Page 32 of Sycopation
It was Zavier who answered. “Drink your beer. Enjoy the night. It was incredible.” He gave a little laugh, as if he didn’t believe how well they’d played. “Like I said, nothing can change that. Ray’ll feel better in the morning.”
The thing of it was that theyhadfucking rocked it. Played better than even Five Asylum. Ray still vibrated from the audience, those wide eyes staring at him, and the screaming fans with their outstretched arms. There’d been the murmured thanks, tears, and heartfelt happiness in the autograph line. People wanted selfies with him. Mel’s story.
Zavier was right—Carl couldn’t take that away. But the walking dickbag could make sure it never ever happened again. He could make them destitute. They’d never dig themselves out of the hole he’d put them in by accepting that contract.
That was where Zavier was so very, very wrong—Ray wasn’t going to feel better in the morning. He’d never get the rock lodged in his stomach out again. They were beholden to the studio, and Carl held all the cards.
Zavier wokewhen Ray slipped out of the berth above his. No idea what time it was...but probably not morning given that they were still on the road and their next stop was outside Chicago.That was only about a five-hour drive, and it had taken Mish, Dom, and him a good hour after the bus pulled away from the venue to chill out—both from the concert and their collective anger at Carl.
Fucking Carl. Before he’d crawled into his bunk, Zavier had shot off another email to Nadia. She preferred phone calls, but there wasn’t any good or private time and other than the band, he wasn’t sure who he could trust.
As for the band, he didn’t exactly want to drop Nadia’s name. Not the famous madam from the ’70s. No idea how any of them would react tothattidbit of news.
Ray’s footsteps headed to the back of the bus, toward the bathroom. Zavier waited, but those footsteps never returned, though the soft sounds of water running had filtered to Zavier’s ears. He was groggy and tired and should leave Ray to his space, but try as he might, he couldn’t slip back into sleep.
He kept seeing Ray’s broken expression when he’d climbed into the bus. The hopelessness written into his skin and the desolation in his eyes. Whatever Carl had said to Ray, it had sunk teeth in deep. Too deep.
They needed Ray. Hell,Rayneeded Ray—not the anxious, strung-out version that was uncontrolled and spiraling, but the thoughtful, creative one who saw solutions and knew the band, the material, and what would light the fans on fire.
Zavier sighed, got up, and followed Ray to the back of the bus. There was a little lounge they’d deemed a quiet zone. Somewhere to go when you wanted to read or rest or otherwise have downtime without someone yapping in your ears.
Ray sat on one of the couches, a small light illuminating the gold of his hair. His head was in his hands, and his naked but inked back heaving like he’d run a marathon. Or was trying very hard not to break down. He looked up when Zavier paused at the threshold and if anything, there was more despair in his eyesthan before. “I’m sorry if I woke you.” His voice was a mess of husk and gravel.
“It’s not a problem. I was worried.” Zavier waved at the seat across from Ray. “Do you need a shoulder?”
Ray’s laugh was hollow. “I need a fucking brain.”
But he nodded, so Zavier slipped in and took a seat. “Whatever Carl said—it’s probably not true.”
Ray pushed his hair back. “Except that it is.” He fisted his locks and yanked, then stood and paced in a very tiny circle, much like a caged animal. “It is.”
Oh, the desire to rise up and take Ray’s arms, his tense body, and sit it back down on the bench with him. Soothe out his worries and take control of all that energy. But Ray was too far gone, and too volatile. “How?”
That question seemed to suck the wind out of Ray. He sank down. “We owe the label money. More than we’ll ever make. The first album with them went gold, and the idea of the tour was to boost our visibility and bring in more funds for the next album with them, but...we’re never gonna make enough. Ever. I signed a contract that screws us over and—” He took a long look up the bus. “I’ve fucked over my friends, ’cause I got them to sign it, too.”
Am I your friend?Zavier would like to think that he was. “Record label contracts are pretty much designed to screw the artists over, yeah. But there are ways to survive that. To thrive. There has to be, because others have.” He shifted on the couch. “Carl likes playing with your head.”
It was almost as if those sentences, that string of words had been the tiny slaps Ray had needed to wake him up out of his shock and fear. “I asked him to send me the spreadsheet he showed me.”
A goddamned spreadsheet? “That fucker threw numbers at you after a concert and fan signing?”
Ray nodded slowly. “And told me to toe the line, or he’d make our lives hell with the label. More or less.” Another glance up the bus. “Please don’t tell the others. They have enough shit to deal with.” He sat back. “Hell, I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. Carl’smyproblem.”
That fucking manager was everyone’s problem. But Zavier shrugged. “I’m expendable.” A temporary hire.
For the first time since Ray had entered the bus, his expression was clear and collected. “No. You’re not.” He rose. “I should try to get some sleep.”
Yeah, so should he. “Ray?”
Ray paused, but didn’t look back. “Yeah?”
“I’ve never played a concert like I played last night. I want to do it again. Even better.”
This time Ray did glance back. “Me too.” With that, Ray headed to his berth and crawled inside.
Zavier waited a few minutes, replaying the conversation over in his head. He really needed dirt on Carl, or to find some way to keep Ray from falling apart after every damn show. The fucker had his claws in Ray, that was for sure—probably playing with Ray’s sense of responsibility.
Finally, Zavier got up and slipped back into his bunk. He itched to touch Ray in all the ways that might calm that spirit down.
