I sigh. Last night, after Booker Morris outed me, I’d tried to explain how my job had evolved, but the band didn’t want to hear it. After abandoning me in the lobby of the MGM, leaving me behind to grapple with their luggage, they ignored me at practice this morning with a rigor that was almost impressive. Running into Kenny here in the meditation room felt like a small miracle until he resolutely kept his back to me. It’s clear that I’m once again persona non grata with the band. All that progress for nothing.
I grit my teeth and scroll through my endless email inbox. MGM’s meditation room overlooks the casino’s packed pools and swim-up bars, and even though the window’ssoundproof—thank god—it’s not sunlight-proof. I’m battling a glare that no amount of readjusting the screen will fix.
“Rude,” Kenny snips.
Finally, my frustration spills over. “Ken, do you know how much planning it takes to get you guys from one place to another? Or how many disasters pop up along the way? The festival hotel in Tennessee ran out of rooms, so now I need to find you another place to stay in a sold-out market. And our first studio session is coming up, so I have to find you top-notch producers with last-minute availability.”
“But why—”
“And don’t even get me started on the rights for the samples Ripper wants. A legal nightmare.” I sigh. “The MGM’s business center is closed and the people in the room next to mine have been playing EDM through the walls since we got here. This place is the only quiet space in all Las Vegas. And no matter what you think of a stupid nickname, I still have to do all this shit for you guys, so excuse me if I jam your precious vibes for two minutes.”
Kenny lifts his hands in surrender. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of micro-shorts that look like they’re made out of hemp. They’re giving me a visual I would’ve happily gone my entire life without. “Okay, jeez, Suit. I believe you. No one who came to axe us would bother working so hard.”
I blink at his sudden about-face.
“Your soul is screaming for meditation, man.” Kenny crawls across the mat and pats my leg. “Come on. Put down that laptop and take a seat in Mother Gaia’s chair.”
“I don’t think so, Ken.”
“You know, I think I’m starting to understand you. Your misguided devotion to corporate drudgery comes from a loving place. I forgive you for being the Grim Reaper.”
“The real nickname’s the Fixer, actually. That’s what they call me at the label.”
“Whatever. That was in your past, before us. So come on. Let Brother Kenny help.”
I must be spectacularly hard up for friendship, because I find myself sighing and setting down my laptop. “Are you sure you’re not too hungover?” At practice, every member of the Saints had looked green to the gills from their late night with Dead to Rights. Ripper couldn’t stop sweating, and Hannah almost barfed when I mentioned getting breakfast.
“Nah.” Kenny shakes his head. “The earth is healing me.”
My phone starts ringing, harsh and loud.
“No,” Kenny moans. “No phone calls in Mother’s room.”
It’s Roger. I lunge for it. “Hey, Roger. Nice to—”
“Are you watching TMZ’s Instagram?” He barks it so harshly even Kenny jumps.
“Why would I be watching—”
“Pull it up, then call me back.” He hangs up.
Jesus. I fumble with my phone until I find TMZ’s account.
“I’m sensing negative energy,” Kenny ventures.
I click on TMZ’s stories. They’re live streaming from a pool. Kenny watches over my shoulder. “Oh hey, that’s the Caesars’s pool.”
The ambient noise is loud in the video—the raucous sounds of a pool party—so at first, it’s hard to decipher what’s going on. There’s a crowd gathered at the bar. Something’s going down.
“Hannah!” Kenny says, pointing.
My stomach drops. “And Booker.”
They’re both in bathing suits. My mind quickly disassociates from the sight of Booker’s tattoo sleeves—cool, dangerous, enviable—and Hannah’s bikini-clad body—lovely, sharp lines, maybe a little too skinny. Booker’s lighting a yardstick of shots from behind the bar— how he wrangled his way back there I can’t imagine—and Hannahand another Dead to Rights band member are taking them while people cheer. The caption on the Live says “Rock Star Bedlam in Vegas,” and TMZ’s right on the money. The pool bar is in chaos, glasses tipped over, half-full bottles leaking, the top blown off an industrial mixer. Either Caesars is letting this happen, or Hannah and Booker are about to be in a lot of trouble.
There’s a roar of laughter as the Dead to Rights band member next to Hannah accidentally lights his long hair on fire. The crowd backs up, shouting, as he beelines to the pool and cannonballs in.
Kenny shakes his head. “Amateur. Everyone knows you gotta down those shots superfast.”
