Page 11 of Dedicated
A mixture of cheers and boos followed. Our fans tended to love our back-and-forth, and our bickering, my good-guy schtick to his bad-boy swagger. We were like the Gallagher brothers except… less hateful. And also not blood related. Thank God.
Les cackled madly, then put up his hands in surrender, but not before saying, “I’m happy to give private showings after we finish.” He clapped his hands once. “Right, now where were we?”
The girl he’d originally pointed out cupped her hands over her mouth and called out after the applause had died down, “‘Crash Course’!”
“Ohhh, interesting.” Les took a couple of steps back from the edge of the stage with a slow nod, angling toward me as he tapped the tip of his finger against his lower lip a couple of times in consideration. “I don’t think anyone’s ever requested that one before, which is kind of a shame, because it’s a good one and”—he paused for another look over at me, that same sly glint lighting up in his eyes like coals in a fire—“Evan should tell the story that goes along with it.”
“Crash Course” wasn’t a love song, per se, but it did have a story behind it. One that came mostly at my expense, which was why Les was grinning wickedly at me.
“I think you should tell it.”
“Not a fucking chance,” he said, dropping back onto the stool and folding his arms over the top of his guitar. He gave me an expectant tilt of his head, like he was settling in for story hour at a public library, and when I met that stare levelly, he started chuckling.
I sighed and told the tale that involved a bottle of caffeine pills, a long overseas plane flight, Les’s stupid idea that we should drive our own car in Italy for an immersive experience, and the mess with the Italianpoliziathat followed.
“He didn’t take kindly to you just pulling over to the side of the roundabout and hopping out of the fucking car, either,” Les finished for me.
I’d been in a near panic and thought I was about to have a heart attack from the stupid pills. But hey, the audience didn’t need to know that. Or how pissed I’d been at Les for passing out in the back seat in the first place. It had been his idea to call our liaison, though, because by that time he’d gotten out of the car and was trying to calm both me and the policeman down. I couldn’t even think straight. Once the liaison spoke to the policeman, he’d settled down and pulled the car onto a side street for us, and we took a cab the rest of the way to the TV station where we were supposed to be doing an interview—which Les had to carry because I was so out of it. Ironically enough, that interview was one of our most watched on YouTube. Les said it was because no one ever saw me cracked out of my skull and him being the sensible one. Which was probably true.
Les continued. “How a song comes out of that, I don’t even fucking know, but the next morning in our hotel, I just got up and wrote it, thinking about how the unexpected can lead to some of the best experiences.”
He glanced over at me then, something darting through his expression that I couldn’t quite get a read on. Something like hope and amusement and cynicism all at once, and only Les could manage all three; even his emotions were promiscuous.
He plucked a few strings on the guitar and then turned back to face the audience. I jumped in right behind him, picking up the song.
* * *
Post-show meetand greets were my least favorite part of touring. I liked the audience to be the audience. Once they separated out into individuals, I didn’t know what to do with all the small talk and fanfare. I guzzled a liter of water and tried to stay attentive, but I was thinking about that night in Italy and how different it was from where we were now.
We’d known our first album was good, but there wasn’t a lot of pressure behind it. Now it felt like a cement block on my feet. That night when we’d gotten to the hotel, we’d hung out in Les’s room until four in the morning, partly because I couldn’t possibly go to sleep, but mostly because we were talking. We’d ordered rounds and rounds of room service and stuffed ourselves stupid while lying on the bed, talking about what we hoped would happen with our album, what we wanted to do on the next one, what we loved about music. Everything. I think it was the first time I realized that we’d become more than just bandmates and business partners and were actually friends. Our whole first tour was full of nights just like that.
Now, we went our separate ways as soon as we walked offstage. I missed it, and the feeling hit me as sharp and sudden as an elbow to the rib cage.
I glanced over at Les where he leaned up against the wall with a Sharpie in his hand, cutting up with a group of girls and waving the marker threateningly at them. When I finished rattling off a distracted spiel on how I’d chosen my latest Gibson to a rapt guy with a tight ponytail and horn-rimmed glasses who scribbled every technical detail in a little spiral notebook, I excused myself.
The girls looked me up and down as I approached, beaming me smiles bright as the spotlights we’d just left behind while Les seesawed the marker between his fingers, eyeing me. “They’re asking me if there’s a body part I haven’t signed before.”
“Doubtful. If it’s humanly accessible in any way, shape, or form, he’s probably signed it or put his mouth on it.”
One brow hiked up as if Les had taken my sarcasm as a personal challenge.
The blonde standing to his left puckered her pouty lips, then smiled. “Well, if I can’t be original, how about…” She hitched her foot up on the arm of a couch next to Les, sweeping her dress up to her waist casually and exposing a lean thigh. “Here?” She pointed to her inner thigh, just in front of her black satin panties.
Les looked up at her, tongue darting out over his lower lip as his hand closed over the top of her thigh and his thumb swept softly along the inside. I could see the goose bumps rise on her skin as he touched her. “Here?”
She gave a breathy murmur of assent accompanied by a nod, and when their gazes locked as Les’s marker descended, I almost rolled my eyes.
“There are other places you could write your name, but I wouldn’t want you to use a marker,” she said, biting her lower lip coquettishly. Her friends giggled, and I snorted. Then she turned a narrow look aside to me and added, “You too.”
I didn’t know if I blushed, but my blood instantly started to simmer. It had nothing to do with the girl and everything to do with being slingshotted back into that night six months before at the cabin. A mixture of remorse and the memory of desire flooded my throat and drowned any chance I had at firing back some smartass comment.
“He’s not into shit like that,” Les murmured dismissively, eyes darting up to me, then flickering back to the girl’s thigh just as quickly. I caught the darkness in the look, though.
I fit the stereotype of a musician in probably every way except one, but that one thing had been endless fodder for our roadies and Les: I didn’t sleep around. I wasn’t interested in it. It wasn’t some issue of moral high ground—as much as Les enjoyed teasing me about being a prude. It was that the whole idea seemed pointless. It wasn’t like I judged anyone who felt differently—except Les because he slept around too much, in my opinion. I just liked relationships. I liked knowing a person and feeling a connection.
Unfortunately, relationships and being on the road for months at a time hadn’t worked out very well for me. Even with Leigh the other night, I got the distinct impression that we were starting to peter out. Her job as a photographer had her hopping around just as much, and at first I thought that would be a good thing, but we were just growing further apart. And honestly? I wasn’t even that upset by it. Probably not a good sign.
Les studied me, fiddling with the marker as the girls wandered away to the craft service table.