On the Road: (Vagabonds Book 2) (New Adult Rock Star Romance) (25 page)

When the waitress walked away, though, Barbie started in again.  “I swear to God, if she tells me one more time to
be serious
or to get my ass somewhere on time—
which I do, by the way
—I’m gonna deck her in the chops.”

Oh.
  Even though Liz had politely requested that Barbie be more punctual, it was I who had asked, on more than one occasion, for Barbie to get serious.  A lot of times I would tell her it would be nice if she’d “join us for the party.”  That one usually pissed her off, which was why I like to say it.  Yes, the evil truth that must be told is that I often enjoyed poking Barbie.  She’d get so angry and she’d fly off the handle so easily—besides the fact that I was growing to despise her intensely—that I couldn’t resist.

The other person with her was quiet again, but I could feel the insides of my ear straining to hear—which I finally did.  “She thinks she’s doing us all a favor.”

I felt my stomach clench.  It was Vicki.  The traitor.

“Yeah.  That’s the whole problem.  Bitch needs to learn to mind her own business.”  Vicki said something that I again missed.  “She thinks this whole damn band couldn’t function without her…and like she’s the star or something.  Fuck, no, bitch,
I’m
the damn star.  I’m the one the guys drool over.  I’m the voice of the Vagabonds, the glue, man.  Can’t she see that?”  Another small sentence from Vicki that was unintelligible.  “This band could go on without cunty Kyle…but baby Barbie runs the show.  I don’t know what the hell it’s gonna take for her to see that.”

“Well, she
is
good.”  I could almost see Vicki’s glazed-over eyes as she made a half-hearted argument that almost defended my honor.

“Bitch, please.  Guitarists are a dime a dozen.  I bet I could put out a call on Twitter or even Facebook, requesting audition videos—hell, asking people to demo one of our songs—and I bet I’d have at least a hundred within an hour.”  Okay,
now
I knew she was more delusional than I’d at first thought.

“You think that many women—especially
our
age?”

“Well, maybe in
two
hours then.”

I don’t know why that had angered me so much, but it did.  I threw a ten-dollar bill on the table and gathered up my stuff.  I stood and took the two steps to the booth behind me until they both noticed me standing there.  Vicki looked like she wanted to slink down the seat and hide under the table, but Barbie practically jutted out her chin in defiance.  Yeah, she might have been talking about me behind my back and might not have wanted to have been overheard, but she was gonna own that shit no matter what.  She’d wear it as armor until her dying day—because that was how Barbie was.  I said, “Do it.”  She raised an eyebrow, her lip curled in half a snarl.  “Do it.  Post it on fucking Facebook and Twitter right now. 
Guitarist wanted for rock band the Vagabonds.  Hashtag—needed tomorrow night.  Can you be in Tinley Park tonight for practice?
”

I sneered and started to walk away when I heard Vicki say, “Oh, Kyle.  She didn’t mean any of that.”

I turned on my heel.  My fucking head still hurt, but I wasn’t going to let that show.  “Like hell she didn’t.  She meant every word of it.  But what sucks for her and for you guys is that she actually fucking believes it.  She thinks she’s the only thing this band has going for it.  So let’s find out.  Let’s see how well a show goes over without me.”  I lowered my voice and leaned over—but not close enough for her to punch or scratch me, because I wouldn’t put that shit past her.  “Good luck with that.”

Chapter Forty-one

I WENT BACK to my room and lay on my bed for the longest time.  I was debating if I really wanted to have my band flail without me or not.  If I didn’t play the show, we would look bad.  Chances were that I’d look like the prima donna.  If I ruined show for someone, they wouldn’t stop and think, “Well, bitchy Barbie Bennett deserved it.  It was all her fault.”  So, in less than two hours, I’d talked myself out of following through.

But that didn’t mean I was going to tell those two bitches.

Nope.  I wouldn’t let them call my bluff, especially immediately, and I was going to get even angrier if they didn’t even bother.

I got up off the bed so I could get my phone and grabbed it off the dresser where I’d thrown it after I’d stomped in my room.  I was going to check out Barbie’s Facebook and Twitter pages—as well as the Vagabonds ones—to see if she’d started scouting.

It wouldn’t have surprised me a bit.  Because, the longer I’d sat there and thought about it, I realized something—Barbie hated me as much as I hated her.  I tried to figure out why.  Aside from expecting her to act like any of the rest of us and asking her to pull her weight and show up on time, I didn’t ask anything else of her (and no more than I would ask any other band member), so I couldn’t understand why she hated me so much.  I mean, yeah, it seemed like she disliked most people in general and looked down on them, but she seemed to have a special hatred for yours truly.

