He tried not to let it show on his face how much he dreaded “events.” How much he loathed the people and the publicity, the fakery, the exposure. “It’s not going to do me any good.”
She tilted her head to one side. “It could do you a hell of a lot of good. If you want to do this tour.” Her eyes narrowed in scrutiny.
He couldn’t turn away, and it probably wouldn’t have helped, anyway. She’d see. He couldn’t decide if he liked that, or if it terrified him.
“So—I’ll ask you again. Why are you doing it?”
He still didn’t want to answer the question, but he knew she’d keep asking him until he spilled. She was that kind of woman.
“I said no when they asked me, at first,” he admitted.
Two of his former bandmates and his old manager had come looking for him after he hadn’t returned their calls, showing up at Village Blues one evening to corner him.
You look like hell, man.
He’d run out of disposable razors a few days earlier, along with milk and cereal. That meant no shaving, and it also meant breakfast had been Bloody Marys in the neighborhood bar. Nothing new on either front.
Thanks, guys.
They’d bought him several drinks and then explained the situation. His bandmates needed money. They wanted to do a reunion tour. They were sure he needed money, too, how about it? Jimmy Jeffers, the manager, would make it happen.
He’d told them no. In much stronger language, a burst of fiery self-righteousness that had felt better than sex.
They’d backed off, right out of the club. He’d thought it had been the persuasive power of his refusal, but probably they’d already decided they could replace him. His assholery had only reinforced their intention to do so.
“You know the band’s history?” he asked Haven.
She nodded. Her hair was up in some kind of fancy twist thing. He wondered how many hairpins it took to keep it there, how much hair spray. She was so flawlessly put together, the kind of woman he didn’t waste his time pursuing. Different worlds, different values. But Haven wasn’t looking through him. She was looking at him with sharp, knowing, memorizing regard.
“What that history doesn’t say is that I never should have been in Sliding Up in the first place. I’m not pop-star material, and anyone could have seen that by looking at me. I was going to school at Berklee, playing blues and rock and roots, and I let myself get snowed by a producer, which is what happens to a lot of musicians. Labels go after young guys in crappy circumstances who can’t say no. I should have had the balls to refuse, because I had other options.”
“So why did you eventually say yes to the reunion ?”
“My dad had a stroke. A few weeks ago.”
Her face softened. She’d been pretty before, but now looking at him as though she cared—
It pissed him off that he still had this weakness in him. He hadn’t learned that women could do this at will—listen raptly, make you think you were the only man in the world. He hardened his heart and plowed on.
“He’s got months of physical rehabilitation ahead of him and a nurse taking care of him in his house. The bills are a bitch and his crappy insurance barely makes a dent. I’m his only kid. My mom’s dead. I told him I’d take care of it.”