They were trying to play it cool. They were failing spectacularly.
"Coffee?" Alfie asked for the third time in twenty minutes. We were sitting in the front lounge, me reviewing the setlist on my laptop, him pretending to write lyrics while staring intensely at my left ear.
"I’m still drinking the last one," I said, not looking up. "And the one before that."
"Right. Yeah. Hydration. Important." He scribbled something furiously that looked less like words and more like a jagged seismograph of his internal panic.
The hovering wasn't overt. They weren't crowding me or encroaching on the tape lines I’d torn up but hadn't erased from my mind. It was subtle. It was gravitational.
When I stood up to stretch, Kit, who was in the kitchenette, stopped chopping vegetables instantly, his whole body orienting toward me like a compass needle finding North. When I rubbed my neck, Euan adjusted the thermostat within four seconds. When I went to the bathroom, I heard the conversation in the lounge die instantly, waiting for the sound of the lock to click.
They were orbiting.
A triple match.Statistical unicorn.
I tried to focus on the EQ curve for the kick drum, but the colors were bleeding. Every time one of them moved, my synesthesia flared. Alfie’s burnt sugar scent was a wash of warm amber. Kit’s espresso was a deep, grounding brown. Euan’s sesame was a sharp, clean slate-grey.
I wasn't scent-blind anymore. Or rather, the signal was shouting so loud it was bypassing the hardware limitations of my nose.
"We're ten out from the Barrowlands," Cal announced from the jump seat, breaking the tension. "Load-in is going to be wet. Proper Scottish weather."
"Copy that," Alfie said, entirely too loud. He looked at me. "You got a coat? A proper one? Not just the hoodie?"
"I'm fine, Alfie."
"I've got a spare parka," Kit rumbled. "Waterproof. Thermal lining."
"It's a load-in, not an Arctic expedition," I said, closing my laptop. "I'll survive the twenty feet from the bus to the door."
Euan stood up. "I have analyzed the loading dock schematics. There is a canopy, but it has a structural leak three meters from the ramp. I will park the gear cases to create a dry corridor."
I stared at him. "You're going to reroute the rain?"
"I am going to mitigate the liquid intake," he said, dead serious.
I sighed, but the corner of my mouth twitched. They were impossible. They were terrifying. And God help me, the fact that they wanted to engineer a dry path for me made my chest ache.
The Barrowland Ballroom smelled the way legendary venues always smell: like fifty years of spilled beer, sweat, and ghosts. It was cavernous, echoing, and colder than the bus.
I went straight to Front of House. It was my fortress. The mixing console was the one place where the rules of physics still applied, where input equaled output and I had control over the faders.
"Check one, two," Alfie’s voice boomed through the PA, catching the natural reverb of the room.
I brought up the faders. "Too much 4k in your vocal, Alfie. It’s biting."
"Adjusting mic distance," he replied, backing off instantly. "Better?"
"Better."
The soundcheck proceeded with mechanical efficiency, but the emotional temperature in the room was red-lining. Every time I spoke over the talkback, three heads onstage snapped toward the booth.
Kit hit the snare.Crack.
"More attack," I said.
He adjusted his grip.CRACK.
"Good."
