So I Married a Rockstar (6 page)

I hear tapping. "Nope, he hasn't been booked in the last twenty-four hours."

"Okay, than--" She hangs up on me before I can finish thanking her. The rudeness doesn't even register on my radar. Every nerve in my body has been shredded over and over again today. I'm numb.

"Anyone try the morgue?" Jake is diddling on his guitar again, using an empty beer bottle as a slide. His tone doesn't suggest even a hint of concern for his bandmate but maybe the six beers he's had in the last two hours have dulled his senses.

"Wow," I breathe, amazed at his callousness. But I search on my phone for the number and call it anyway. My stomach is in knots dialing the number and I can feel myself blanching when I imagine the worst news.

After Savory told me I was the best thing to ever, kinda, possibly, maybe happen to Drax, I laughed him off. I mean, come on. How ridiculous is that? I'd had more conversations with Savory than Drax. How was it possible anyone could know so quickly that we'd be good together?

But I can't deny, as stupid as it sounds, the idea made me glow a little inside. And now I was calling police stations and morgues trying to locate his body.
 

Fun times.

"No one matching that description, ma'am. Hope you find him." I let out the breath I'd been holding and nearly laugh with relief. But this situation is far from funny.

Savory meets my eyes, dread finally registering in them. For all his talk earlier, I can see it all over his face that he's worried, and not just about Drax's safety. Marvin has been an absolute ass for the last two hours, popping his head in every fifteen minutes to let everyone know how much time they have left before they're set adrift without a lifeline in the vacuum of the music industry.
 

Oh, and here he is again, right on time. "Five more minutes, kids," he trills, a wicked grin making him look even crazier than before. Thank God he leaves.

I glance at the wall clock -- 9:55. There's absolutely no way Drax can make it on stage in time to make Marvin's deadline, even if he walks in right now. We're all screwed.

"Guess I better go let the facility manager know it's official." It's the second to last thing I want to do. The last is what I have to do right after that: Call Harry.

I leave Savory and Jake in the green room and go off in search of the facility manager. Nice enough guy but he wasn't very happy when I told him earlier that we might have to issue about 8,000 refunds. Not that he won't get what he's owed -- it's not his fault the show has to be canceled -- but it's a major hassle, and his employees will be the ones to field most of the irate complaints.
 

The opening band was instructed to go long, and they're still screeching away out on stage, but everyone backstage looks like they're watching a funeral. In a way, they probably are.
 

Roadkill was the horse to beat in the 'up and coming' ranks, but this kind of screw up is likely to do more than simply hobble them. If word gets around they're unreliable and hard to work with -- a threat Marvin's made plenty of times tonight -- the band will be blackballed entirely. They'll be lucky to do bar mitzvahs and high school dances.

I'm sick to my stomach, and all I really want to do is curl up in my bed and cry myself to sleep, but I still have work to do. So what if I won't have a job for too much longer? I'm not going to slack off my responsibilities because of a little thing like unemployment. If anything, my impending departure from Harry Stephens Productions makes me want to finish this thing as professionally as possible.
 

I find the facility manager in a shadowy corner sipping from a flask. He takes the news well and only stumbles a little on his way to warn his security people. The opening act finishes and the crowd erupts. They're salivating in anticipation of seeing Roadkill live, and I wonder what they'll do when they hear the news.

"Boy, I feel sorry for the poor chump who has to break it to them," I mumble as I head back to the green room, but a noise stops me. It's hard to hear over the crowd chanting "Roadkill! Roadkill! Roadkill!" but I think I hear someone saying Drax's name from nearby.

I lean in close to a thick black curtain. Frank Swat, the drummer, is on the other side talking to someone. Why on earth would anyone come out here to make a phone call? Assuming they wanted to hear the person on the other end of the line, that is. I can't stop myself from listening in.

Yeah, I know. I'm too nosy for my own damn good. Sue me.

"No, I swear. Friday after the show." Long pause. "Man, I can't. Thanks to that dickmunch, we won't get a dime from this stop. I need a little more--" Another long pause. When he speaks again, I can barely hear him but there's no hiding the fear in his voice. "Yeah, got it."

