“Jesus, fuck, he’s out of it now,” Riff says as he shakes his head. “Do you even know what day of the week it is?”
I hesitate and swallow hard. I start to reach for my phone to check the date because, honestly, I don’t have a fucking clue, but I stop short because doing that would just prove Riff right.
Riff shakes his head and turns to Noel with raised eyebrows. “I told you he didn’t have a fucking clue. He’s bad for business.”
I flinch. “When have I ever been bad for business? I’m the glue that holds this piece of shit band together.”
“Not anymore,” Riff replies coolly.
I shake my head, not missing the disgust in Riff’s eyes. It’s a look I remember all too well. It’s the same one he had a couple of years ago when Noel struggled with his addiction. The same look he had when he wanted us to boot Noel from the band.
I narrow my eyes at my childhood friend. “You got something to say to me, Riff, just go ahead and fucking say it.”
Riff looks from Noel to Trip and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard and then lifts his chin. “You’re out, Tyke.”
My eyes widen as every muscle inside me tenses. “What?!”
“You. Are. Out. You’ve become a liability. Noel knows it, and so does your brother. You need help. We won’t stand by and watch you destroy yourself and drag this band down with you.”
Rage rolls through every inch of me. “You’re kicking me out? I fucking started this band. You can’t kick me out.”
Trip lays his hand on my shoulder. “Tyke—”
I shrug away from his touch. “Fuck you, Trip. Don’t fucking touch me!” I level my heated gaze on the other two guys. “Fuck all of you!”
I take a couple steps back while my mouth hangs agape. I can’t fucking believe this. They’re giving me the boot, just like that? No chance to explain myself? Just out—like I’m a piece of fucking trash they can’t wait to get rid of.
Fine.
Fucking Fine.
They’ll see.
They need me.
They’ll get over it.
I storm out of the arena, needing time to clear my head and figure this shit out, but before I get through the door, Kyle stops me. “Where you off to?”
“Hotel,” is all I can manage to say.
The thick cords of muscle work beneath Kyle’s skin as he pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. “Come on, I’ll drive you over.”
I follow our bodyguard to the Escalade. Kyle uses the key fob to unlock the SUV, and we both hop inside.
As I pull the heavy door closed behind me, I reconsider leaving. I should go back in there and hammer things out with the guys now. After all, I don’t want tonight’s show to be tense. But my head’s still a little foggy from the coke I snorted, and I know I won’t be able to speak to them rationally about this until I’ve had time to calm down.
I scrub my hand over my face. Tension in the band always fucking sucks—it’s even worse to be the cause of it. They blame me for it, I know, but they don’t see that all this shit started with them not caring enough. Not being committed enough. Not living for the band like they used to.
“Wanna talk about it?” Kyle asks, killing the silence that has allowed me to go deeper into my own thoughts.
I sigh. “What’s there to talk about? The guys just kicked me out. They’re pissed, I get it, but it won’t last. We never stay mad at each other. We’re brothers.”
Kyle adjusts in his seat as he stares out at the road ahead. “That would be great. Things were going so good for a while, and I hate that there’s this underlying tension between you guys. It makes things uncomfortable for us all when you guys aren’t getting along.”
“Come on, Kyle. Things haven’t been that bad. We’ve been through far worse.”
He sighs. “If you say so. I would just hate to see this great thing you all have going fall apart.”
“We’re not going to fall apart,” I say with a slight huff.
We’re quiet for the rest of the ride. I don’t really feel like rehashing band issues with Kyle when I’m not even sure what in the hell is going on myself. After I spend a few hours sleeping and getting my head clear in my hotel room, I take a long hard look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My shaggy sandy-blond hair is a bit shaggy, a far cry from the short buzz cut I used to sport. Lately, I haven’t really felt the need to be so clean-cut. The green of my eyes looks a little dingy, a little lifeless, but that’s not completely my fault. Anyone in my shoes who’s losing everything they’ve ever worked for would look the same way.
I rake my hair back with both hands and sigh. We just have to get back on track. I’ll go to the guys and promise to stay sober, as long as they agree to start taking this band more serious. What we need is a heart-to-heart, as brothers. We need to squash this beef between us so that we can get back to doing what we do best—making great music.
I grab my backstage pass and slide it around my neck and slip out the door. I call a cab to take me back to the arena. It’s time to get this shit back on track.
With a clear head, I set out to have a discussion with the guys about us all changing our ways, mending what the last few years have broken.
The cabbie drops me off near the back gate of the arena and with the help of my pass, I have no problem slipping into the backstage area on my own.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. It’s nearly nine, the time we are scheduled to take the stage after Gabby’s band, Sex Arsenal, opens for us. A few of the roadies nod at me as I pass by them on the way to the stage.