Like many men in the business, he’d once aimed for stardom but landed on plan B: a desk job and a dramatic drop in groupie interest.
Actually, make that zero.
Like he did every year, Rick parked himself on the drum throne and held court while the country’s biggest rock stars played cover tunes. For them, it was a chance to let their hair down. For Rick, it was a chance to pretend he still had some.
“What are they waiting for?” Cary asked Tyler, waving to the guys in Yestown.
“Rick the Dick’s on drums,” she complained. “I’m surprised he’s not playing ‘Glory Days.’”
“The guys can join in, can’t they?” Cary asked.
“No, I want the whole band up there and Rick off that goddamn stage.”
“I’m going up!” he shouted over the music.
She grabbed his arm. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but I love playing.” Cary kissed her cheek, then walked over to Yestown, and said something as they nodded.
The crowd quietened when Cary lifted the microphone from its stand. It was a well-known fact that he didn’t play covers unless it was “O Canada.”
“How ’bout a little ‘La Villa Strangiato?’” he asked the crowd.
Everyone cheered and Rick exited the stage. The song was the most complex in Rush’s catalog and Rick sucked on drums—worse than the original drummer from KISS.
“Boys?” Cary waved the band over, and to Tyler’s pride they played the song with the precision of Lee, Lifeson, and Peart.
“I love this fucking band, man,” Allie said, hugging Tyler. “This is one of my favorite Rush tunes.”
“Mine too!”
“What do you make of Cary bringing Yestown on tour?” Allie’s eyes darkened as she frowned. “Was he serious?”
Tyler shrugged. “He sounded serious.”
“I’ll get their contracts ready. I don’t give a shit that it’s Sunday or about this stupid rule.” She pulled out her phone and hid it under her jacket. “Fuck me.”
“What?” Tyler asked.
“Fucking Tommy.” She scrolled through her phone. “He’s with Sebastien. They’re here, waiting in line.”
Tyler grabbed her phone from her purse: five missed calls from Sebastien.
Fuck.
Kim ran toward them with her phone in full view. “Dude, they’re outside.” She showed them her screen. “What should we do?”
“Sebastien’s such a buzzkill, man.” Allie stuck out her tongue in disgust. “So help me god, I’ll kill fucking Tommy if I see him, just for fun.”
“Remember this party last year?” Tyler asked. “When everyone sang ‘Sweet Caroline’ and Sebastien didn’t sing theba-ba-bapart? I mean, really?”
“Who doesn’t sing theba-ba-bapart?” Kim asked.
“Exactly.” Tyler arched an eyebrow. “We’re at the Warner party, right?” Allie and Kim nodded. “No phones allowed.”
The night was one for the books. Cary and Yestown played for a full hour while the crowd shouted out song requests like it was a wedding reception. Tyler had asked for the “Hockey Song” by Stompin’ Tom Connors, not thinking Cary would know it—but he nailed every word. Even a few Universal Music artists rolled in toward the end. When thesinger from Arkells jumped onstage for a duet, the women in the crowd nearly combusted from hotness overload—including Tyler.
When they got back to the hotel, Tyler flopped onto Cary’s bed. “I’m exhausted,” she mumbled, unzipping her boots.
