So come on. Let Brother Kenny help.”
I must be spectacularly hard up for friendship, because I find myself sighing and setting down my laptop.
“Are you sure you’re not too hungover?” At practice, every member of the Saints had looked green to the gills from their late night with Dead to Rights.
Ripper couldn’t stop sweating, and Hannah almost barfed when I mentioned getting breakfast.
“Nah.” Kenny shakes his head. “The earth is healing me.”
My phone starts ringing, harsh and loud.
“No,” Kenny moans. “No phone calls in Mother’s room.”
It’s Roger. I lunge for it. “Hey, Roger. Nice to—”
“Are you watching TMZ’s Instagram?” He barks it so harshly even Kenny jumps.
“Why would I be watching—”
“Pull it up, then call me back.” He hangs up.
Jesus. I fumble with my phone until I find TMZ’s account.
“I’m sensing negative energy,” Kenny ventures.
I click on TMZ’s stories. They’re live streaming from a pool. Kenny watches over my shoulder. “Oh hey, that’s the Caesars’s pool.”
The ambient noise is loud in the video—the raucous sounds of a pool party—so at first, it’s hard to decipher what’s going on. There’s a crowd gathered at the bar. Something’s going down.
“Hannah!” Kenny says, pointing.
My stomach drops. “And Booker.”
They’re both in bathing suits. My mind quickly disassociates from the sight of Booker’s tattoo sleeves—cool, dangerous, enviable—and Hannah’s bikini-clad body—lovely, sharp lines, maybe a little too skinny.
Booker’s lighting a yardstick of shots from behind the bar— how he wrangled his way back there I can’t imagine—and Hannah and another Dead to Rights band member are taking them while people cheer.
The caption on the Live says “Rock Star Bedlam in Vegas,” and TMZ’s right on the money.
The pool bar is in chaos, glasses tipped over, half-full bottles leaking, the top blown off an industrial mixer.
Either Caesars is letting this happen, or Hannah and Booker are about to be in a lot of trouble.
There’s a roar of laughter as the Dead to Rights band member next to Hannah accidentally lights his long hair on fire. The crowd backs up, shouting, as he beelines to the pool and cannonballs in.
Kenny shakes his head. “Amateur. Everyone knows you gotta down those shots superfast.”
Not to be outdone, Hannah breaks away from the bar and heads to one of the tall Roman columns lining the pool. She finds her grip and starts shimmying up.
“She likes climbing things when she’s drunk,” Kenny explains. “You should’ve seen her and Ginny back in college. We had to pull them out of so many trees.”
The video is cut off by Roger calling again; apparently he couldn’t wait for me to call him back. “I’ll fix it,” I say, in lieu of a greeting.
“She’s out of control. No venue in Vegas is going to want to work with us if they think our talent’s going to burn the place down. Do you know how much money we could lose?”
“I know, Roger. I’ll take care of it,” I say, and hang up.
“Caesars is down the Strip.” Kenny leaps to his feet.
“You’re better off walking.” “Stay here,” I order, and, for once, Kenny listens.
I practically run through the MGM casino to the Strip, which is packed with tourists I have to navigate like a video game.
What if I get there too late, and Hannah falls and gets hurt and everyone’s too drunk to notice?
Even if she’s okay, what kind of bill are we going to get for what they did to the bar?
Is it even legal? Six years managing bands, and this is the closest I’ve come to exposing Manifest to liability.
I have to pay fifty dollars for a day pass into Caesars’s pool, which is designed to look like an elaborate Roman temple.
The place is crowded, but it’s easy to spot Hannah at the top of her column.
From my vantage point, I can see a pair of hotel security guards hustling toward her.
The hotel has finally caught on to the mayhem. Shit.
I dodge loungers and elbow through the crowd around the bar, ignoring grumbles.
“Hannah.” I’m out of breath by the time I reach the base of the column.
“What the hell are you doing? Get down.” She twists around, spots me, and her smile drops.
Her blue eyes and freckles are more pronounced from the sun.
“What do you mean?” She sounds just as indignant. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Security!” someone yells.
“Come on.” I lift my hands toward her. “I’ll catch you.”
She yanks her dangling foot away from me. “Lighten up, Reaper. We’re having fun.”
