Gus (7 page)

 
She smiles and it's friendly. It makes me want to stay in this room forever. "Never doubt me," she says. "There's a product for everything." She starts finger combing my hair again. "Even this."

Five minutes later, my hair looks better than it has in months. I guess I shouldn't have doubted her.

Lindsey hangs up the shirts and folds the jeans that weren't used while someone applies makeup to my face. Usually I hate it when they put this shit on me, but I'm not paying attention because I can't take my eyes off Lindsey.

When the makeup artist (I didn't look to see if it was a man or woman) leaves the room, I blurt out, "Are you going to our show tonight?"

She laughs again and it's like music to my ears. "No. Though I've heard some of your songs on the radio. You're good."

"You should come. I can get you in." I sound ridiculous. And desperate. Of course I can get her in; I'm in the fucking band.

"I can't. Have to catch a flight back to Seattle tonight. Thanks anyway, Gustov."

"How about dinner? Before you leave?" Goddamn, it's almost embarrassing how hard I'm trying here. And it's not even about the potential of sex with her that's got me so wound up. It's just ... her.

She blinks a few times and I already know she's going to turn me down. "Gustov, I'm flattered. Truly." She smiles to soften the rejection, I suppose. "And you're not an asshole," she adds quickly. "But I have a boyfriend."

I nod. Understood. And if it's possible, I have even more respect for her. I don't get in the middle of other people's relationships. End of story.

Someone clears her throat behind us. I turn and there's a woman standing just inside the doorway. Her stance tells me she'd rather be anywhere but here. For the most part, her attention is focused on the doorframe in front of her. I can only see the left side of her face, and it looks tight, not friendly. I wonder how long she's been standing there. Judging by her posture, it's been a while. She shifts her weight to her right side, and she's holding a legal pad of paper tightly in her hand. She looks impatient. Impatient, like it's her middle name. Like she eats, sleeps, and breathes impatience. I already don't like her.

"Gustov, if you're done here ... " Her voice is quiet, and her eyes flit in our direction without turning to face us. The hasty eye contact tells me she heard everything. She's judging me. "They're ready for you." The tone of her voice is total annoyance.

Without taking my eyes off Lindsey, I hold up a finger in Impatient's direction asking her to give us a minute. She turns and quickly disappears.

Closing the gap between me and Lindsey, I offer my hand again. I'm nervous. I hate being nervous.

She shakes it. She's calm. The calm bleeds in through the contact and I welcome it.

Meeting her eyes, I say, "He's a lucky man, Lindsey." I mean it.
 

Smiling, she nods and winks. "Thanks Gustov. And just so you know, if I wasn't completely, madly in love with the guy, I would've said yes to dinner."

I smile like a schoolgirl, release her hand, and walk out the door.

The photo shoot, an event I usually loath, isn't as miserable as I expected. And I'm not even drunk. The photographer, Jack, isn't the type we've worked with in the past. They usually take themselves too seriously and wear the title,
artist
, like it somehow elevates them to a state incapable of communicating with the lowly "talent." Jack has a sense of humor
and
humility. It's a nice pairing, one of my favorites. He gets all of us to loosen up and act natural. Hell, I don't know what natural
is
anymore, but I'm doing it.

By the time I get out of the shower and change into some clean clothes from my bag after the shoot, Lindsey's gone. I kinda wanted to see her again, but I know that's a little too stalker for my style. It just felt good to be attracted to someone so normal, but she's taken and that means it's time to put her out of my mind.

I'm startled back to the present by the sound of Hitler barking at me from the living room. "Gustov, join us. We've got a few things to go over before soundcheck." He says it like he's
involved
in soundcheck. I'd be surprised if he's ever touched an instrument in his life. I walk to the bar and fill a glass with whiskey before taking a seat on the sofa next to Franco. My ass barely hits the cushion when I realize I can't listen to Hitler sober. So immediately I rise again, grab the bottle from the bar, and set it on the coffee table in front of me before settling in.

He gives me one of his looks. It's the degrading, I-don't-get-paid-enough-to-tolerate-your-shit stare. "Anything else you need before we get started?" Pure sarcasm.

