20. Backup Dancers
20
BACKUP DANCERS
FELIX
Hour of Need By Still Water
“J esus, some room here,” I scoot closer to the window in the back of the SUV as Dex lets his thighs fall apart to maximum level.
“I can’t help it.” He shifts, gesturing dramatically to his crotch. “These babies need room to breathe.”
I lean forward. “Are we there yet?” Dusty’s dark eyes catch mine in the rearview mirror, promising murder if I ask again.
“Hey, watch the ’nads.” Dex throws a protective arm across his body. “One trauma is all I can handle in a lifetime.”
“How did Gunner end up with shotgun, anyway?” Bash whines from the other side of Dex. “I get carsick, ya know.”
I turn to him, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been on a bus for weeks.”
“Yeah, so?” He pops another stick of gum in his mouth.
I shouldn’t have agreed to this press stop, but Dylan arranged it and I’m trying to be diplomatic. Though right now I want to strangle Dex and hope Bash chokes on his gum.
“How did Gunner get shotgun?” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.
“He gave Dusty a blowjob,” Bash announces.
“Dusty’s getting a lot of blowjobs lately.”
“What?” Bash says.
“Nothing,” I smile.
“Oh God, can you imagine?” Dex’s face contorts in theatrical disgust. “His pubes are probably a foot long.”
“How do you figure?” Bash leans forward, suddenly invested in this ridiculous conversation like it’s a true crime podcast.
“Have you seen his beard?” Dex strokes his jaw. “It’s like a damn forest up there.”
“Fuck all the way off, you jealous bastards,” Gunner’s gravelly voice booms from the front seat, his arm swinging back in a wild attempt to connect with someone, anyone.
“Do not make me pull this car over!” Dusty’s roar fills the SUV, and we all freeze like guilty teenagers.
“See, now you made Dusty mad,” Dex stage-whispers, earning a sharp elbow from Bash that makes him yelp.
The SUV finally rolls to a stop outside a gleaming office building, and I practically dive for the door handle, gulping in fresh air like a drowning man. The summer heat hits me like a wall, but anything’s better than being sardined between my bandmates for another minute.
As soon as we’re all out of the SUV, Dusty peels away from the curb, tires squealing against the hot asphalt as if he can’t get away fast enough. We watch the black vehicle disappear around the corner, our reflections distorted in the building’s mirrored surface.
“Jesus, reminds me of my dad dropping me off in front of my high school,” Dex says, running his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair as we walk into the lobby’s air-conditioned sanctuary.
The elevator ride to K-Nash is mercifully short, though Bash manages to elbow Gunner twice while pretending to stretch. The receptionist, a perky blonde wearing too much perfume, shows us to the waiting area, where we can see through the glass to the live show. The studio looks like every other one I’ve been in—sound panels on the walls, mysterious blinking lights, and that distinct radio station smell of coffee and electronics. All I’ve been told is that Scooter’s show is local and to try and plug the festival.
A plate of fresh pastries sits temptingly on a side table, their sugary aroma making my stomach growl. Dex reaches for one, but I shoot him my best death glare until he retracts his hand like he’s been burned.
“What?” he asks. “I’m hungry.”
“Don’t stuff your face. We’re about to go in and talk,” I remind him, trying to keep my voice level despite my mounting anxiety.
“They only want to talk to you, anyway,” Dex mutters, slumping against the wall.
“We’re just pretty ornaments,” Gunner chimes in.
I shake my head, fighting back a smile. These fucking guys are gonna be the death of me.
The receptionist ushers us into the studio. Scooter Pratt, a middle-aged man with a southern drawl and disheveled salt-and-pepper hair, stands to shake our hands. His grip is firm, professional, but his eyes carry the familiar gleam of someone who might have partaken of Bash’s pot brownies.
“Right on, yeah,” he says, continuing to shake hands with the rest of the guys.
I try to shake off the feeling that this guy is a little out there while he gives us the standard spiel about the show going live and the delay catching F-bombs. His gaze lingers pointedly on Dex, who responds with his most innocent smile. We squeeze onto the leather couch, and a mic is positioned in front of our faces.
The red light flicks on. “Welcome back. We have Velvet Drift in the studio with us. Say hi guys.” He points to us, and we lean toward the mic giving an underwhelming symphony of hi’s and grunts that makes me want to sink into the floor.
I look up to the ceiling for strength but none comes. I’ve never been great at talking about myself. I know this is a necessary evil, but it never gets easier.
Scooter’s voice kicks off smooth and professional, but it doesn’t take long to notice something’s… off. His eyes are glazed, and his head bobs as he speaks, like he’s riding invisible waves.
“So, Velvet Drift,” he begins, drawing out the name like it’s a secret he’s savoring. “The vocal stylings of Felix Ker… Kra…”” he looks to me for help.
“Krasinski,” I say into the mic with an annoyed tone.
