“Come help me get your boy Linc. He’s in the champagne room. He’s done for.”
“Shit, man.” Nick says. He fumbles the camera around. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t realize it’s still recording. The screen may be black but you can still hear every word they’re saying. I should stop watching but I can’t.
“He passed out on me.” The woman laughs. “Hey. Is that thing on? There’s no recording in here.” She snatches the phone from him and the video ends.”
“That fuck,” Brian yells, snatching the phone from my hand. I didn’t realize he’d moved over to stand next to me. I can’t seem to find any words for what I just watched. But Brian looks as though he’s going to murder someone.
“He really was in the strip club.” I didn’t want to believe it. How could everything have changed in such a short period of time? I am having his baby and he’s out drinking and partying. My whole body feels numb. “I think I’m going to be sick again.” I run toward the bathroom. I try to throw up, but nothing comes out.
“Cherry.” Brian rubs my back. “You can’t keep doing this. It’s not good for you or the baby.” I nod in agreement as I wipe my face again. My life is falling apart. Everything I thought I knew no longer seems to be true. I reach down to touch my belly, knowing that what Brian said was true. I have to get myself together.
He isn’t texting me because he couldn’t face me. Last night was an easy out for him. He sent some bullshit text like I’m the one that wants out of this. Making it seem as though I might be cheating on him. Then to top it all he goes and does this. To add insult to injury, Nick and Benjy were right there along for the ride. Brian was right. All of them have changed. I did everything to make their dreams come true and in return they shattered mine.
“Give me my phone.” He hands it to me. I decide that I’m going to do for Linc what he didn’t have the balls to do. I let him go. I’ll be the bad guy if that’s what he needs. As much as all of this hurts, I still love him, and I’ll always do what I think is best for him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Linc
“The reporter for Music Times emailed me her article. Do you want to read it?” asks Hal.
I make a face at our manager. “I don’t know. Do I?”
When we were approached about this feature, I wanted to say no because it required us to allow a stranger to follow us for three days and watch our music-making process. That’s a lot like having someone you don’t know inspect your underwear. To say I wasn’t a fan is putting it mildly. But Hal pushed. Treats pushed. Some bigwig investor with a trophy wife younger than Cherry pushed. Music Times is the oldest, most venerated music magazine in the business. It has a subscriber count in the millions and people like Grammy voters read these pieces. It would be great promo for our album and so, ultimately, I caved.
I didn’t love the experience, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated. Nick and the reporter got along well, whereas Benjy pretended like the reporter didn’t exist. I floated somewhere between Nick and Benjy—not actively ignoring but not inviting the guy to analyze all aspects of my life. I’ve read enough of these pieces to know the reporter would be doing that without my help.
“It’s good,” Hal says. “Really good. It should help with your Best New Artist nomination and your album sales.”
“I’ll read it,” Benjy volunteers, to my surprise.
“I thought you hated that guy?” I say, twisting away from the mic stand. We’re on stage at the Forum, doing sound checks in anticipation of our next show.
“I do, but that doesn’t mean I’m not curious about what he said.” Benjy grabs the printout.
“It’s day two and my eyes feel like they’re coated with sand, which could be possible since we spent most of our day at the beach yesterday,” Benjy reads. His brows bunch together. “Day two? Why isn’t this person starting with day one? Who starts at the second day? It’s like listening to a song a minute in or starting a movie at the second hour.”
“Just read it,” Nick interjects.
Benjy heaves a put-upon sigh and clears his throat. “‘Linc, the frontman and main songwriter, is mainlining coffee like he’s a drug addict who just got a delayed delivery from his local dealer, while Nick, the drummer and main beatmaker, thrums a rhythm only he can hear into the air with his fingers.’ Where am I?”
“Next sentence,” murmurs Hal.
“Next sentence? We’re a band. We should be in the same sentence,” he complains.