Which of course I meet with a little of my own, because I can't keep my mouth shut. "Lunch and a hooker? We are in Vegas, you know."

He shakes his head in disgust. He's so over me it's not even funny.

Shrugging, I take a swig from my glass. "Had to try."

Franco shoots me a warning look to shut up, but his smile is seeping through. The smile's winning.

Hitler ignores my retort and clears his throat. "As you know, I'll be with you for the duration of the tour. And though Europe was successful, despite a few rescheduled shows," he says, glaring in my direction, "a lot is at stake with your return to the United States. The US tour last year was good, but your album is really taking off in the states now. 'Finish Me' is in the top ten on the alternative charts this week. You can't afford any mistakes now." He's staring at me as though he's waiting for an answer to a question he didn't ask. When I don't respond, he continues, "Management has a few requests."

"Requests" means "demands." I drain the rest of my glass.

"First, you
will
start playing 'Finish Me' at every show."

Franco, Robbie, and Jamie are all looking at me. Their expressions tell me this is the first time they're hearing this, too. Shaking my head, I huff, "That's not gonna happen."

More throat clearing. Hitler knows he's in for a fight. "Gustov, this is non-negotiable."

I reach for the bottle and take a long swig. Fuck the glass. "Come on, this is America, everything's negotiable," I say. I'm going to try humor because I am so close to losing it and throwing this bottle of whiskey across the room.

He smiles aggressively. "As I said, you will play 'Finish Me' at every show."

"We'll see about that, motherfucker," I say under my breath before I steal another drink from the bottle.

Franco heard me. He takes the bottle out of my hand and drains some himself before handing it to Robbie and Jamie, who both do the same before handing it back to me. I've been so wrapped up in my own shit that I forgot what solidarity felt like. I love these guys for sticking with me on this. This is why we're a band.

Hitler's quiet. Taking that as my cue, I stand. "I need a cigarette."

Apparently he's not through with the ultimatums yet. "We are not finished here."

I sigh and sit—I'm not defeated. I'm irritated. And he knows it.

"This tour is going to be more demanding than you're used to. Back to back shows almost every night from one end of this country to the other. For these reasons,
among others
, Gustov, we feel it's in the best interest of the success of this tour, and this album, that you have a PA for the duration."

I squint my eyes and look around at the guys. They all look confused, so I turn back to Hitler. "A PA better not be what I think it is." At this point, humor is not going to cut it.

"Scout MacKenzie will be joining us on the tour bus. She will act as your personal assistant in all matters related to this tour, but her main tasks will be scheduling, communication, and PR. She is to be treated with dignity and
respect
." The emphasis he put on respect and the way he's looking at me tells me he will castrate me if I touch this woman. And now even though I'm pissed, I'm curious.

"Scout," he calls loudly over his shoulder.

Impatient, from earlier, walks into the room. My eyes don't even make it up to her face before I stand. "Oh, hell no," I say, striding toward the balcony. The cigarette's already between my lips.

Hitler's angry and his voice booms from behind me. "This is non-negotiable, Gustov."

I light my cigarette, inhale, and with the cigarette clutched between my fingers, I point at him. "I don't need a fucking babysitter."

His pompous laugh resounds behind me as I rip open the sliding door leading to the balcony. He's practically shouting now. "I'm afraid after your behavior in Europe, you certainly do."

Shutting the door on his condescension, I slump into a deck chair.
 

I'm lighting a second cigarette when Franco joins me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. I'm irate. "They can't fucking do this," I say bitterly. Then I look up at Franco. "
Can they
?"

He shrugs. "I don't know, dude."

Snubbing out my cigarette, I huff. "The next few months are going to be a nightmare. What good is a personal assistant, other than to narc back to fucking Hitler?"

His eyebrows rise in agreement. "I'm not sure what to make of this either." He chuckles a little, apparently amused. "She's definitely not a new fuck buddy. He made sure of that. She's all business, man."

I'm staring at the ground lost in my own rage, but his laughter pulls me out of it. I shake my head. "Have you talked to the girl, dude? She's rigid as fuck."