“Right on. Rock royalty… your dad… uh…” His voice trails off, and his head dips forward. For a second, I think he’s just pausing for dramatic effect, but his chin hits his chest. It’s one way to avoid talking about my famous dad.
Dex nudges me with his elbow, his grin wide and wicked. “Is he asleep?” he whispers, barely containing his laughter.
“Dude’s high as a kite.”
Gunner smirks, crossing his arms. “This is gonna be good.”
Scooter jerks awake suddenly, his head snapping up, and we all jump. “Music, man, transcends words. So, how did you get together?” His words slur slightly, and he waves a hand vaguely in our direction.
I lean forward and then look between the guys. “The label put together the band.”
“He means he got stuck with us,” Gunner jokes, making a face.
“Something like that.” I elbow him.
“You’re the star. We’re the backup dancers,” Bash teases.
“ Sexy backup dancers,” Dex points out and gives Bash a high five.
“But I couldn’t have asked for a better band, I mean no one could nail that guitar solo in ‘Out of Reach’ like Bash,” I say, trying to get us back on track, but I don’t think Scooter is listening.
“Shit, man, that was nice,” Bash says with a big grin. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag now.”
“Huh?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, don’t be shy, Felix.” He turns to the mic conspiratorially and with a straight face says, “That’s right folks. The rumors are true, Felix and I are officially in a bromance.”
I shove his head away from the mic, while both Gunner and Dex make disturbing kiss faces.
“You can’t say shit on air.” Gunner is barely containing his laughter.
Scooter nods off again.
“Oh right, and you definitely can’t say fuck either,” Bash says between fits of laughter.
There’s a beat of silence, and then Dex loses it. “Alright, fuck it. If he’s out, we’re taking over.” He leans into the mic, his voice dropping into a mock radio host tone. “Welcome back to Velvet Drift’s Hour of Chaos. I’m your host, Dex the Destroyer, and today we’re interviewing the one and only Bash ‘Bubblegum’ Montgomery. Tell us, Bash…”
Dex doesn’t get the chance to finish because Bash grabs the mic. “Since we’re on the subject, why don’t you tell the audience how you almost lost a ’nad.”
Dex swipes the mic from him. “If I must,” he says, mockingly. “Because there are important lessons to be learned from this story.”
Scooter snaps awake again, his head jerking up like a marionette. “That was…righteous,” he drawls.
Dex looks like someone just took his ice cream away.
“Catch Velvet Drift at the…” Scooter looks at me expectantly with droopy eyes.
“The Summer Buzz Festival,” I grumble because this interview is a lost cause and anyone listening won’t remember what it was even about.
We all stare at Scooter, dumbfounded, as he stands, clasping his hands together as if he hadn’t just zoned out the entire time. “Thanks for coming in, guys.” He hits the button, and the green light flicks on. “I thought that went well.”
The receptionist appears in the doorway, gesturing for us to leave. Dex opens his mouth to say something, but I grab his arm, pulling him toward the exit before he can make things worse.
I take a deep breath, forcing a smile as we take the elevator to the lobby. “Well, that was… something.”
“Yeah. Something,” Bash laughs.
I rub the back of my neck feeling a bit uneasy.
“Backup dancers, huh?” I broach the subject wondering how the guys really feel.
“We knew what we signed up for,” Bash says, and I look to the other guys for confirmation.
“We’re professionals. This is what we do,” Gunner confirms.
I open my mouth to respond, but the words stick in my throat.
“I was excited to hear we were touring with you. I’m a huge fan of Turn It Up,” Dex says. “Can you get me your dad’s autograph?” His smile breaks through and I know he’s just fucking with me.
“Oh, fuck off.” I smack him in the arm.
Bash stops me before we get to the car, his voice calm but firm, “Hey, we have your back every night on that stage. Don’t ever doubt that.”
I nod, appreciating it more than he knows.
* * *
I chew on the end of my pencil as I look at the beginnings of a new song I’ve been working on. My fingers are stiff, and I stretch them as I sit back against the uncomfortable bench seat on the bus.
Like a butterfly,
You float on by,
Giving me a reason to smile
But I can’t touch you
I hum out a few bars as the image of Maggie on those damn roller-skates cruises through my mind, her teasing laugh echoing like she’s turned my thoughts into her own mini roller rink. Of all the laughs, touches, and heat that’s passed between us backstage and between the sheets the last few weeks, that’s the memory my masochistic brain chooses to hang onto right now. The one where she wasn’t mine yet.
Maybe because it feels as if she still isn’t.
I drop the pencil and take my glasses off to rub my eyes, the beginnings of a tension headache pulsing at my temples. Just as I’m about to sink further into my moping, my phone rings. It’s almost as if whoever is calling was polite enough to wait for me to hit an emotional wall.
Dylan’s name flashes across my phone screen and I swipe to accept the call. “Hey,” I say, trying to inject some energy into my voice.
