Rocked Up

The duet with Lindsay was lame. She wasn’t even there. She recorded her parts last week. I’m sure they will do some photo trickery to make it look like we were in the studio together having a ball.

Other than flying, I don’t have any major complaints. I don’t agree with most of what the record company does, but it’s still good work if you can get it. It doesn’t feel that long ago when I didn’t have my own bed, and now I have a house in the hills with a pool and everything else you can imagine. Funnily enough, after a decade Mr. Robson is still my only real friend. He still complains that I don’t eat enough, and he still makes the same jokes on cue when I see him. I just wish I saw him more often. With all the recording, touring, photoshoots, and interviews, I barely have the time.

You would think with all the fake show business stuff, I would have lost my passion for music, but that’s totally not the case. Somehow I manage to keep the two separate. My last single, “Violent Little Things,” went to number one. Ramsey Records can manipulate the entertainment media as much as he wants, but at the end of the day all that matters is the music. I still write all my own material, except, of course, when I’m doing a lame duet for a starlet’s record.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be beginning our descent into Los Angeles shortly. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened.”

I feel the engines power down and my stomach knots. Usually I have my bandmates with me, but I was on my own for the hellish experience in Austin and this one too. I fucking hate landing. I also hate take-offs and everything else in the middle.

When the wheels touch down, all my tense muscles relax and I let out a deep breath.

We all know that there is an alarming number of musicians that die in their twenty-seventh year, most of them in plane crashes.

I guess that wasn’t the flight that will kill me.

I only have a carry-on, so I quickly make it to the arrivals gate and look for my driver who is normally waiting for me.

To my surprise, I’m greeted by someone else.

Lael Ramsey.

Ronald’s only daughter, a fresh-faced beauty with brown eyes and long hair dyed teal. I haven’t seen her in a few years.

When we first met she was just a teen, so it’s strange seeing this young woman who must be at least twenty by now.

And far more attractive than I bargained for.

She spots me and stretches her arm up high, waving at me with a smile.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” I ask as I approach her, smiling back.

“Hi, Brad. How was the flight?” she says.

“Are you my ride?”

“I am. C’mon,” she replies, grinning, and I follow her out of the airport, trying not to stare at her ass. No sir, this is definitely not the bratty young girl I remember.

That said, it is unusual that she’s here picking me up. Something’s wrong.

“Look, Brad,” she says slowly as we approach a small blue electric car in the parking lot. “I have bad news. I just don’t know how to say this…”

“What’s up?” I ask, my stomach turning with nerves. This isn’t going to be good.

“It’s your friend, Mr. Robson,” she says quietly. “He died last night.”

It takes a moment for the news to sink in. I’m not sure what I feel, or if I’m even feeling anything. I just stare at nothing, trying to understand. Actually, what I’m feeling is almost the same as the day he gave me my first present, the guitar I still play. My throat is tight, my body is growing hotter by the second, my eyes are starting to water.

Only this time, unlike back then, I can’t stop it. It hits me all at once, like a tidal wave. I break down and cry like I’ve never cried before, surrounded by this massive, lonely parking lot.

I barely realize it when Lael, Ronald’s daughter, a girl I hardly know, is pulling me into her arms.

I hold on to her like she’s the only person left in my life.





Chapter Three





Brad




It’s not unusual for Ramsey Records to request I come in for a meeting at its head office just outside of Hollywood. The building is a twenty-story circular high-rise that was built in the early eighties. At the very top of the building, large metal letters spell out Ramsey Records. I’ve been on the roof and I have seen the rusted old framing holding up that massive sign, and sometimes I imagine what it would be like if those heavy letters got loose and tumbled to the ground. I wonder what would happen if I kicked them.

As usual I just sit there at the meeting without saying a word while a team of people shout back and forth about this or that.

“We need more poolside shots.”

“Sex tape.”

“He should make an appearance at a global warming protest. That is so hot right now.”

“For fuck’s sake, we need more talk shows. Has Corden replied?”

“Let’s piss off Australian Customs, that news goes global.”

“How about some shots of him leaving that sex club? Madeline’s, is it?”

So I sit and eat the sushi while they play with my life like I’m just a product. No wonder it’s increasingly rare that I’m invited to these nasty brainstorm meetings. It’s also rare that Ronald would attend, but there’s Ronald at the opposite end of the table with his elbows on the desk and his hands making a triangle shape just under his chin. He looks stoic, seemingly unimpressed with what’s happening, but it’s also his default face.

“Okay, that’s enough for today,” he announces. “I want Brad’s face on the cover of every magazine when his album comes out this spring. That’s still a few months away so don’t exhaust your resources. Stay focused on the tour, only play your games in the cities he is playing. Brad, stick around, I need to talk to you.”

Shit.

The crew shuffles out of the room exchanging looks that only exist in the competitive corporate world. They look like wild animals in nice clothing, completely willing to kill the person they were holding the door open for if it suited them. I preferred when they ignored me—whenever they did speak to me through their smiling teeth, I knew it was trouble.

“How was the duet with Lindsay?” Ronald asks from across the long boardroom table covered with a mountain range of sushi. It’s strange being so far away, and I anxiously do a quick drum roll with my chop sticks before setting them down.

“Good. I felt like we made a real connection,” I shout at him.

Ronald smiles and stands up, flattening his tie over his rounded belly, slowly walking toward me as he speaks to the ceiling.

“Look,” he says. “I am sorry about Nick. I know you got along. It’s not about who threw the chicken, and I don’t care about that lady’s car. It’s his attitude. No one wants to work with the guy, I knew he had to go.”

“He threw the chicken.”

“It was never about the chicken.”

Nick, our now ex-bassist, was involved in a bit of an incident.