I hug the column. “Who’s having fun? Roger Braverman’s not having fun. Caesars Palace’s security guards aren’t having fun. And you won’t if you slip and crack your skull on this concrete. Are you aware that you and Booker are currently being live streamed on Instagram to thousands of people?”
Her expression blanks, which tells me she wasn’t.
“Come on,” I repeat, and extend my arms as high as they’ll go. I must look ridiculous—a man in jeans in the middle of a pool party, on his tiptoes to snatch a woman off a fake Roman column. “Before you hurt yourself.”
Hannah meets my eyes, and I do not like the look in hers.
Instead of sliding into my waiting embrace, she lifts her hands off the column and simply falls backward.
I leap forward, heart in my throat, but she misses the concrete and lands with a splash in the pool.
The crowd at the bar, who I didn’t realize was watching us, starts cheering.
By the time Hannah’s head pops out of the water and she swims to the edge of the pool, waving at her admirers, I’ve recovered from my near heart attack. The instant she hauls herself out, I seize her dripping elbow and drag her behind a row of palm trees.
She yanks her arm out of my grasp. “Don’t manhandle me.”
“Fine.” I point to the security guards. They’re pushing through the crowd at the tiki bar, gunning for Booker. “In exchange for keeping you out of jail, how about you stop trashing bars and climbing shit in public?”
“It’s the public part that bothers you, isn’t it? You’re worried I’ll embarrass Manifest.”
“It’s the you putting yourself in danger part, actually.” An unexpected well of anger sharpens my words.
She runs her hands through her wet hair, combing it back from her face, where droplets of water shimmer. “For the last time, Reaper. You’re not my handler.”
She starts to walk away. People passing by us stare, and a woman surreptitiously lifts her phone to record, but suddenly I don’t care. “Except I am,” I yell to her back. “It’s kind of my job.”
Hannah stops and turns. “I’m pretty sure your job is to cut us from the label as soon as we give you your precious album. So why don’t you go back to New York and we’ll mail you a copy when we’re done. We don’t want you here.”
That’s what does me in. I’ve spent three weeks touring with the Saints, putting my all into them, practically ignoring Bryan, putting my life in New York on hold—and I honestly thought we were getting somewhere. I thought they were beginning to want me.
“Look at you.” My voice is quiet, but suffused with enough anger to raise her eyebrows.
“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and you’re drunk with a bunch of people who only care about you because you’re willing to be a spectacle for them.
You say you’re a future saint, on your best behavior tomorrow?
Well, snap the fuck out of it. Be better today. ”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her voice is high and tight, her indignation so intense she practically vibrates with it.
“You storm in here and humiliate me by acting like some overprotective asshole, grabbing me out of the pool, and then lecture me about good behavior? Do you see Booker’s manager here, treating him like a child? Is it because I’m a woman?”
“It’s because Booker’s manager doesn’t give a shit. Unfortunately, I care about what happens to you.”
“If you did, you’d let me run my own life. If I want to empty out my brain for a little while—if I want to, god forbid—” Her voice catches. “Numb these fucking feelings, then that’s my choice.”
“I see you, you know.” This isn’t how I wanted to say it, and that damn woman is still filming us on her phone, but Hannah’s flipped a switch inside me.
“The wild child? Willing to do anything so you don’t have to look in the mirror and accept what your life looks like now?
That’s some sick stuff, Hannah. Not to mention a bit of a cliché. You should probably get some help.”
In my twenty-eight years, I’ve never seen a wound as deep as the one I see on Hannah’s face when her mask slips.
I’m left staring at her, raw and unfiltered and vulnerable, and for a moment, I feel like I’ve done something terrible—robbed a gas station or punched a stranger.
Something unforgivable. An apology leaps to the tip of my tongue.
But then the mask fits back into place. Fury takes the place of pain, dark and crackling—anger so potent it’s a natural disaster, a funnel cloud on the verge of touching down.
I take a step back.
“It’s a good thing I’ve never cared what you think.” She remains still, but the anger swirls around her. “Otherwise, you might’ve hurt my feelings.” She lunges past me and takes off down the path without another word.
It’s only when her back disappears and the spectators put down their phones that I remember how to breathe.