It had to be because she was insecure…and I often called her bluff on it.  I didn’t pander to her or pretend like she was better than the rest of the band.  I usually said it like it was without caring if it pissed her off (and sometimes relishing when it did).  Maybe that was why.

When I picked up my phone, I saw that I had several notifications on the screen.  The most recent two were from Liz and our manager, asking what was going on.  Earlier ones were from Vicki and they were semi-coherent.  The three I was able to understand, though, were probably guided by Barbie the bitch.  The first was telling me that
Barbie was just joking
(mmm-hmm, yeah, I thought so), while the second was simply
You can’t be serious.  You’re going to bail on our fans?
  Then, seconds later, as an afterthought (because it was something I would have said): 
How unprofessional.

I imagined they saw I wasn’t responding (mainly because I was nowhere near my phone, but I might not have anyway) and so they approached our other band member—and, if I knew how Liz’s mind operated (and I sometimes did), she was the one who got our manager involved.  Liz said,
Kyle, don’t let Barbie get to you.  You are an important, valuable, and vital member of this band and I can’t do it without you.
  Okay, so that one got to me.  Liz was the one person in this band that I didn’t want to let down—that I couldn’t let down, no matter how pissed or hurt I was.

Our manager?  Her text was fucking lame.  She had no idea how to make any kind of appeal that would mean anything to me—maybe because she was used to babying Barbie. 
Kyle, it would be a breach of contract for you to fail to appear on stage for any reason other than severe illness.  If you are sick, then we need to take you to a doctor immediately.  Please respond ASAP.

I wanted to text Liz to let her know I wasn’t going to go through with it, but I didn’t know if they were all together and all panicking.  Besides, the one from our manager pissed me off.  I almost texted her back to tell her to
fuck off
but then I decided I would just be silent for a while.  Nothing wrong with cooling off first.

But later that afternoon, there was a knock on my door.  When I looked in the peephole, it was Liz.  I didn’t see anyone else beside her.

I opened the door and let her in.  I could see she was torn.  I asked, “Did they tell you everything?”

Liz shrugged.  “I doubt it.  But I know Barbie.  Both she and Vicki said that they pissed you off.  I know Barbie gets to you, but for you to decide not to do a show—wow.  What the hell did she say?”

I told Liz what I could remember and then said, “I’m sorry, Liz, but there are thousands of singers out there.  Would they be exactly like Barbie?  No.  I know that.  I even doubt most of them would be good, but I’d bet you that, out of all our fans, we could find someone close to her age who knew most of the songs—and who’d always get the words right—who was good.  But a female guitar player, our age, who could play all the songs?  She seems to think she could find hundreds…and at the drop of a hat.”

Liz shook her head, a slight smile curving her lips.  “Kyle, you are one of the most talented guitarists I know, and your age has nothing to do with it.  Barbie just said that to get your goat—and it worked.”

I nodded.  “Yeah, she did.  And now I want to make her sweat it.”

Liz raised her eyebrows.  “Yeah?  You mean you’re planning to play tomorrow night?”

“Of course.  Don’t get me wrong—I considered being a bitch and not doing it, but that would make us all look bad.  I can’t do that.”

“It’s gonna be hard for me to not tell them.”

I grinned.  “Maybe you won’t have to.”  I grabbed my phone off the dresser.  “Have a seat.”  That was one cool thing about being on our second tour—we had our own rooms.  And that was good, because I would likely have killed someone if I had to share a room with any of them.  Maybe not Liz, but any of the others—no way.

I pulled up the text from Manager Bitch. 
Lame move sending Liz.  Nothing doing unless Barbie apologizes.
  I slid the phone across the coffee table to let Liz look at it.  She cocked an eyebrow and I said, “She’s lucky I didn’t tell her to shove her fucking breach of contract up her ass.”  Liz nodded, conceding I’d gone easy on her.  “Sorry, but Barbie is
not
the Vagabonds.  We
all
are.   If any one person represents us, it would be
you
—not Barbie
or
me.  I’m so sick of her bullshit.”

“Try not to let it get to you.”

My phone lit up and buzzed and I picked it up.  I read it out loud so Liz knew what it said too.  “
I’ll be in touch.
  What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“That means Mollie”—
Manager Bitch
—“is going to make Barbie apologize.  But don’t be surprised if it’s not a real apology.”

