Amplifier dark tide 2, p.8
Amplifier (Dark Tide #2), page 8
At least around here.
THIRTEEN
Henley
It takes a mere second for my brain to realize the tilting sensation isn’t part of a dream and in fact my seat on this cramped mini-bus gradually inclining to the left. What the hell?
We left the venue the second load out was complete in the early hours of the morning, on a tight deadline to make the next stop on the tour.
“You realize how heavy this fucking thing is?”
I turn to kneel on the worn vinyl upholstery and peer out the window at the reason for my rude awakening. Miller, one of the lighting techs and one of only three guys with a permit to drive this damn thing, stands with sleeves turned up, while two other men whose names I’ve yet to learn roll what I assume to be a spare tire toward him.
Great. As it was, we were only looking at two hours tops to sleep in a real bed before we’d have to turn about and pile out of the motel again to begin load in. And now we have a goddamn flat.
I scoot across the bench seat on my ass and drop into the aisle. Jimmy still sleeps curled against the far window, oblivious to what goes on. The display on my phone reads a little after five A.M., which is what I assumed given the dawn colors in the sky. I’ve had, maybe, an hour shuteye on the journey so far.
However long I was out for, I know it’s not enough as my aching legs carry me to the front.
“Are you sure you know how to get those damn things off?” One of the unnamed two frown at Miller while he wrestles with a wheel nut.
“Do I look like I do this every fucking day?”
“You’ve got a license to drive this,” the other guy quips.
“Yeah,” Miller retorts as he spins to face him, wheel brace in hand. “To drive it. They don’t teach you how to get a fucking flat off. It’s not quite the same as a car.”
“Hey,” the first guy says, reaching for the tool. “Let me try.”
Miller shunts the bar at the man and steps back, catching sight of me in the process. “Hey, Henley.”
I step closer and stand by his side to watch the guy engage in the same struggle. “What’s the issue?”
Miller snorts. “I’m reckoning the assholes at the workshop wherever this was last serviced put those fucking things back on with the rattle gun. Goddamn nuts are as tight as a nun’s pussy.”
“Classy,” I say with a slight laugh. Can’t say I’d heard the expression before. “Backup plan?”
“Call roadside assistance and wait.”
I take my first real look around at where we’ve stopped. Trees line the opposite verge of the road, our side flanked by endless fields and a house spotted way off in the distance. Not a gas station or civilized bathroom break in sight.
Awesome.
“Convinced?” Miller asks as the other guy steps back, clearly frustrated by the defeat.
“This is bullshit,” he snaps, tossing the brace on the roadside. The steel rod lands in the grass with a dull thud.
I take a seat a few feet from it in the shade cast by the bus. The men continue to bicker. Simes—the guy who tried to get the wheel off after Miller—appears to be convinced that the testosterone shared between the three of them should be enough to sort the issue without additional help.
After twenty minutes of heated discussion, and twelve per cent of my phone battery while I scroll and wait it out, Miller finally calls triple-A. By the time the roadside assistance arrives, the sun is high in the sky and Jimmy has pitched a makeshift shade with a tarp and two mic stands out of the trailer we drag around behind the bus.
I recline, rolled sweatshirt under my head, and watch as the man from triple A effortlessly removes the wheel nuts with the assistance of a pneumatic tool.
“How long have we got to go from here?” Jimmy asks, propped on one elbow while he rolls a cigarette.
“About an hour and a half,” Simes answers, knees tucked inside his elbows where he sits and glares at our savior.
“Fuck.” Jimmy pauses to lick the paper and wrap the smoke. “That’ll put us about forty into load in.”
“Jericho will love that,” Simes mumbles.
I turn my head to face them. “Has anyone let him know we’re delayed?”
Being head of a department has its perks, it seems. From what I’ve been told, he travels with the security boys in their motorhome. Must be nice to have an actual bed to sleep in if you need to.
