31
"Hey, are you guys Cherry Lips?" one of the event staff asked as he poked his head into the artist lounge.
“That’s us,” Liam and I said at the same time.
I flicked my eyes to Liam. He was staring back. I took in his messy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the firm set of his clenched jaw.
I turned my head away.
Liam looked as terrible as I felt.
Good. He should feel miserable. He’d brought it all on himself.
Our fight felt like it had taken place months ago, and yet it had only been days. We couldn’t put the tour on hold just because the lead singer and guitarist had a tiff. We had to pile into the rented van and sit in silence as we drove to the latest concert. Luckily, this one was only in the next town over, barely a thirty minute drive.
I made sure to beat the others to shotgun. I couldn’t stomach the thought of being stuck in the back with Liam again. It was hard enough to keep the tears at bay when I was alone. Being next to Liam only made it a hundred times worse.
"Some local blogger dude says he's here for an interview,” the event guy continued. “Wants to talk to you before you get on stage."
All the guys in my band groaned. We'd done a dozen or more of these already, and it was turning into a chore. They always asked the same questions and we always answered in the same way.
"Can't he just rip off the answers from one of those other blogs?" Gael said, only half-joking.
"It's good publicity," I said. "We want people reading about us. Talking about us. The more of these interviews we do, the better."
Gael grumbled, but settled down into the sofa.
My brother had been oddly quiet until now. He kept shooting me careful looks. We hadn’t had a chance to talk in private, and I knew he was wondering how I was holding up.
Morris and I weren’t the only ones who had been keeping track of the days.
“So can I show him in?” the man asked.
I nodded and he disappeared.
A young guy with a haircut that looked like he'd time traveled from the seventies poked his head through the door.
"Red hair,” the guy grinned at me. “Awesome. You're the people I'm looking for."
He walked in and set up a tripod with his phone connected to it. He pointed it at us then took a seat perched on one of the armchairs, not bothering to shake hands or introduce himself.
"I almost interviewed the wrong band,” he said. “Those guys opening for you are terribly dull, aren't they?" He turned to me. "So what's with the hair?"
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The hair." The blogger pointed at my head. "What's with that color?"
"I like red," I said, nonplussed.
"Yeah, but, isn't it sort of tacky to color your hair cherry red, when your name means cherry and your band is Cherry Lips?"
"Tacky?" I repeated, insulted.
But the guy had already turned his attention to Gael. "Rumor is, you're pussy-whipped now. How's that going for you?"
Nathan made a sort of half-snort, half-snicker sound.
"I'm not pussy-whipped, fuck you very much," Gael snapped. "I'm nailing a hot as fuck chick every night, can you say the same?"
