“I did tell you to ask your old man to buy this house,” I remind him.
Finn cocks his head. “Fair,” he concludes.
“And I suggested we invite Noah and Bo to be our roommates.”
“True.”
“And that you should break up with your psycho girlfriend, Ivy.”
He raises his arms in surrender. “Okay, okay. You’ve got good gut instincts.”
“My gut knows things.” Like when a song I write is going to be a hit, when a singer has enough charisma to carry a band to the next level, or when you see the girl you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with. It also knows you don’t sit on your ass and let those opportunities flow to someone else. “Besides, you’ve watched him. He’s the real deal.”
“Yeah, he’s good, but the band will only go as far as you take it.”
“And I’m taking this one all the way.” I’ll drag everyone else with me if I have to.
I’m hauling the last of the garbage out to the rented dumpster when Davis drives up in his Passat. Bought with his data-farming money, no doubt.
“What’s all this?” the singer asks as he steps out of his car. He gestures toward the black bus.
“My dad’s old bus. We’re renoing it for the tour.” I pull off my gloves and shove them in my back pocket. “Finn’s probably got an extra pair of work gloves if you want to lend a hand.”
Finn waves from inside the bus.
Davis’s jaw drops a fraction, and I feel a surge of hope. Most small bands, particularly ones that play on the local level, use touring vans because a bus is a six-figure behemoth. The band members sleep on couches and floors belonging to wait staff, local bands, friends, friends of friends, or even in the van itself. That’s what Davis thought he’d signed up for.
But most band members don’t have world-famous rock musician fathers who happened to keep their old tour buses for sentimental purposes.
I do, and I’m willing to use every bit of leverage I can to achieve my goals, including bribing a singer with a luxe ride.
“We’re touring on a bus?” He brushes by me to run up the stairs.
“Yeah. This is Bessie. Dad used it on his last tour in the States. He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.” I rub a hand across the new counter we’re installing.
Davis does a sweep of the interi
or. There’s a nook over the cab that the bus driver uses, a small galley kitchen and seating area, four bunks, and a bathroom. Beyond the bathroom is a U-shaped sectional that forms a king-sized bed. It’s where my dad slept on the last tour because he and the other members of Death to Dusk weren’t speaking to each other at that point. The bunks were used by Dad’s manager, their merch guy, and a few groupies.
I lost my virginity to a groupie on a bus like this when I was fourteen. She fucked me to impress my dad. I probably participated for the same reason. I wanted to show my old man I was a grownup.
“Four bunks.” Davis notes, dismay in his voice.
I hide a grin behind my hand. There’s only one reason he’d be upset that the bus only holds four bunks, given that we only have four band members. “And a main bedroom in the back.”
“Yeah?” He perks up. “For you?”
I shrug casually. This needs to be his idea. “Or anyone. I figured we’d rock, paper, scissors it.”
“Hmmm.” He nods. “This can work, I think.”
“What can work?”
“My sister needs to come with.”
“Yeah?” Again, I strive for a noncommittal tone.
“My parents are on the verge of divorce, and to save their marriage my dad retired this year and booked a three-month excursion around the world. Landry’s best friend is riding ponies in China.” He turns around, a fierce expression on his face. “I can’t leave her behind. I swear, she’s not making it up.”