Page 7 of Real Rocks
“Want some?” he asked, breaking off a chunk of pastry.
I shook my head. My appetite had deserted me after last night. It was all I could do to stomach the coffee.
“How do you think last night went?”
“Jonas thought it was a good set.” I cradled the mug in my hands. “We should get some publicity from theRocciateam and I think there have been a couple of pictures onThe Goss.” The latter site was the bane of my life. From frequently featuring me falling out of clubs and bars to revealing my relationship with Tris, they certainly guaranteed publicity whatever I did. Hopefully the gig would generate positivity this time.
“Yeah, I spoke to Joel briefly afterwards too. He was pretty pleased.” Darren took a gulp of his coffee. “Tell me what you know about this tour then.”
“We should wait for the others.”
“How come you’re here so early anyway? We usually have to wait for you.”
“Too hyped up after last night. I couldn’t sleep.” I shrugged, almost dismissing the fact I’d had around two hours rest, even though there was a grain of truth in my explanation.
“Oh, I get it. You and Tris wanted to celebrate how well it had gone.” A smirk crossed Darren’s face as he wrongly assumed my reasons for being awake half the night.
I threw a balled up napkin at him. “Stop it! I don’t want you thinking of us in that way.”
“Ugh, as if, Saff. Tris and I are good mates, but I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Either of you want another drink?” Tommo materialised by the table, gesturing to Barney who was in the queue.
“Mmm, more coffee please.” I drained the last of the almost cold black liquid and screwed up my face.
It was a few minutes before they finally sat down at the table. Barney pushed a fresh mug towards me, and I wrapped my hands around it for comfort.
“Right, everyone’s here now,” said Darren. “Tell us what you know.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out a couple of folded sheets of paper, smoothing them out in front of me. “Jonas has got us a support slot on a tour with another one of the bands on the label. Apparently, the lead singer of the group they already had originally booked has done a runner, and no-one knows where he is.” The guy had the right idea. If I could run away right now, I’d do it. But I had too many people I didn’t want to let down, so I was doing my best to tough it out.
“I’d heard the rumour,” mused Tommo. “One of my old band mates told me the story, but I didn’t know if it was true.”
“Their loss is our gain.” Darren stuffed the last of his croissant into his mouth. “Who’s the band?”
“Trash Gun.”
“Seriously? Scott Lincoln?”
“Yep.”
“Shit.”
The three guys exchanged glances and raised eyebrows.
Trash Gun were a four piece indie rock band who had started around the same time as TheSB. While we’d eked as much out of our first album as possible, they’d worked their arses off and had become the darlings of the independent radio stations. Constant airplay meant they’d hit it big. It was a shame Scott Lincoln’s ego was now bigger than his band. Supporting them would be a mixed blessing.
I passed the sheet of paper to them. The venues on this tour were small; booked way in advance and not in anticipation of the success Trash Gun would glean. Four shows over five days across the country ending in Manchester, their home town. It would be hard going, with all the travel in such a short space of time, but it certainly meant I could escape for a while. I could exist in a tour bubble where no-one could get to me. More specifically Carl.
The three of them examined the information, pointing at locations and commenting how they’d been to the majority of the places to see bands themselves. It seemed they were up for it.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“We’d be stupid to turn it down.”
“It’s a great opportunity to get back out there.”
“Touring with them will definitely get our profile up.”
