Page 33 of Accidental Fire
I sure hoped so.
After I dried off and changed into a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, I surrendered my black leather pants, red filmy shirt, and black suede boots, grabbing my acoustic to head outside to find Kit.
Marshall was talking to Vic Fever, and I didn’t see any trace of the rest of the guys, so I walked around the back of the venue to see Kit’s semi was still parked behind the church. I pulled out my phone to send him a text.
Where’d you go?
“Hey, River!”
I turned to see that Marshall had JD, Goldie, Arlo, and Hardy gathered around him, so I made my way over. “What’s up?”
“It’s Tuesday night. Vic’s Saturday night band can’t make it, and he wants us—I mean you guys—to take the slot. He’ll pay us a twenty-five percent increase from tonight’s pay because of the short notice. What do you think?”
Marshall’s excitement was infectious, but before anyone could make a commitment, I said, “Give us a minute to talk about it. We’ll be back.”
I dragged my band over to an outside table on the patio so we could sit and talk about the offer. Vic came outside. “You guys want something? Food or drinks?”
We ordered a bucket of beer and some buffalo chicken loaded fries. Vic did the finger pistol thing before he winked and headed inside.
I wanted the five of us to have an honest discussion without Marshall’s influence for once. “Okay. We’re flying out to LA tonight to get into the studio tomorrow morning. Do we want to fly back for a Saturday night show and then fly right back to LA to get back in the studio on Sunday? I don’t hate the idea of playing here again, but we need to get the tracks down for the album. The crowd here was great, but is it what we want to do?
“Marshall wants what will make him the most money. We’re the assholes on the go here, so I had a thought. What if we talk to Mr. Ashby about recording the music we’re playing live? That way, we wouldn’t be flying back and forth to LA all the time, and maybe we could enjoy the tour? What do you think?”
I would be the first to admit that I was trying like hell to orchestrate a situation where I could be around Kit more. Flying back and forth to LA to record was a time-eating monster. Riding in the red Peterbilt with Kit would be a lot more fun than hopping on a private plane.
JD, the quietest among us, glanced up. “He said we’d get twenty-five percent more than what we made tonight. What’s that mean in dollars and cents?”
Goldie cuffed him on the back of the head. “Dude, do you have any idea how much we make at every gig?”
JD and Arlo both answered, “Nope.”
“Jesus fuck, guys. Do you have a financial advisor at all?” I asked.
Goldie turned to me and arched an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“I do.” I didn’t tell them it was my mother, but she knew about shit and kept my money straight. I’d just turned twenty-one, for fuck’s sake.
“Fuck,” Hardy complained.
“We’re making thirty-five grand for this appearance. Marsh gets an equal share with the five of us, so that means we each get five thousand eight hundred and thirty-three. Twenty-five percent more of that equals seven thousand two hundred and ninety-one each if we do an extra night.”
JD’s expression was one of shock, which made me want to laugh, but I didn’t. “JD, why didn’t you talk to your family about any of this?”
He stared at me for a moment. “It’s not their business. They don’t want me in their lives, but if they knew I was making that kind of money, they’d bleed me dry.”
I sighed. “Sorry.”
Arlo touched JD’s shoulder. “It’s okay, brother. We’re a family now. We’ll get through this together. How do you feel about staying until Sunday morning? We’ll need to call the record label and get it approved, right?”
Hardy sat forward but didn’t say anything as Vic brought out the bucket of beer. “Food’s coming right up, guys.”
We all thanked him, and he walked back into the bar. Hardy handed out the cans, opening them for each of us before they held up their beers next to mine. “To us!”
After touching cans, we stared at each other. Finally, I took the lead. “Okay, so who wants to stay until Sunday? Recording on the road means we don’t go back home as often. I think if we’re offered extra gigs, we should take them, but that’s just me.”
“I think you’re right, River. We need all the money we can get because they own our asses.” Hardy’s comments surprised me.
“Who owns our asses, Hardy?” I asked. We were going to make money on the album, but we had to get it done. We were playingsmaller venues, so we didn’t make as much at each show, but that was fine.