He laughs harder. "Yeah, I get that. We all got introduced after you left. Go easy on her though, I think she's just shy. And maybe a little uptight," he adds.

"
A little
? She was completely disgusted with me earlier when she heard me hitting on the stylist." I look him in the eye and can't help laughing with him. "This is a goddamn nightmare."

He slaps me on the shoulder before he walks away. "Welcome to Hitler's hell, twat waffle."

Nine weeks of hell.

Nine more weeks and I'm home.

Nine more weeks.

Home.

Saturday, April 22

(Gus)

The show last night was probably the best one we've played since last year. I was on the uncomfortable side of sober by showtime, but it worked. The crowd was loud and their energy was easy to feed off of.

We didn't play "Finish Me." Hitler was furious. I'm beginning to take some serious pleasure from seeing that vein in his forehead throb.

I went to sleep as soon as we got on the bus after the show and didn't wake up until noon today. I've never slept so hard on the road. I feel almost human.

Before I open my bunk curtain, I tug on a T-shirt. There's a decency line I'm pretty sure I shouldn't cross this time around. The last thing I need is
Impatient calling sexual harassment on me.
 

It isn't until after I use the bathroom that I realize the bus isn't moving. And I'm the only one on it. After putting on some jeans, socks, and my shoes, I grab the essentials and make my way out into the bright sunshine. We're in Phoenix and it's hot. I don't mind the heat; it beats the hell out of the cold. I've had enough cold this winter to last me a lifetime.

While I light the first of many cigarettes for the day, I survey the surroundings. We're parked in the back lot of the venue. There's a taco joint across the street, and my stomach starts growling at the sight of it. This boy
needs
tacos.

The place is small inside and cleanliness doesn't seem to be high on the list of priorities, but it'll do just fine. And when I see veggie tacos on the menu, I know I'm home. I order a six-pack of tacos and a bottle of water and take a seat at the booth by the front window. The tacos don't taste like Ma's, but they're damn good.
 

When I'm done, I find that I don't want to leave. The sidewalk outside isn't crowded but there's a fairly steady stream of people. I love to people watch. I could sit here all day and try to guess people's stories. Or make up their stories in my head. I can get creative, and it's entertaining. So I sit back and watch. The blinds are closed except one that's bent open. I feel like a spy peeking through it.

About five minutes later I spot a tall, slim brunette wearing a loose red hoodie and shorts. The shorts aren't obscenely short, but they show off her spectacular legs, long and lean. She looks like a runner. She's talking on a cell phone. Some people walk around, especially when they're distracted by something like a phone, and don't pay attention to what's going on around them, but even with her hood pulled up, I can tell by the subtle movements she's making that's she's looking at everything around her. She'd be a brilliant witness to a crime; I'm betting that nothing gets past her. It's fascinating. At one point she stops moving and leans up against the wall. She seems intense and focused. She doesn't talk with her hands. The hand that's not holding the phone is tucked in her front pocket. And even though she's standing still, she can't stand still, like there's a nervousness that she can't shake. Or maybe it's impatience kicking in. I feel for her. Calm is elusive most of the time; I miss it.

She's still on her phone when she pushes off the wall and crosses the street. She's walking toward me. The closer she gets, the more I can't look away. I don't know if it's those damn legs or the natural grace with which she moves. She's like the human equivalent of a gazelle.

I'm fixated on her until I realize who she is. It's Impatient. And my eyes instinctively jump away, but only momentarily before they bounce right back to her. She's probably twenty feet away when I realize I'm staring.

I shouldn't be staring. Especially when she can't see me through the blinds.

But I am. I'm not trying to be rude. I'm curious.

There's scarring on her right cheek. It looks like she was burned severely. Her hair falls around her face, but I can still make out the scar tissue. It looks like it starts below her eye, just missing her nose and mouth, and continues down her cheek and neck, disappearing into her shirt. I wonder how much of her torso is affected since her legs are unblemished. How did I not notice this before? I've been around her for two days. I'm usually a little more observant. Now it's obvious that I really have been ignoring her and the job she's supposed to be doing.