Mick’s voice was soft. “Son…I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re one of their assets. If something happens to you, they’re liable. But that’s not all. Even though they care about you as a product, they also care about what happens to you.”
At that, Zack snorted. “Yeah, But only because if we perform like good little monkeys, they’ll make money.”
He wasn’t wrong—that was the feeling I’d had for a long time.
Mick said, “I understand why you feel that way, and I’m not saying you’re wrong—but what about the reason you did this in the first place? Have you already lost your passion for performing? For sharing your music? For moving people with your message?”
Zack was quiet, shifting his focus to his wrist where a needle and tube were taped. He didn’t reply right away but, when he did, we were riveted. “No. That’s what makes life worth living—which is why Idon’twant the tour canceled.” He looked up at Mick again. “We have a week off and I can get my shit together between now and then. And I already told Dani and Braden that I’ll go into rehab…but not untilafterthe tour.”
“I get that, but—”
“You know as well as I do that this is the most important time for us to be visible. If we don’t push our new music, who will? The label sure as hell won’t put up any more money, especially if I’m stuck in rehab.”
“You’d be surprised. It’s all on how the PR guys spin it.”
“Shit. Is this already public?”
Mick and I both shook our heads. “Not that I know of. Nobody should know about this. Other than hospital and ambulance staff, it’s the band, me, and that girl you were partying with. The hotel staff likely knows something happened because they had paramedics in and out, but there’s no guarantee they saw you on the gurney. I’m gonna have to call and either ask for another day or move us somewhere else, so some bright employee might figure it out. But that doesn’t matter. I’ve done this long enough to say that you never know when there’ll be a leak—so Ihadto tell the label. They need to get out ahead of this shit.”
“And what’re they gonna say?”
“I have no idea. They might tell the press you had food poisoning or a bad case of the flu—or they might put out their feelers, find out that no one’s talking, and decide not to say shit. But the bottom line is it’stheircall, not ours.”
With some resignation, Zack nodded. “Okay, fine. They can tell the press whatever the fuck they want—but let me talk to them. I need to assure them I’ll be good to go on the second leg.”
“I don’t think you should do that right now. Your nurse says you need rest more than anything else.”
“Then I need you to tell them for me.” From where I stood, I could only see the side of Mick’s face, but he’d have to be a block of granite to not be moved by Zack’s plea. “This shit? It scared me, and I’m not saying that lightly. I…saw it on Dani’s face. You guys really believed I could have died. And not remembering anything? Maybe I almost did die—and I’m not ready to do that. So I’ll go to rehab—I swear to God. I swear on my Grandpa’s grave. Just don’t let them cancel the tour.”
“Okay—I’ll do my best. Just get better, son. Get your rest and get your head on straight and don’t worry about anything else for the time being.”
The nurse appeared again, her face telling us she thought we’d broken our promise. But all she said was “My patient needs to rest.”
Zack said to Mick, “Swear?”
“Yes. Just get some rest and we’ll take care of everything.”
Until I started to follow him, I didn’t realize I’d been chewing my bottom lip in an effort to keep my emotions in check. Zack said, “I’ll be okay, Dani. Don’t worry.”
With a short nod, I forced a smile—but as soon as my back was turned and we were exiting the room, the tears began to drop again.
CHAPTER 17
The second leg of our tour began mid-November, and I was shocked at the difference a week could make. I wasn’t a fool and I didn’t believe Zack was “cured,” but he was healthier and stronger by the time we left.
Mick had delivered on his promise to Zack, convincing the label to let us continue. But I got the feeling that it wasn’t too hard a sell—after all, they wanted us making money for them. I knew, though, that we weren’t big enough yet for them to not hesitate to cut their losses if this sort of thing kept happening.
Zack was in the hospital for a whole day and they released him the following afternoon. He’d been tired and moving slowly, but he said he was ready for “real” food. The roadies had already been sent home on a plane, so it was Mick, the band, and the bus driver—and Mick found a restaurant that served big burgers.
And then we had a long talk.
The plan was to finish out the tour—and, in the meantime, Mick would send Zack a few recommendations for variousrehab facilities so he could choose one. In the meantime, Mick wanted us all in on the plan.
Zack would be allowed to continue drinking, although we all urged him to drink as little as possible, and Mick encouraged him to continue taking his Xanax—butonlyas prescribed.
Zack swore, “Nothing else.”
We all offered to be there for him, whatever he needed—support, talking, a shoulder—but Zack had already put up a masculine front, and I didn’t know if it was to reassure himself or us.
