“I like indie gigs,” I reply as I take a seat on her dark green couch.
“Do you know what I think you like?”
“What’s that, Cyn?”
“I think thatyouthink you’re forgettable,” Cynda says. “And so, it’s easier to remain anonymous. One night with each band. Less complicated when you don’t get to know them.”
I suck my tongue between my teeth, my mouth twisting as I stare at her. My entire body tenses beneath her assumption, and I resist walking out of the room.
“What, are you my fucking therapist today?” I ask.
“My point is,” Cynda goes on. “When I found out what Jodi had done and the reaction Young Decay—rightfully—had, I started going through my list of more trustworthy photographers to send back on tour with them. Someone I could trust not to take a fat check in exchange for a photo of their most private band member. And then I realized… who better than the lead singer’s sister.”
Her head tilts when she looks at me, and I realize what she’s asking.
“Wait—” I hop to my feet, hands up defensively. “You want me to take over the whole gig? The entire rest of the tour?”
“Well, yeah,” she replies. “What did you think I was asking?”
“I don’t… I don’t know.Definitelynot that.”
No.No, no, no—
“Reed and I would kill each other,” I tell her.
“You’ll hardly see him,” she argues.
“Except every minute of the day,” I say, knowing how close and personal the firm liked us to get.
“Then, at least do the homecoming run for me,” Cynda practically begs. “Please, Andi. I don’t have time to vet someone new when they have press beginning this weekend.”
“Press?” I ask.
“Mostly radio interviews. A couple of magazines will also be hanging around the theater next week. Before the show on Thursday, they have a small interview with the radio station sponsoring the weekend event. I need you there by this Saturday. Reed and Mads will be heading over to the station for a small promo on their lunch hour.”
Fucking hell.
I huff and press my hands to my hips.
There’s absolutely no way I can handle six months on the road—internationally, at that—with my brother. Even the thought of going home for a week has bile rising in my throat.
It’s been three years since I was home, and that was only for a day. My palms start to itch, the bottoms of my feet sweating as memories that I’ve been trying to run from invade my mind.
“Pay is triple your usual,” she adds, and my eyes lift to hers.
“Triple?”
I need to hear her repeat it.
“I went upstairs to my boss and reworked the numbers for you after I realized you might only agree to two weeks,” she goes on. “Hotel and meals paid for. Rental car. We’ll pay for your flight… Overtime, bonus weekends… Plus, triple your usual gig rate.”
How the hell was I supposed to turn that down?
Cynda smirks. “Not a bad rate for getting to go home and spend some time with family, is it?”
Family…
I want to tell her to fuck off, but dammit. I could actually put this in savings. Get ahead on a few things.
