“Everything okay here, Gabby?” Damon asks, suddenly appearing at my side, but I continue to glare at Mr. Jones. I realise now that Kathy ran to get the guys while I was still talking to him.
“What’s this fucking bastard doing here?” Blake’s question only fuels my anger. The presence of the board is just making this day so much harder.
“How fucking dare you?” I growl, my voice breaking. Someone places their hand on my shoulder, but that doesn’t stop me. “You come here on the day of Mark’s funeral to demand that the boys go back on tour?”
“It’s in their contracts…” Mr. Jones starts weakly, but he trails off, as if realising how pathetic of an excuse that is.
“I don’t give a damn,” I spit before taking a deep breath. I feel the eyes of all the guys on me. I know they have my back, but I need to be professional. They need me. “I’m their tour manager. I’m the one who decides when they go back on tour. You call me and arrange a meeting to discuss this, you don’t turn up on the—” I stop talking, so mad that I’m lost for words. I know Blake is about to punch the bastard, but if he does, we’re all out of a job. I may have a lot of power now, thanks to the contract they signed just before Mark died, but even I couldn’t stop that from happening.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see all the guys have gathered, and I know Mr. Jones is right, even if he’s gone about it the wrong way. We need to get back on tour. The guys are hurting, but the longer we leave it, the harder it will be to return. Just like with any injury, you have to start rehab to begin the healing process, even though it’s going to hurt. The looks of trust aimed my way make my heart ache in my chest, and I turn back to look at a sweating Mr. Jones.
“Give us another week, and then we’ll go back on the road,” I declare.
“But—” He starts to protest, but with a glance over my shoulder, his eyes widen and he quickly holds up his hands. “A week is fine.” He suddenly looks nervous and shuffles his feet before looking at me again. “What about a replacement for Mark’s position?”
The animosity is high, but with those words, the whole room explodes as all eyes turn to the board member. “Are you serious?” I ask in total disbelief. Is this idiot for real? My guys might be dancers, but they have muscles stacked on muscles and work hard to have bodies like they do, yet Mr. Jones almost seems to be provoking them on purpose.
Appearing to realise the same thing, he pales and nods his head hastily. “I’ll contact you later in the week.” He hurriedly backs away. “Good day, Ms. Menro. Gentlemen, sorry for your loss,” he mumbles, the door slamming closed behind him as he rushes out.
With a sigh, I reach up and release my hair, letting it tumble down before I shake it out. I turn to face the guys, who are all watching me expectantly, and beyond that, so is the crew. At some point, the music was turned off, but I’d been so furious and focused that I hadn’t even noticed.
Liam takes a step forward and takes my hand in his. “Are we ready to go back, Angel?”
Before Mark died, I’d just gotten my job back, and we had so many exciting plans. Everything is different now, but we will make it work, we have to, and sitting around moping all day accomplishes nothing.
Giving Liam’s hand a squeeze, I look around at the rest of my guys, then at Emmett, Kathy, and the crew, and nod my head firmly. “For Mark, we will be. The show must go on.”
Today is the first show since Mark’s death.
It’s strange. Everyone is quiet. While the backstage is usually filled with excitement and buzzing with energy, today it isn’t. Even the crew is subdued, and no matter how much the boys try to stay upbeat and excited, their shoulders sag, and when they think I’m not looking, they stare at where Mark would usually be. The police are still investigating and told us they will keep us updated, but we are allowed to re-open.
Luckily, it’s only a UK tour date, so there isn’t much in terms of travel, but I spent the days after the funeral sorting the bus and the venue and preparing the crew. Staying busy actually helped me forget, even for a moment, about Mark. While it’s our first show without him, it’s also my first show back as tour manager, so I have a lot to catch up on. I’m hoping being on stage, hearing their fans, and losing themselves in the music will help my guys too.
They’re all ready to go in their first outfit. The music pumps through the stadium, every seat is filled, and we can hear the enthusiasm and calls from here. Usually, I would be happy, revelling in it…but it feels wrong. I glance down at my clipboard to check everything is sorted, and with nothing left to think about, my eyes flicker around the crew, trying to imagine any of them hurting Mark. None have left the company. They all chose to stay with the team after he died, and they’re all working here tonight.
One of them killed him.
It makes me nervous. My shoulders hurt from their tight position, and my gaze constantly darts around, trying to keep everyone in view. One of them dropped a box earlier, and I almost leapt out of my skin. Even without the fear of when the next attack might come…it’s different. It’s just not the same, and I don’t know how to cheer everyone up and get them excited for the tour.
That was Mark’s job. He was the heart, the laughter behind the stage. Always telling stories and jokes that kept everyone happy. It never felt like work with him around, he made you enjoy every aspect, even the parts that sucked. Even when you were tired and struggling with the constant life on the road, he showed you the good side of it. He was always there for a helping hand and a smile or encouraging word.
They need that now more than ever, and it’s up to me to step up, especially if I want this tour to go well, but more importantly…if I want them to be okay.
But for that, I need to be strong myself, to set a good example. So, while the boys are warming up and the crew is checking the lights, sound, and props, I excuse myself to the bathroom down the side hallway where the dressing rooms are. The stadium is pretty big. It’s not London O2, but it’s one of the biggest venues we’ve done. The boys should be proud, I know I am. You know you have made it when you have separate dressing rooms and a green room, though the boys have claimed one just for themselves instead of all.
The bathroom is the first door on the left, and I quickly slip inside, checking the stalls before flicking the lock on the bright white wooden door. Stopping before the LED lit mirror on the right above one of three sinks, I stare at myself for a moment. My eyes are red, and tears fill them as I watch, my lip starting to quiver.
Come on, kid, get it together.
I can hear Mark now, and I know he’s right. There’s time for crying later. Right now, it’s business time, and those women and men out there are expecting the best show of their lives, an escape from their reality, even for a moment, and we are going to fucking give them that.
Turning on the tap, I quickly press the cool water under my eyes before grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser next to me and dabbing at it. Standing up taller, I straighten my grey silk blouse, re-tuck it, and smooth it back into my knee-length black pencil skirt.
My golden skin is a little dull today, and my makeup is minimal because I knew I would cry it off, but I waved my shoulder-length blonde-brown hair. I always feel better when I look good, but not even that can settle me right now.