I laughed.  “Yeah, I know.  This is Barbie we’re talkin’ about.  But it would sure as hell be fun watching her squirm.”  Liz grinned.  “Just so you know, if she
doesn’t
apologize, I’m not coming onstage until after you guys do.  I don’t want her
or
Mollie thinking I’ll just do stuff because it’s expected.”

“Damn, Kyle.  You’re not a rebel if you don’t actually follow through.”

I raised an eyebrow.  That made me want to do it anyway…and if it had revolved around anything but music and my reputation as a musician, I probably would have done it.  If it was a group interview or a party or anything like that, it would be no problem to virtually flip Barbie and Mollie off, and my fans, for the most part, wouldn’t suffer.  A concert, though, where they’d paid their good money to see the entire band, expecting to hear some bad ass guitar…I just couldn’t do it, no matter how much Barbie deserved punishment.  “Don’t tempt me.”

And the girl’s apology the next morning before breakfast was anticlimactic…not to mention phony as hell.  Mollie pulled us aside from the big group gathering and said, “Barbie has something to say to you.”

Just seeing how much it killed her to say it—genuine or not—brought me satisfaction.  I tried not to look smug, because that would just give her all the more reason to talk shit about me behind my back.  She was chewing the inside of her cheek until she spoke, and when she did, it was evident that she’d rehearsed what she had to say.  “Sorry about what I said yesterday, Kyle.  You are a valuable member of this band.”

Oh, God, all the things I wanted to say—but they wouldn’t have been professional or mature…and my words wouldn’t change the way Barbie felt anyway.  She had some delusions about her part in the band.  I had no qualms admitting that
she
was important, but that didn’t mean I wanted to tell that to her egotistical face.  When I said, “Apology accepted,” I decided that Barbie was no longer my friend—if she ever had been—and, much as I loved Vicki, I felt like I couldn’t trust her anymore either.

That was the first time I entertained the notion of going it alone as a musician…but it certainly wasn’t the last.

Chapter Forty-two

AFTER STARTING OUT strong in terms of resolve but still weak in spirit, Vicki managed to become an even bigger druggie during our second tour.  I had tried ignoring it, but I couldn’t, and I wondered if talking to Mollie about it would even do any good.  I remembered my previous conversation with Peter during our first tour and how he’d made it sound like that would be the end of the Vagabonds if we took care of her.

But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut anymore.  I finally talked to Mollie and told her I was concerned about Vicki’s drug problem.  She promised to take care of it.

The next day, Mollie reported to me that Vicki denied having a problem and so we would go forward as planned.  Never mind the fact that, of course, she wouldn’t admit to having a problem.  Mollie didn’t see it that way…and, in retrospect, I suppose she was right.  Until Vicki admitted that she had a problem, there was no help for her.

Like most hardcore addicts, though, an overdose was overdue.  It was mid-July, and we were in Detroit.  Vicki was late for our call and Mollie finally had management unlock the door to her hotel room when she failed to respond to texts and calls.  Even the front desk gal tried calling the phone in her room and didn’t get an answer.  So she sent someone up with us and they first knocked on her door several times, calling to her at the same time, and still no answer.  I wasn’t at the room—it was just Mollie and the hotel employee—but it sounded like Vicki was found on her bed, surrounded by paraphernalia, drool oozing out of her mouth, and she was nearly comatose.  They called an ambulance and Vicki was rushed to the hospital.

I wanted to follow.  I wanted to be there, but Mollie said we had a show to do.  Liz countered, “We can’t do it without drums.”

Mollie said, “You’re covered.  I called Benny and—”

I interrupted.  “Who the hell’s Benny?”

“Benny is the manager of The End of Us”—the band who was headlining with us for the summer months—“and he said Vaughn would be happy to fill in for Vicki.”

That…would be interesting.  Vaughn’s drumming was metalcore, and we were rock and punk.  I loved metalcore, loved The End of Us, but I had my doubts about his drumming style meshing with our music, and Mollie saw it written all over my face.

“Vaughn is a consummate professional.  He won’t ruin your music, Kyle.”

I shrugged.  “I never said that.”

Liz said, “Damn.  The guy’s gonna be exhausted.”