"So long, fellas," Marvin Harmony shouts into the green room. "Good luck with your careers. You're gonna need it!"

I hid behind the curtain, waiting for Frank to leave, and lucky me, I'm just in time to see Marvin's grand exit. He spins around and spots me walking up. His hair is wilder than ever but he has an almost gleeful look on his haggard face.
 

"Ah, you." He hasn't once used my name. "You better get to it."

"Get to what?" As seems to be my habit today -- most days, if I'm being really honest -- I'm clueless. All I have left to do is call Harry so he can fire me. But Marvin is looking at me like I'm the town idiot. He's probably not wrong. Then he bursts out laughing.
 

I'm starting to get pretty pissed off. This buffoon bullies everyone, and now he's standing there pointing a finger at me and really yukking it up.
 

I move to walk past him -- in a huff, of course -- but he grabs my arm to stop me. All humor has left his eyes, replaced with a glint as cold as frozen steel. His teeth peel back in a frightening grin.
 

"My darling girl, there are 8,000 souls out there waiting for the famous Drax to come out and delight them."

"So?" I really try my hardest to sound indifferent, but I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. This isn't going to end well for me.

"So...someone needs to tell them. And that someone, my dear, is you. Ta ta!"

And with that, he leaves me standing in his wake, trying to make sense of the insane words that came out of his stupid mouth. I must have misheard. He's just trying to wind me up. I can't deny it's working.

I take a step toward the green room and then the full weight of it all crashes down on me. I understand. He's right. I'm the promoter. Not really, but for all intents and purposes. No one at the venue introduces shows, unless they're specifically hired for that purpose. I want to say it's Marvin's duty but, beside the fact he just slammed out the back door, I know in my heart it's not.

 
It's my job. My job to tell an enormous crowd of angry teenage boys that the concert's cancelled. Go on home and kiss your mommies goodnight, kids. See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya!

At this very moment, there's no one else in the world I wouldn't rather be than me. I stagger into the green room, and Savory rushes over to catch me before I collapse.
 

"What's wrong? Have you heard any news?"

I shake my head and try to speak but all the moisture in my mouth has evaporated. Finally, I'm able to croak out, "I have to tell them all..."

Understanding settles on his face. He grimaces and looks to his bandmates, who shrug. Jake pours something amber into a big shot glass and passes it to me with a sympathetic look. My hand is trembling as I take it and some of the contents slosh down the sides, making the glass slippery.
 

I gaze into the liquid, looking for answers. I know they're not in there but it certainly can't hurt to steel my nerves. I toss it back and coughs wrack my body. I'm not used to the hard stuff. In fact, I rarely drink more than a glass of wine, if that. But a warmth spreads through me and I know I can do this thing.
 

I think.

"Short and sweet," Frank advises as I ghost past in a daze. My heart is beating so fast I think it's lapped itself, and my skin is slick with sweat. Somewhere in the deep recesses of what's left of my mind, I send up a little thanks for remembering my deodorant this morning.
 

Dozens of eyes follow my progress to the stage, I can feel them on me like annoying bugs. I want to glare them all down, but it's all I can do to keep my feet moving forward. And then I'm standing to the side of the stage.
 

I'm in the dark but the stage itself has lights as bright as a million suns shining down on it. At the edge of light, I can see ecstatic faces chanting "Drax! Drax! Drax!" A mosh pit has formed at the front and I see a young woman dive into the thick of it. The crowd lifts her stiff body above their heads and starts passing her along, hands groping various body parts.

They're animals!

I back away. I can't do it. How could I ever think I might be able to? I hate public speaking. Just thinking about it makes me want to yak all over, which I'm very close to doing at the moment. I glance behind me to find an escape route only to see a wall of scowling roadies with their arms crossed. They're not going to let me by. The only place I can go is forward, into the mouth of hell.

I look out at the stage again. How can Drax go out there night after night? The hatefire flares up again deep in my chest. This is all his fault. I wouldn't have to do this if it wasn't for him. If he's not in a hospital somewhere, he will be if I ever see him again.