“Miller rang him,” Simes answers. The guy is stocky, redheaded, and covered in freckles. With the murderous glare he has going on, he reminds me of a cartoon bully from some kids comic. “Not much we can do about this bullshit situation,” he continues. “Just means we’ll be hauling ass to make up the lost time.”
“For fuck’s sake!”
The three of us jerk our heads toward where Miller strides away from the roadside assistance guy. The poor schmuck looks sorry as sin, hands on the spare, the punctured tire laid on the ground beside him.
“What’s the problem?” Jimmy calls out.
I push up on my elbows, drawing my knees up as Miller stalks our way.
“Fucking spare is ruined as well.”
“You have to be shitting me.” Simes pushes off the ground and stalks down the fence line.
I flop onto my back, tossing an arm over my eyes.
“What does that mean for time?” Jimmy asks, resigned.
“The guy says it’s a forty-five-minute turn around to take the wheel back to the shop and have a new tire fitted.” Miller sighs, shifting his weight between his feet in my periphery. “We don’t have any option.”
“Fuck’s sake.”
A thud sounds beside me, and I glance over in time to see Jimmy pick up Miller’s phone from where it landed in the grass.
Our driver, slash, light-show creator extraordinaire, marches toward the bus and the lost looking roadside assistance guy. “You can call Jericho this time, Jimmy. I’m done with this shit today.”
We all are.
And yet the day hasn’t even begun.
FOURTEEN
Kris
“We Can Get Together” - Flowers
“Look at the upside to this bullshit,” Emery states as he fusses with his hair. “We save time because we don’t need to get ready for the show now.”
“I guess.” The arena comes into view out my window as the SUV turns into the access road.
Having Wallace, the owner of our label, watch our tour so carefully has its ups and downs. One of the less desirable things being when a few spare hours pop up in our schedule, he fills them.
A photo shoot for the new album. I get it. We need the shots done, and we did have the availability.
But goddamn I was looking forward to some time to hang out in the hotel room—alone.
Emery throws an elbow in my side and then nods toward Rey. I glance at our frontman and take in the hunch to his shoulders, the frantic way his thumb tears across the screen to scroll his feed.
He does it again: he looks for her.
He’s an addict, thinking his fix is what makes him happy. But I guess we all are. For Rey, it’s his lost love. For Emery, it’s the one he still searches for. Toby? The one he believes he has no time to entertain. And me? Well, it’s the one I had and know I’ll never get again.
Guess Rey, and I aren’t so different after all. Except I don’t search for her. I never would. Because I know there’s no point anymore.
“I hope they’ve got decent fucking catering this time.” The SUV pulls up as Toby straightens in his seat to stretch out. “I mean, they didn’t exactly have a shortage of food at the last place, but a guy can sure get sick of buffalo wings.”
The second the driver puts the vehicle in park, the doors are all thrown open. The conversation may have been light and playful, but fuck, even a blind man can see we’ve all got a low tolerance for each other at the moment.
Toby and Emery head toward the stage area, Rey diverting to somewhere less populated to have a smoke and no doubt try to find Tabitha with some more online stalking. I take a few steps and then hesitate while I adjust my backpack.
Habit would mean I find a spot backstage and throw my headphones on, but today… today something makes me turn toward the front-of-house. I shrug my shoulder to adjust where the strap of the bag sits and move toward the empty seating. Security gives me the usual once over as I pass. No “hello” or even a wave; just curious eyes as one of the assets moves through the near-empty corridors.
I hook a right through a door that’s secured open and step out into the vast indoor space that will be crowded with bodies in a few hours. No matter how long I’ve been doing this, the contrast always hits me. It’s so easy to get caught up in the repetition, the mundane everyday of what it is I do.
I walk on stage.
I connect with the first few rows of people; the lights make it impossible to distinguish the faces of the rest.
And I play my guitar.
Being in a famous band is a position I take for granted. Access I forget is a privilege not afforded to many.
