Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Oh, wow, really? Some rando, then?”
“No idea.”
That just further confuses him. “Then … who was he …?”
I’m not sure I can answer that myself. “Nobody,” I finally say, frowning at the stars. Raj nods, taking my answer for truth right away and poking no further. I’ve come to like that about him, his calm, trusting demeanor.
It’s just that kind of mind that’s so easily moldable by Ian.
“Success ain’t everything,” I let out suddenly, perhaps what I was trying to say on the bus before the tire went caput. I peel my eyes from the night sky to find Raj looking back at me. “Don’t let … them … get into your head about perfection, threatening you not to make a mistake … That’s where the good stuff happens. When you fuck up. Take a risk. Sprinkle in something unexpected. When you don’t plan so dang much. That’s the special sauce, Raj. Don’t hold yourself back because you think you’re doin’ me any favors.”
“I … I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
I mean Ian isn’t god, and you should just follow the beat of your own drum—but that’s a tad on the nose to say to an actual drummer, and the last thing I need to do is villainize Ian to our newest member. Besides, Ian isn’t wrong; every single thing we do right now is on the world stage for everyone to dissect. Who we date. What we sing. Our social medias. Even some improvised tune no one’s heard before, thrust into the opening of the concert because I let some guy get into my head. “Just don’t let my success be what moves those hands of yours, alright? Move them because of that passion inside you. That passion is the only thing that matters.”
Raj stares blankly back at me.
I catch Ian’s gaze across the dirt, phone still slapped to his ear. He acknowledges me with a tired nod. I nod back. Then he returns to whoever he’s got up at this hour. Probably his wife Hailey. The two got married around the time my career started kicking off five or so years ago, but it’s been hot and cold with them for the past three, and I can’t help feeling my career and its associated stresses are directly to blame.
Sure, success is nice, touring keeps people employed, and we all make money. But at what cost?
We’re on the road again. I’m in the bedroom in the back of the bus. Most of it is used to store personal belongings of the others, and I never shut the door, wanting the band to feel welcome to it, even the bed—I always hated feeling like the pampered leader. But no one ever wants it, so I’m always in it anyway. Glorious, my ever loyal guitar, rests next to me on the sheets like a lover, and that’s not far off. I’ve written so many damned songs on it in bed, it just became a thing that I started sleeping with him next to me.
I strum a gentle E flat major. Then a G minor. I smirk to myself and scribble in my notepad. Fiona was right. She always is.
Then I think about the secret sauce behind the song. The guy who somehow managed to unravel all my insecurities in a way no one in my band or crew has ever dared to. Calling into question my authenticity as an artist without even knowing my music. Each time his words seep in, I feel just as indignant as I do fascinated.
That whole encounter is an unfinished story—as unfinished as this song my brain and guitar-troubling fingers can’t work out.
I can’t hope to sleep a wink, no matter how smooth our ride with the new tire, no matter the bed. I even snuck past the bunks and ate some cereal out of my favorite smiley mug and still can’t find peace. Wily and Fiona are snoring away. Raj, too, except for the snoring. Other than the driver, I’m the only asshole on the bus still awake with my phone out under the sheets.
I’m looking up the next ten stops on the tour. All of them here in Texas. And in the dead center of those cities, like a speck of dust I could accidentally wipe right off the map with a flick of my hand, is a town I have never once in my life heard of before—at least, not until tonight. “Spruce,” I mumble, reading its name while rubbing a thumb over my lips, bothered.
Chapter 3.
Timothy
Screams and whistles and cheers.
Millions of feet roaring on the ground.
A rhythm catching hold in the discord of endless stomping.
Then a rich, soulful voice cutting through.
I see the passion in you …
My eyes snap open. I sit up with a start. It’s dark. Bed sheets kicked off. Pillow on the floor. Sweated through my shirt. Large window next to me with gentle rain tapping on it.