Serge lets out a loud celebratory whoop and leans over to clap me on the back. “That’s great, man. Congrats. I knew you could do it. When’s it start?”
“Gotta be at the airport in two days.”
He makes a face. “Don’t tell me you’ll be flying commercial with the plebs.”
That finally breaks through and gets a chuckle out of me. I shake my head, a grin cracking my face. “Unlikely. With me and Chelsea I’m sure it’ll be private. You’re welcome to join if you want. I know it’s been a while, but I miss having you on the road with me.”
Before his OD and my going solo out of necessity, Serge and I were inseparable, on stage and off. But after that close call, he’d called it quits. It was a wake-up call to both of us, but not enough to get me out of the biz.
“No can do,” he says, shaking his head, his eyes looking a little regretful. “The only way I stay clean is to stay away from that whole scene. I’m much happier at the civic center, you know that.”
I nod, even though the rejection stings. No matter how far we’ve come, and how much I don’t want to go back to those old days, I still miss having my best friend around. It’s never the same without him. Though performing with Chelsea is as close as I’ve come since those days. And this is almost better because I’m clean which means I can actually remember all the good shit that happens.
I understand why Serge can’t come though. I know the temptation can get too strong sometimes, especially when you find yourself in familiar situations that you normally used in. Readjusting to tours and shows without smack was a big adjustment and Serge doesn’t have the experience I do with shoving down the temptation and carrying on. He’s smarter about it. He just removes himself from all opportunity. And he’s got a good gig teaching music at the civic center. If you ask him, he’ll tell you it’s the best gig he’s had in his music career. He loves working with those kids. So I don’t press the issue. He can stick back if he wants. That’ll just leave me more time with Chelsea.
If she’ll face me.
Chapter 14
Chelsea
For the first time in over a decade, I’m nervous about getting on a plane. Not because I’m worried about the safety of air travel or anything that rational, but because Ian is going to be there and I’m not sure I can deal with seeing him.
After the way he looked at me our last day in the studio, I honestly hoped there wouldn’t be a tour. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to see that look of contempt in his eyes and not break down. And as much as I’ve been telling myself that it’s all for the best the past week, when Rosa called about the tour, I was practically jumping up and down.
And then it sank in that Ian is so cold to me now. I’m not sure why or what happened other than wrapping the album, but I know how to read people and I know that look.
So I’m running a little late to the tarmac. There’s a private jet waiting for me and Rosa’s standing outside at the base of the stairs, her arms crossed, her foot tapping impatiently. No one else is around, so I assume they’re already on board and suddenly I’m questioning this plan of mine to show up late. Now all eyes will be on me when I walk in. If I’d gotten here early I could have found a dark corner, slipped on headphones, and pretended to be asleep.
Lesson learned, I suppose.
“Glad you finally decided to grace us with your presence,” Rosa says sharply. I just roll my eyes at her, marching up the steps, readjusting my bag over my shoulder. The rest of my luggage was picked up last night and is probably already stowed away in the back of the plane.
I don’t really know what the big rush is. We don’t even have a show tonight, so if we’re a little late getting into New York, who cares? But I’m not really in the mood to pick a fight with Rosa, so I stay mute until I’m on board.
I’ve been on a lot of private jets, but they must have really broken the bank when shopping for the both of us. Or maybe our combined budget for travel is way higher than mine normally is. Regardless, the inside of this jet is nicer than my house. The main area is set up like a living room, with an electric fireplace near the front of the plane and a cream and charcoal U-shaped couch positioned in front of it. There are two other sitting areas, one off to the right, two armchairs with a table set between them, and another set of armchairs angled toward the fireplace on the left.
Merrill’s sitting in one of the chairs to the left. I didn’t see him at first, but Ian’s stretched out on the U-shaped couch, his head below the back of it so he’s hard to spot. He turns at the sound of my footsteps and I brace myself for the look of contempt that’s already making me feel nauseous just thinking about it, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his dark eyes light up and he sends me a hesitant smile.
It’s such a shock that I don’t really know how to react. But then Rosa’s bustling in behind me and she flops down in the seat next to Merrill with a groan.
“Do you ever think a career in childcare may have been easier?” she says to him and my jaw tightens.
“I’m right here and I’m not that late,” I say, my hands clenched into fists as I move to the seating area with the table.
“Oh, we’re all here!” says a too-chipper voice that’s like screws on glass. I know that voice and instantly my body tenses as she pops her peroxide-blonde head over the back of the fireplace. I didn’t realize it before, but the mantel of the fireplace is actually a bar top and there’s a wet bar behind it. The woman’s waving a bottle of champagne and glasses at us all even though it’s only eight in the morning.
“Kandy’s joining us to cover the press of the tour,” Merrill says to my confused look.
“And I’m thrilled to get to focus my time and energy on Ian again,” she says too brightly, her smile like a shark’s. I don’t trust her at all. It’s probably because of our first interaction, but she just rubs me the wrong way.
She pours a glass of champagne for everyone, and while she’s doing it I spot her handbag tucked under the chair I was going for, so I change directions and sit on the opposite end of the couch from Ian.
Kandy comes around, offering drinks to everyone. Merrill and Rosa both take one, though by the looks of it they’re only doing it to be polite. Managers are masters of savi
ng face in front of the press.
I shake my head and wave off the one she offers to me. “I haven’t even had coffee yet,” I grumble. And then she’s offering one to Ian, who looks at her like she’s come from another planet.