The deep breath I take does nothing to calm my nerves, but I can't put it off any longer. I walk out to the microphone at center stage, my legs wobbling like Jello the entire way, and blow into it to make sure it's on. Feedback screeches through the amphitheater, bouncing off the walls. The crowd quiets and 8,000 sets of eyes focus on me.
 

On me!

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention!"

Jake hands me a jar of peanut butter and tries not to snicker. Never in a million years would I have guessed this day would end with me sitting on the crazy-chaotic loading dock of the theater trying to get gum out of my hair.
 

Needless to say, the crowd didn't take the news well. Thank God spit doesn't seem to travel as far as gum or I'd be drenched. I'm just lucky none of the shoes managed to hit me. That would have hurt. Seriously, I'm pretty sure this day couldn't get much worse.

Oh wait. Is that Harry tearing up in his Caddy? Yeah, I think it's about to get a whole lot worse.

He screeches to a halt right in front of me. Even through the glare from the loading dock's bright lights reflecting off his windshield, I can see that his round face is bright red and his eyes are bulging with what I'm gonna guess is, um, rage. Perfect.

He starts screaming the instant his door is open and just gets more irate as he storms onto the dock, heedless of the hustle and bustle going on around him. He's got a good fifty pounds on the chubbiest roadie, and they wisely give him a wide berth.

"What the hell did you do, Lauren? For the life of me, I can't figure out how you screwed this up! Everything was set up and perfectly planned. What the ever-living fuck?!"

I scramble to my feet to face him, to face my punishment. I know what's coming so I'm not worried or anything, but getting yelled at is never fun. Especially then the yeller is looming over you like a giant grizzly, massive maw gaping in an eternal howl of anger. The only thing I can really do at this point is maintain my dignity and accept my termination with as much grace as I can muster. Not an easy thing to do with a big wad of Hubba Bubba stuck in your hair.

"Harry--"
 

He cuts me off. "Don't even speak my name, you useless pile of human garbage. You had
one
job. One! Get that piece of shit musician to the venue. That's it! And yet it was somehow beyond your abilities. Tell me, Miss Raines, how is that even possible? Explain it to me because I really want to know."

Uh oh, he was calling me Miss Raines. That's never good.
 

"We had a couple hours between the signing and the sound check, Harry. I didn't know I was supposed to stick to him like glue. When I got here, he...wasn't."

"Did you even bother to go looking for him? God, tell me you did at least that!"

"Um, yeah...I...uh..."

Oh boy. How am I supposed to tell him that I found Drax drunk in a bar and ran out because I have a stupid schoolgirl crush on a rockstar? Then I stood there like an idiot as he climbed into a car with the Groupie du Jour? The memory of it chokes me up, even now, after all that's happened.
 

"She did but she was too late." There's a hard edge to Savory's voice as he stands next to me and crosses his arms, as if to say, 'Back off, asshole.' "He was already driving off when she spotted him. We tried to call him about a thousand times but no joy."

"Fuckin' musicians," Harry mumbles as he drags a hand through his prematurely graying hair. "Whatever. I can't have this. Does your teeny, tiny brain have the slightest inkling of a clue how bad this is?"

Now he's just dragging it out. But I'm determined to maintain my composure. "I do, Harry. And if there's anything I can do--"

"Do? I think you've done enough for one day. Now I've got to do damage control, and that's after working my ass off at that stupid revival. I want you gone. I'll have your last check and personals messengered over tomorrow. Get out of here and never let me see your stupid, incompetent face again."

My ex-boss spins around and stalks into the facility, dodging busy roadies and giant equipment cases, and I'm standing here trying not to cry. Heck, I knew this was coming. I was completely prepared to get chewed up and spit out like a gristly piece of meat. But now that it's happened, my emotions threaten to overwhelm my noble intentions.

"Wow, he's an ass," observes Savory. "And you
wanted
to work for him?"

I shrug but don't speak. No way can I trust my voice right now. Instead I turn away and slather more peanut butter on my hair. At least I can keep my head ducked so no one can see the tears in my eyes. And the ruckus of truck engines and clattering equipment dollies will cover any choking sobs that come my way.