“I asked, does Avi Wolfson believe in true love?”
The journalist – like each one before her – had to go there. Had to mine the lyrics of Painted Doors’ most celebrated song to date, trying to chisel right into that hard rock to expose the gold. If Avi penned those lyrics, surely he’d have more to say on the matter?
Sylvie had been right, of course. The song had gone straight into the Top Ten, catapulting the band from undiscovered to unstoppable. And Avi? He had been wrong, of course. “True Love For Now” had hovered stubbornly at number six for weeks, but it had firmly planted them on the rock and roll map. Gold and platinum proof. Sold out tours, awards, international attention. All because of true love.
For now.
“You can think on that one.” The journalist reached for her tablet. “Let me show you the photo spread that will accompany the cover story.”
Black and white images filled her screen. Avi studied himself, noting every mood. Remembering every shot before it happened. Of course they had commissioned her for this piece.
Sylvie was a gifted photographer, but it wasn’t just that. It was no wonder she’d been able to capture such raw, unfiltered emotion time and again. As evident in this array of photographs that spanned the last six years. Sylvie, behind that camera lens, had a way of looking right into Avi’s soul.
And his soul stared unflinchingly back.
“All that’s left to shoot is the cover. Although the feature is a retrospective, we’d like that to be ‘of the moment.’” She flashed finger quotes. “Sylvie Shapiro will be in New York this weekend.”
“Tell Ms. Shapiro I’m at her disposal.”
Avi was tempted to use air quotes, too. But he refrained.
Somehow – miraculously – they’d managed to keep her name out of the media frenzy that had glommed on to the botched proposal. He was fine taking all the heat since he had been the catalyst. And relieved, seeing her professional life hadn’t taken a hit.
Even if it meant putting himself in front of her lens again.
“Great. We’re all really excited about this issue, thank you again for letting us follow you on this leg of the tour.”
The label, or the magazine, had splashed out for this final pre-show interview: five-star hotel, sumptuous room service buffet. Anything he wanted, literally laid out on silver platters and under shiny domes.
The journalist lifted one as if to prove a point. Her tone turned provocative.
“The world’s your oyster, Avi Wolfson. You know that, right?”
No, he really didn’t. Oysters weren’t kosher, and Avi had never tried one in his life. He didn’t need an aphrodisiac; he needed something to render him an amnesiac. Something to make him forget how much he and Sylvie had hurt each other over the years.
Beginning with that night when she’d haggled for something she hadn’t ever really wanted in the first place. And ending with Vegas.
Now, every time he had to sing that song and think about it, it was like death by a thousand papercuts. And no one even noticed he was bleeding.
“Wolf.” Buck was at his side, leaning in. “Sorry to interrupt. We’re getting news of some pretty bad weather tomorrow. Fucking Buffalo. Think we should pull out tonight to be safe?”
There went all visions of his own hotel bed, dancing right out of his head.Just as well.Buffalo was the last show on what hadbeen a pretty grueling arena tour, three months out with little time off for good, or bad, behavior. No one wanted to get stuck on the road in a storm when they were so close to being home – or to disappoint any fans eager to catch the final show in the run.
“Yeah, I’m with you.”
He could tell the tour manager was relieved to have the backup. Corralling musicians was like herding tom cats most days. The worst of the bunch were feral and territorial about free time. Avi had no doubt Paul would give them grief. Or, specifically, him. Sure enough, the drummer turned their limo ride to the venue into a cage match.
“Thanks for making that executive decision, jerkoff.”
Paul tumbled into the stretch Escalade, slamming the door on the shrieking gaggle of fans cordoned off in front of the hotel. “Last time I checked, we were equal shareholders.”
“Yeah, you’re not the bloody band,” Jordy supplied, obnoxious and not helpful.Typical. He was Paul’s yes-man if he thought it was a winning battle. Or if it could somehow end in him getting laid by night’s end.
“You think I want to waste that perfectly good hotel room waiting for me? I’m thinking of the safety of the band and crew. As is Buck.” Avi added.And Iamthe band, asshole— the star power, at least.
Avi knew the resentment wasn’t really about the weather, or the itinerary change. It was about taking their most lucrative song out of rotation.
His lyrics. His music arrangement. His decision.