I was like the people who’ll crowd in here tonight, once. I used to save and do whatever I could to get tickets to see my favorite band. And I too would arrive, heart racing at the thrill of the show coming to life and stand impatiently while I waited for the magic of those opening lines or notes.
The feeling is a humbling one—the realization as joyful as it is disappointing.
I lose sight of this too often. I get caught up in the how, the behind-the-scenes bullshit, and I forget the basics.
I have the gift of music. Not everyone can do what I do; even fewer do it as well as I can. I get to entertain and exhilarate people for a fucking living. How goddamn awesome is that?
I drop my shoulder and swing the canvas pack around in front of me. Without taking my eyes from the stage—from where Emery sits on Toby’s stand as he checks over his guitars with a new bottle of whiskey beside him—I tug my headphones from the bag.
They’re worn, the plastic coating cracked in places, but like everything else in this goddamn portable shrine, they’re familiar.
I hook the earmuffs on, left and then right, and finally tear my gaze from the stage before me to find the set list for tonight. My thumb hovers over the screen to get it going, yet I barely pay attention to what I’m doing as I whip my line of sight back up to the seating to the left of the stage.
Henley.
She sits alone, but what’s more curious is where. There are over two thousand seats in this place, and yet she sits on the goddamn polished floor. What the hell?
My feet are in motion before I register the conscious thought to go to her.
“Comfortable?” A solid fifteen seconds to cross this vast expanse to her and that’s the best I can come up with.
Winning, Kris.
“I am actually.” Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t so much as peek my way.
“You, um, okay there?” What the fuck is she doing?
“Better than okay.” Her lips tip up in an honest, warming smile. “Fantastic.”
Whatever drug she’s on, I want some.
Henley doesn’t say another word. Just sits with her legs folded, hands relaxed on her thighs, and an infectious smile on her face as she remains with her eyes closed.
Now is where you walk away, idiot. But hey, why not make things even more awkward by staying, huh? Good plan, Kris. I mentally slap myself for missing the perfect window to leave without my departure seeming rude or odd.
Fuck it. May as well capitalize on the moment and take some time out for me.
I drop my backpack to the floor, headphones around my neck. Henley doesn’t flinch as I fold my legs and get comfortable a few feet from her, mirroring her position. One crucial difference: I keep my eyes open and drink in all the little details I was too distracted yesterday to take note of.
Her nose is slightly upturned, her eyes naturally cat-like. And her jaw tapers to a pointed chin, yet the sharpness makes her look doll-like with her colored hair and soft cheeks.
She’s a goddamn picture. So I take one. With my phone on silent, so that she won’t hear the shutter sound, I snap an image of her in her natural, uninfluenced state. I pass the time waiting for her to break out of whatever trance she’s in by opening the shot in an editing app and adjusting the colors. The background, I make black and white, turning down the contrast and the brightness to make the area darker than her. But Henley, I keep her in color, adjusting the saturation, hues, and filters to make her glow.
It’s not hard to do when her required black sweater is beside her on the floor, and the tank she wears is a kaleidoscope of pastel colors.
Satisfied with the result, I put my phone to sleep and set it aside. She remains with that lazy, yet genuine, smile. Eyes closed, body relaxed, and perfect posture.
I don’t think she registers I’m there until I draw a deep breath at the thought I’ll need to get my shit together for the show soon.
Her eyes slowly open with a couple of lazy blinks. And then the best fucking thing ever happens. Her smile grows.
“Hi.”
“Welcome back.”
She unfolds her legs and stretches them out before her. The soles of her Vans come close to touching my knees. “Do you need me to do something?” Her smile fades, a frown appearing as she seemingly realizes she might have been neglecting her job.
Her reaction annoys me. Not she would think that but that her smile left.
“No. Just waiting.”
“What for?”
“You.”