“Hi Felix, I just wanted to check in since it’s been a while,” he says, his voice crackling slightly through the spotty reception.
“I thought Dusty kept you informed?” I sit up straighter, feeling a prickle of unease about why he’s calling. The last time we spoke was about Maggie’s bus situation.
“He does, but this is about you and I’d like to hear how things are going from your standpoint. How’s the band working out?”
I rub at my temples. If he knows about the radio interview, he’s not giving anything away and I’m sure as hell not going to bring it up.
“When they aren’t trying to stab each other in the balls, it’s going better than I expected.” Which is the truth.
“Whiskeygate,” Dylan chuckles, the unprofessional snort making me grin. “But you know I mean apart from Bash trying to castrate Dex.”
I shake the gruesome image out of my head and swallow down the laughter bubbling in my throat.
“It was rough around the edges at first,” I admit. “But that’s on me. As soon as I learned to let go of the reins a bit and have a little trust, I think we managed to find our flow.”
“Good,” Dylan says, “Maggie’s been sending me snippets of her footage and I have to say, it’s looking really good from here, not to mention the social media feeds. You have a really strong following.”
“Yeah?” I straighten up, a flicker of excitement zipping through me.
“I told you, touring gets your name out there and that’s exactly what’s happened.”
“Does that mean what I think it does?” I ask, trying to tamp down the eagerness threatening to overflow.
“We’re gonna need an album cut in the studio,” he confirms. “A minimum of ten songs, though twelve would be better. A few of them can be what you’ve been performing, but we need most of it to be fresh content no one’s heard before.”
“I’m working on songs as we speak,” I assure him, glancing down at the unfinished lyrics in my notebook.
“Perfect. I’m also adding an appearance to your list of tour stops. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about the LiveWire Festival.”
He sure as hell doesn’t. The week-long festival in Buffalo is right up there with I Heart Radio and Coachella. “Of course not, I know it.”
“How about Ivy Nova?” he asks next. “Ever hear of her?”
“Vaguely, I think.”
“She’s a new pop star on the scene,” Dylan fills me in. “We’re looking into her for a record deal as well. The tween girls are all about her and we have a chance to expand both your fanbases if you perform with her at LiveWire.”
Performing with a pop star had never crossed my mind but I’m not opposed to it. A collaboration is an opportunity to show my versatility, to reach a new audience.
“Sounds like a great opportunity,” I say.
“It’s gonna be a mashup of four songs, two from each of you. It’ll be a quick appearance, about four to five minutes long. Look at it as a tease, and the attendees won’t be expecting it.”
“Alright, no problem.”
“I had a chance to listen to the radio interview you did.”
Shit.
“What the hell was that, Felix?” Dylan’s voice rises, his frustration palpable even through the phone. “I set up that interview to promote the tour and the festival, not for you guys to treat it like a fucking comedy hour!”
I wince, feeling a flush creep up my neck.
“I like a good F-bomb, ya know, but not on the Goddamn radio,” he continues. “You aren’t some garage band, Felix. Those guys represent the label, and I don’t have disposable cash to pay FCC fines.”
I stop him. “Look, we’re all to blame. It got out of hand. It won’t happen again,” I assure him, my grip tightening on the phone.
“You’re fucking right it won’t.” There’s a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “Jesus, I sound like my fathers,” he groans. “Do you know how much I hate that?”
I let out a small laugh. “I think I do.”
Dylan’s silent for a beat. “What the fuck was that radio host on?” he says with a hint of amusement.
I let out a relieved laugh. “I have no fucking clue.”
“You don’t have to stick up for them. They should know better,” Dylan says.
Bash said that they have my back every night on that stage, and it’s only right I have theirs.
“I’m not. We all got carried away.” Needing to get something else off my chest about the Ivy duet, I say, “I don’t want to be some boy band. So if that’s what you’re trying to do…”
“I asked you to trust me on this, and I won’t steer you wrong, Felix.” His voice is earnest, sincere in a way that’s rare in this business. I resign to put some faith in him if he’s willing to put his faith in me.
“I’m sending Maggie specific instructions for filming the duet, so that we get the best and most exclusive content for the celebrity sites, so bring your A game.”
No pressure. “You got it.”
“I’ll send over some more information for the rehearsal schedule and song choice. Oh, and one last item of business.” His tone shifts, becoming more serious.
“Hit me with it.” I brace myself.
“Be thinking about who you want as your band for the album.”
His words hang in the air as we say our goodbyes and end the call. I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes. The bus rumbles beneath me, the tires eating up the miles of highway. The weight of that final comment settles on my shoulders like a physical thing.
It feels like the decisions I make now will shape the course of my career. And if I’m being honest with myself, the idea of not having the guys with me, of breaking up this dysfunctional little family we’ve built, gives me pause.
But I push the thought away. I can’t let sentimentality cloud my judgment.
This is business.