Chapter 1 #2
But it’s the in-between moments on tour that are difficult.
When we’re on a tour bus together for hours on end.
When we’re groggy and tired, and we just need a little bit of space, but there isn’t any.
When we’re in a new city, and Cleo goes out partying despite not knowing a single thing about the nightlife, and Tom eventually has to go out looking for her in the early morning hours.
I was so stressed on our last tour, so worried that any destructive moment could be our last.
The rest of the meeting is about logistics for the upcoming tour.
Which cities we’ll be going to, how long we have between each concert (which is apparently the bare minimum time allowed), and any events or interviews we’ll have to appear at along the way.
We go over the set list, what songs the label wants performed plus a few of our personal favorites, and then we set up a meeting for choreography later this week.
We don’t dance or anything, but we sometimes forget to move around on stage if we don’t have a set routine for it.
I’d probably stay in my cozy corner to the right for the majority of our concerts if they let me.
“You four have a photoshoot at Dolly Studios next week,” Donna says as a closing statement. “Take the next few days to get some much-needed rest, because it’s going to be busy for the next year or so.”
I groan, thumping my head on the table. Lucky us.
When we’re dismissed, there’s a solemn feeling that lingers in the air.
Nicola throws the stick from her lollipop in the trash can by the door and then pulls another one out of her pocket, in need of something to appease her oral fixation.
When she notices she accidentally pulled out two, she hands me the extra.
It’s the cream soda flavor that she knows I like, so I grin and take it.
“Thanks, Nic,” I say. She gives me a smile that’s all teeth before skipping forward, her mismatched pink-and-green hair flying behind her. She’s probably ready to get back to her boyfriend and whatever shenanigans they had planned before the emergency meeting came into play.
Lark walks by me, her headphones already on her head so she can tune out the world. “I’ll see you at the shoot,” she says to Cleo and me in a flat tone. To anyone else, it would seem robotic, but I can hear the softness in it. It says more than words ever could.
I’m here for you.
I think this sucks, too.
Call me if you need me.
All of those words float through my head as I watch her dark-red ponytail sway behind her as she exits, walking ahead of us with haste.
The sight reminds me of when I met her back in ninth grade.
The new private school my parents forced me to attend didn’t have much diversity.
There were a lot of privileged daughters of socialites, their hair dyed blonde and their uniforms accessorized with Chanel.
When I saw Lark for the first time, minding her business as she walked down the pristine white hallway where my first class was being held, her natural red hair was cut below her fully pierced ears, and her wrists were wrapped by spikey leather cuffs.
Instead of flats or Mary Janes, she wore worn-down black combat boots, with safety pins tearing the leather.
She was cool, hip, the very definition of rebellion, and she inspired me from that very first glance.
Now her hair is long, and it’s dyed darker than her natural shade. Her lips are always painted a deep wine; her eyes are always narrowed.
And her smile is always vacant.
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts before turning to Cleo, who is paused outside of the conference room.
“Hey,” I say, cutting through the silence of the hallway. “Do you want to come over tonight? We can order takeout and have a movie marathon, like we used to.”
“Sorry, babe, but not tonight,” she says, distracted by her phone screen. Her eyes are shifty, hand scratching the back of her neck. “I’ll text you, okay?”
I nod as she walks away, leaving me alone in this hallway. A sadness buries itself in my gut. Knowing I can’t help her makes me feel guilty beyond belief.
I’m the reason we took this chance. I’m the one that pushed this band together.
The last tour left Cleo burned-out and exhausted. I can’t imagine how she feels knowing another bout is just around the corner.
I think that’s how her problem started. A line of cocaine here, a bump there, and suddenly it wasn’t so hard to muster up the energy for another night on stage.
I’m pretty sure the habit has halted since we’ve been on break.
A part of me wonders if the lack of drugs is what kick-started the wrath that lives in her skin nowadays.
That’s what frightens me the most for this upcoming tour.
What if she feels the need to start using again?
What if she can’t get through the grueling schedule?
What if she goes too far?
My uncle’s face flashes in my mind, his youth paused in my memory.
Drugs were his downfall. The entire reason why I play his guitar every night on stage instead of him being able to do so.
But it was more than just the addiction, I think.
It was because of expectation and greed and abandonment.
It was because we grew up in a family where love was conditional, where who you were didn’t matter in comparison to what you could contribute.
But my love isn’t conditional. If one of us ends up in the gutter, I will be there to pull us out, no matter how difficult it is. There is nothing we can’t do. We’re Vicious fucking Velvet. We’re more than our demons. More than our twisted upbringings.
I will not abandon her. I’ll stand tall, prepare the getaway car, and hope like hell that she hops in when shit hits the fan.