He ends the call, and I stare off into space for a minute.
And then, because you don’t ignore something like this, I text Ethan my email address.
I draw in a breath.
I close my eyes.
Just like my mom and I used to do when I was a kid, I cross my middle finger over my forefinger on both hands, hold my crossed fingers over my eyes, bring my thumbs in front of my lips together, and kiss them as I make a wish that I’ll make the right decision.
CHAPTER 5: GAGE
It’s an hour before practice is set to start, and I’ve never actually done a video call before, but my phone is telling me I have one incoming.
Maybe that makes me sound ancient even though I’m only twenty-seven, but I’ve never had a need to do one. My life is here in Vegas. If I need to talk to someone, we talk on the phone or I go to their place or we meet somewhere.
I thumb at my phone like the tool I am while I try to figure out what the fuck I’m doing, and then I see Adam Wilson’s face fill the screen.
Holy shit.
“Hey, Gage,” he says. “Nice to see you.”
Oh, fuck. It’s true.
It’s really Adam Wilson, lead guitarist of MFB and one of my fucking idols even though we’re the same age.
And he can see me?
Right.
This is a video call.
“Hey,” I mutter, trying to play it cool when I’m suddenly nervous as fuck. That guy was telling the truth. MFB really wants me to audition for their open spot. How the hell did this happen? “Same to you.”
“Trevor said you sounded like you didn’t really believe him, so I thought a video call was in order. My wife and I took a quick weekend in Vegas about a month ago and we saw Sin City Crue. You were incredible, man.”
“Oh, thanks.” More muttering. This guy is going to think I’m a fucking idiot if I don’t pull it together.
“At the time I didn’t know we’d need a replacement on bass, but now we do. We’d love to meet you and see what you can do.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” he repeats, and I realize I have yet to string together a complete sentence during this conversation.
I draw in a deep breath and try not to stare at myself, but I’m up in the corner of my screen and my hair needs a good washing. Actually, as I look at this Adam guy, I think if I want to fit into MFB, my hair might need a cut, too. These guys are mostly fairly clean cut. They’re more than a few steps above being stars of a cover band playing eighties hair metal, and my long locks and tattoos will make me stick out like a sore thumb. At least I can do something about the hair.
“Yeah, man. I appreciate the offer and your call today. It’s just a little surreal to hear that someone from one of the biggest bands in the world is interested in hearing me play.” I shake my head a little as I try to reconcile what I just said in my head.
He laughs. “Well, we’re interested. Sign the contract and get your ass to Los Angeles.”
I grin and nod, and I feel a little more like myself with his ribbing. “Consider it done.”
I read through the contract for the hundredth time, and it seems like a bunch of standard legal jargon. I’m not supposed to talk to anybody about what I’m doing, and it gives me specific language I’m allowed to use when telling my band why I’m leaving.
I don’t really know whether I’m signing my life away or not, but it sort of feels like it.
I sign it anyway, because even if I am signing my life away, I’m trading up. Way up. Even if I’m not chosen as the bassist, I’ll still be on a television show that allows me to showcase my talents. I’ll still be on MFB’s and Ashmark’s radar.
And that’s just an opportunity I can’t pass up.
I send the signed contract off to Ashmark before I lose my nerve, and then I make a call to Paul, the head of entertainment at the hotel where Sin City Crue plays. I explain to him that I’ll be gone for at least the next month to give myself a little bumper time but that this could be indefinite.
And then I head to Ray’s house for practice.
I don’t bring my bass guitar.
I show up last—late because of my call with Adam, which isn’t like me.
“Finally,” Mikey says, and I shoot him a glare. I don’t even know why we practice anymore. We can play these songs in our sleep. Maybe because we all love making music.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say. “I, uh, have some news.”
Ray raises a brow. “What is it? You knock up your roommate?”
I roll my eyes.
“I’d knock her up real nice,” Mikey jeers.
“You guys are idiots,” I say, and then I turn to Mikey. “She wouldn’t give you the time of day anyway.”
“So what’s the news?” Ray asks.
“I was invited to participate in a reality show, and I’m heading to Los Angeles to take part. This will take anywhere from a week to a month, and there are pretty big opportunities if I win.”
Mikey, Ray, and Vince all glance at one another.
“I may not be back,” I finish.
“A reality show?” Vince asks, his voice all skepticism.
“Contractually, that’s all I’m allowed to say. But this is the kind of thing I just can’t pass up.”
“When do you leave?” Ray asks, and I appreciate his immediate understanding. He’s the kind of guy who will go right to solutions rather than complain about the problem. We’re a lot alike that way.
“I’m leaving Thursday. I already talked to Paul, and he’s getting in touch with the back-ups to see who can fill in while I’m gone.” Which will hopefully be forever.
“This Thursday?” Mikey whines. Unlike Ray, he prefers to wallow for a bit before turning the corner toward understanding. “But, dude, you’re the best at bass. We need you.”
I promised myself I wouldn’t feel guilty for taking this opportunity, but a little guilt stabs at me anyway. Even though we don’t take much too seriously, these guys are my friends, and we’ve been playing together for the last four years. We worked hard for two of them to find our niche and work our way up in the Vegas circuit, and working hard like that with a group of people has a way of bonding you to them.
But I’m not so bonded that I’m willing to give up this chance.
“You’ve always wanted more than what a cover band could offer,” Ray says. “So, as the Crue would say, ‘Without You’ we’ll be okay. Find yourself some ‘Girls, Girls, Girls,’ and win whatever the prize is. For us, it’s ‘On with the Show.’”
“‘Knock em Dead, Kid,’” Vince adds.
“Yeah. Don’t go shouting at the devil or anything,” Mikey says, trying his best in his big, dumb oaf way to throw a Crue song title at me.
I laugh. “Thank you for understanding that I need to do this.” I hug each of the guys, and a strange sense of emotion washes over me.
I hadn’t realized how hard this would actually be.
But as I walk out the front door for maybe the last time ever, I know big things await me.
And I can’t wait to get to them.