Dec charmed the crowd with this soulful voice and usual charisma. When I came out to play drums on “The Magic,” it was…pure magic. I shut out the static and focused on him. The way he moved, the way he bent the notes, and the way he looked at me when he strummed the final chord. We were gonna be okay, he was saying. I heard him loud and clear. I agreed. I just had to get through my own band’s performance.
Justin didn’t do subtle. He didn’t know how. Charlie must have called Gray to talk him off the ledge before we went on. He kept his anger in check—to a degree. And he harnessed the rest of that energy into a manic performance that captivated every person there. You had to be dead not to be moved when he sang “This Is Love.”
“Measures of kindness slip into place…”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. I wasn’t sure he’d invite Dec onstage to do an encore, but he did and yeah…it was fucking fantastic.
“Give me time and give me a warning. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
They took turns singing vocals, but Dec played guitar with Johnny while Ky and I kept the beat. If anyone wondered if we were for real, they now knew the answer. We took our bows, thanked our audience, and wiped sweat from our brows as we left the stage for the last time, slapping high fives along the way.
It was over.
We sailed through an epic meet-and-greet with some music industry heavy hitters as well as a few local heroes…a Dodger, two Lakers, and a few actors I kinda sorta recognized. There was no sign of Xena, no sign of Petra. Just good vibes and good will. I nursed a beer or five and watched Dec move around the club, schmoozing with celebrities, taking endless photos, and talking to industry bigwigs like a fucking pro.
He was commanding, graceful, and magnetic. Everyone wanted a piece of him. He’d turn to look for me every once in a while, like he wanted to be sure I was near. My chest felt heavy with pride and…something I wasn’t ready to name.
I felt the slightest niggle of worry. It wasn’t a matter of mistrust. It was more a fear that we’d reached the end of us. The signs were there like bright red flags waving in the wind at high tide.
I didn’t freak out, but I clung to him a little more tightly when we were finally alone. I wanted every minute I could get with him before he moved on.
Charlie was a little irritated when Petra’s article didn’t get published the day after our final concert. Or the day after that. Three days later, he was practically climbing the walls.
“Call her,” Ky advised.
“I did. She hasn’t returned my messages…plural.” Charlie paced the length of the kitchen at Scratch Records.
“Is it really a big deal?” I asked.
“Well, yes. This was a human-interest-slash-music article. I’m planning promotion based on it. And I know Petra. She was the one hounding me for information about the label and the bands and…it’s strange that she’d drop the ball and not pick up her damn phone,” he groused.
“Yo, why the glum faces?” Bobby J sauntered into the room with Gill.
I checked my cell for messages as Ky filled them in.
“Where’s Dec?” I asked idly.
“He and Justin are dukin’ it out over some photos a reporter printed. If that’s the article you’re talking about, it just went live. Brace yourself,” Bobby J warned.
Charlie knit his brow as he typed furiously on his iPad. He covered his mouth a moment later and slumped in his chair. “Oh, my God.”
“What is it?”
I huddled over Ky’s shoulder to read the headline. “Gypsy Coma, Part Two. The Real Story and a Fake Twist” by Petra Palovich.
Music is life. There’s nothing more compelling than a beautifully crafted song, a deep sexy voice, and a group of musicians who seamlessly bridge every note together. It’s poetry in motion. Zero and Jealousy are both that good. So why is it necessary to create a story behind a story to sell a record? No one likes finding out they’ve been needlessly manipulated. What’s the point in pretending members are dating? Why perpetuate an old story to sell something new? Declan McNamara and Tegan Monroe aren’t dating. They’re childhood friends, but their label wants you to think they are a whole lot more than buddies. The sales job on this one makes you wonder what they’re hiding at Scratch Records.
I stopped after the first paragraph. The second two read like an homage to Gypsy Coma with a series of photos of Dec and Xena interspersed with the photos Charlie had released of Dec and me.
“Fuck.”
The room erupted with speculation and suggestion. Was this a big deal? Probably not. How should we respond? Should we even bother responding?