“Yeah, so you girls owe him.  Big time.  Get your asses to the show.  I’m going to stay at the hospital until she’s out of critical condition, and I’m going to see how fast I can get you a replacement drummer until she can return.”  I raised my eyebrows, but before I could even say another word, she added, “Her mom’s on the way, and we’re putting her in rehab, okay?  So it might be a while before she comes back.”

“Just let her know she’s still part of the band, okay?”  Liz, ever thinking.  The woman amazed me.

“Of course.”

And that night onstage was weird but cool.  I hadn’t thought Vaughn would work, but he challenged us.  First, that he’d learned our songs just from being on tour with us (or maybe he even owned our albums?) was impressive, but then he’d made the beats his own.  He was amazing.  It felt like we were playing brand-new songs.  All three of us adapted and by mid-set were in a groove, but that didn’t mean we didn’t miss Vicki.  Barbie had announced to the audience that our drummer had some “health issues” she was taking care of and that Vaughn was covering for her, so “please give him a huge round of applause—and say some prayers for Vicki.”

But playing with Vaughn reinforced something I had already felt—that our band should play harder and louder.  Liz wasn’t having any of it, though, and we had a replacement drummer by Monday, someone who played just like Vicki did.  The only drawback was that he was a guy (like Vaughn).  Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

I don’t know if I’d expected her addiction and rehab to remain a secret, but they didn’t.  It wasn’t long before not only the rock world was abuzz with it, but even mainstream media picked up on the story, reigniting the world’s curiosity about why heroin addiction never truly dies.  Just in my short time on the road, I knew it was probably the most heavily abused drug and the number one choice of musicians (strangely enough, pot wasn’t really thought of as a drug).  Why?  Because it was highly addictive and it made all the pain go away—emotional, physical, imagined.  Everything was happy in H-land…until it wasn’t, because it was all a big fucking lie.  You can’t turn off your life and expect everything to be okay.  There is a time of reckoning—and Vicki’s was now, and that time was called
rehab
, the last place she wanted to be.

Her mom talked with me a little on the phone, and she felt guilty about her shortcomings as a parent.  Was she perfect?  No, but what parent was?  I knew she loved Vicki and she was going to help her down the path to recovery.  That was what was most important.  “I blame her dad,” she said.  I didn’t even want to ask any questions, but Danielle was going to continue, questions or not.  “He was a junkie too, but Vicki always felt like she was cheated, not being able to see him.  She’s always been so angry that he left her.”  Oh.  Poor kid had taken it personally.  But there was more to the story.  “It’s almost like Vicki’s trying to recreate his death.  I just hope the counselors can help her.”

I couldn’t bite my tongue any longer.  “Wait.  Her dad died of a heroin overdose?”

Her silence confirmed it long before she answered.  “Kyle, most people addicted to heroin overdose at least once.  We just have to pray she lives.”

Chilling and haunting…and what was worse was that I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

* * *

We couldn’t quite figure out when Barbie had made the time to break away for a photo shoot, but the damn girl turned up in a bikini on the cover of some nudie magazine in late August.  Inside, though, she was their “rockin’” centerfold—and she was wearing nothing but a smile.  She held a microphone in her hand, and don’t think for a second she didn’t use that prop phallically and suggestively.

How the fuck were we supposed to be taken seriously when all she wanted to do was be worshipped as a sex object?

Don’t get me wrong—I knew already that sex sold shit, and I also knew that showing a lot of skin from time to time worked.  I knew that some of our sexiest songs were our most popular.  But there was no subtlety to Barbie’s tactics.  She was throwing herself out there, leaving no surprises.

It wasn’t long before our Facebook and Twitter pages were blowing up, asking for nudie pictures of all the band members.  We made the agreement—Liz and I, that is—to ignore anything having to do with Barbie’s nakedness.  She hadn’t consulted us about it, and we weren’t going to comment.

Once more, I could have killed her.

Vicki rejoined the tour mid-October, healthy and reinvigorated, and she asked if she could be with one of us all the time, just to make sure she stayed on the straight and narrow.  So Liz and I agreed that we would trade party nights—when she would party, I would stay at the hotel with Vicki and then the next night, Liz and I would trade places.

So we ended that tour as part-time babysitters.  And, frankly, I was sick of my entire band and glad we had some time off.  Mollie had talked about a European leg but decided not to move forward with plans when Vicki had wound up in rehab.  Besides, an entire year on tour was more than enough, and I was as sick of the songs as I was my bandmates.

I needed some serious time off if the Vagabonds were to survive—and I suspected we all felt the same damn way.