She doesn’t shy away. Those sky blue eyes hold my own while she tries to figure me out. I can tell by the slight furrow still on her brow as her smile creeps back. Good luck with that. I can’t figure myself out, so fuck knows how she’ll do it.
“How’s the shoulder today?”
I look to the injured side, even though layers of clothing cover the signs of yesterday’s madness. “Bruised, but manageable with a few painkillers.”
She huffs out her nose, a small frown disturbing her previously relaxed demeanor.
“Look. I just wanted to apologize for being so tough on you yesterday.” I roll my lip ring before continuing. “We’ve gotta work together, so I don’t want what I said to make things hard, okay?”
She studies me a second before responding. “But your opinion of me hasn’t changed.”
I suck a deep breath through my nose. “It’s yet unproven, either way.”
She nods slowly, accepting my answer. No, I don’t entirely trust her, but my gut instinct is she’s genuine in everything she says. I’ve got to give her a chance—it’s only fair. If she fucks up, then she goes.
Simple as that.
“What were you doing?” I nod toward where she’s seated.
“Meditating.” She waits for me to challenge it; the dare is evident in her steady gaze.
I don’t. “How do you do that?”
Her surprise is clear. “You want me to show you?”
I smirk. “Nope. Not right now, anyway. Just wondering what exactly you do other than sit in silence.”
Henley nods, seemingly a little deflated. “Basically, you let go of any thoughts and find the stillness in where you are. Connect with the present.”
“You ignore everyone?”
She sighs. “Not exactly. It’s hard to explain.” Her lips twist as she thinks through her words. “You shut out the noise in your mind. So you let go of any thoughts you were having of the past, present, or future, and connect with yourself.” Her shoulders drop. “Your desires.”
“Isn’t that thinking of the future, though, thinking about what you want?”
“No. I mean, yes. But…” Henley shakes her head. “As I said, it’s hard to explain.”
I turn my focus toward the stage. Emery’s gone. The lighting techs do their thing, checking the cues as the lamps above us slowly cycle through the different sequences. This shit should be done already.
Henley yawns.
I glance up at the lights once more, at the techs still buzzing around doing things I know for a fact are always complete before we show up, and then back to her face. A wave of amber light passes over her highlighting what I missed before.
She doesn’t just look peaceful. She looks dog-tired.
“How come this shit is still going on?” I point up toward the lighting rig as a rapid-fire sequence sends shots of color dancing around us.
“Ugh.” Her shoulders drop. “We were late getting into the venue.” Her lips flatten as she glances toward where front-of-house chat with security. “At least, our mini-bus was.”
I frown.
“Flat tire,” she explains. “And a perforated spare.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” Her hand lifts to cover her yawn. “Sorry.”
“Tired much?”
Her brow twitches a little. “Only a little. I think I slept, like, two hours if I’m lucky.”
Fuck no. If she’s tired, then that’s bound to affect her performance side-of-stage tonight. No way in hell will I have that weighing on my conscience while I play.
“Actually.” I dig into my bag and pull out an unopened can of energy drink. “Start with this.”
Henley takes the offered elixir, frowning as she reads the label. “I don’t drink this stuff.”
“You do now.”
She cracks the top and then gives the contents a wary sniff. I can’t help but smile at the way she wrinkles her nose.
“Just drink it.”
“If you say.” She raises both eyebrows, then the can in a kind of toast, and takes a large swig. Her face twists as she swallows. “Oh, my God. This drink is so sickly sweet.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
She offers a disbelieving lift of one eyebrow.
“Look at it this way: your bed is going to feel fucking magical tonight.” Wallace never has Rick put the crew up in the same hotel as us. “Where are you staying?”
“Place in town.” She jerks her head toward the guy who wanders across the stage, picking up stray pieces of tape. “There are five of us in a room. The situation is… cozy.” She laughs.
“Five?”
“Yeah. I got offered one of the beds, but I’d have to share. So I pulled the spare pillows out of the closet and made another bed on the floor.”
