“If you make that your next single,” Ginny counters, “your fans won’t know what to think. It’s like night and day. I don’t know if it’s commercial.”
Ripper flops on the couch in the middle of the greenroom, kicking his sneakers up on the dented coffee table. “What was that falling thing you did at the end?”
I take another sip of beer. By now, the sweat from performing has cooled into a film over my skin. My knees still sting. “Nothing.”
“I thought you were going to stop singing for a second.”
“Well, I didn’t.” I hold up my beer. “Want one?”
Ripper stretches on the couch. “A warning next time would be nice. That’s all I’m saying.”
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to tell him there won’t be a next time. But then our tour manager, Bowie, busts into the room, buzzing with his usual postshow energy. “Okay, guys, Branson’s an idiot and cut himself loading the ampsagain, so I have to take him to the ER, but don’t worry, it’s just a coupleof stitches. Carrie’s going to oversee the rest of the loading while I’m gone, and before you say anything, I told her how you like things done—”
“Bowie, bro.” Kenny grips both of Bowie’s shoulders. “What’s the verdict? Final show of the tour—what’d you think?”
The three of us watch him, waiting, and Bowie turns red. He’s the best tour manager around, and there’s genuinely no bigger fan of our music, but the dude melts under a spotlight. I used to have this recurring fantasy of bringing him onstage to thank him in front of the fans, but I’m pretty sure he’d go into cardiac arrest if I so much as uttered his name into a mic.
“The song at the end was powerful,” Bowie says carefully.
Ripper groans. “I knew it. We sucked. Toss me a beer.”
I oblige, tossing a can at his head. He catches it, glaring, then turns to Bowie. “I’m telling you. Let me play lead guitar, and it’ll be a game changer. I’ll take us to the next level.”
I roll my eyes. Ripper’s been campaigning to play lead guitar for months, and there’s no opportunity he won’t seize to make his case.
“He’s such an attention whore,” Ginny whispers. “What did I see in him?”
I shoot her a warning look but she keeps going, a mischievous grin curling her lips. “Oh yeah, his giant dick. Did I ever tell you—”
“No,” I say quickly, and Bowie turns to me, his face growing redder.
“I didn’t mean you sucked,” Bowie backpedals. “I swear—”
“Hey!” A man pops his head into the open doorway. “What a maze back here.”
“No autographs,” Ripper barks, then gestures for me to hand him a glass for his beer.
Bowie starts toward the guy, herding him out. “Sorry, man. If you want to wait out by the van, the band can sign your stuff later.”
The guy gives us a dazzling smile. It changes his face, lighting up his eyes and causing little crinkles to form in the corners. “That’s a great idea,” he says, striding into the room. “But actually—” He holds out his hand. “I’m Theo Ford. Roger Braverman sent me from Manifest. I’m your new manager. I think you got some calls and emails about it? For, um, the last few months?”
Instantly, a mix of shock, embarrassment, and fury fills me. Thelabel. We’d tried to appease those corporate bloodsuckers with new music, and when they didn’t like it, we’d fought with them, then iced them out. Now they had the nerve to show up on our tour? We told them we didn’t want a new manager, that we’d handle our shit on our own. Even the thought of someone new makes me want to light something on fire.
No one moves. You could hear a pin drop.
Theo retracts his hand and runs it through his hair, as if that was his intention all along. He has perfectly disheveled hair. In fact, if a couture designer drew a rock musician, it would be this guy, with his dark brown hair sweeping across high cheekbones, long-lashed hazel eyes, thick eyebrows, and lips too full to be anything but objectively beautiful. He wears carefully cool clothes, like the kind you see on the cover ofRolling Stone. All in all, he gives the impression of an actor playing a role. Which makes sense, since—no matter how pretty or cool he looks—he’s a corporate goon. An industry exec sent to take more control away from me.
“Shit,” Ginny whispers. “Are label reps legally allowed to be this hot?”
Right now, I’m too focused on the way his T-shirt lays over his collarbonejust so. “He’s a fake, is what he is.”
Theo frowns. “Excuse me?”
It’s enough to jolt everyone out of their shock. Bowie lunges forward, pumping Theo’s hand. “Bowman Jericho, tour manager. Sorry for the mix-up. We weren’t expectingyou. The, uh, emails must not have gone through.” Bowie knows for a fact that I stopped opening those a long time ago.
At the warmer reception, Theo’s smile returns. “No worries. I’m glad I ended up coming in person. Gave me a chance to witness the Future Saints in action.”
He was in the crowd the whole time. He saw me stumble, heard me get heckled. He watched me fall on my knees. I squeeze the glass in my hand. “So, what? You thought you’d spy on us, maybe catch us breaking some rules you could report to Roger?” I’m aware, from the early emails I did read, that several venue managers on our tour have complained about our “unruly behavior.” They can go to hell.
