One Motion More (Consistently Inconsistent Book 1) Read online

  This feeling—the chest tightness, the rapid pulse—it’s foreign to me. I don’t recognize this kind of distress.

  ‘When I told you that I was pregnant with your baby, I was just trying to give you a reason to stay. But it’s not true.’

  My mouth goes dry again, paralyzing my tongue against the back of my front teeth. Everything around me moves in slow motion, like quicksand.

  I should be entertaining this crowd. The only thing I’m entertaining is spiraling thoughts.

  The baby that never was.

  The conniving woman who screwed me over.

  The fastest way to get out of playing a show tonight and be anywhere but here.

  The members of the band shout to me—maybe at me—but their muffled voices sound miles away. A high-pitched ringing sounds at both ears, overpowering the thousands of voices that fill the venue. Blake stands in front of me, asking if I’m okay.

  I’m not okay.

  The lights are glaring, the music is flawless, the crowd is thunderous but I am broken. The microphone falls through my clammy palm, hitting the stage and bouncing with harsh echoing thuds and horrid feedback. I make my way toward the wings of the stage. I can’t look back—and I don’t.

  Proof of this disaster is better than likely already uploaded to every available social media platform shared by one person, then the next—gone viral.

  Like a disease.

  The magazines and tabloids, they will slander my name with assumptions of drug use. Xander Varro Performs While Inebriated at New York Venue.

  They think they know me.

  They don’t know a damn thing.

  The truth is…. Well, it doesn’t matter what the truth is. The truth doesn’t sell like the bullshit does. This isn’t drugs. This is a feeling that tears through my chest cavity like rot in old walls. This is unrelenting anger that robs me of my breath. The lyrics to a song I wish I had never written in the first place, had dismantled me in a way that I never would have anticipated. Blindsided me, much like Mariah had.

  This is panic.

  Everyone tried to warn me about her.

  All the signs were there.

  Warning. No lifeguard on duty. Swim at your own risk.

  And I did.

  I dove in head-first every damn time, catapulting myself into deep, troubled waters—a treacherous mix of her crooked lies and mouth full of deceit. I filled my lungs with air and held it as I treaded the waves of fables she was known for.

  And now, I’m sinking like an anchor in waters I never should have navigated in the first place.

  There is no mistaking the sound of the crowd beyond the stage now—their disgruntled outcry a mix of boos and jeers, openly expressing their demands for our return to stage. I don’t blame them for being this vocal. Had we been nearing the end of the show, we could have passed this off as a cutoff point and returned to the stage for an encore, but we had just started our set. “What do you want to do, Xander?” Blake asks, sweat beading across his brow. “Are you okay? Do you want to try to get back out there?”

  Blake’s eyes are trained on mine. Without blinking, I stare at him. He’s my best friend, my brother, really—but there wasn’t much going on between his ears.

  More often than not he wears this absent expression with his eyes frosted over and his lips parted like someone asked him a question he doesn’t know the answer to. That’s the face he wears now, only no one asked him anything, and I wish he would just shut up.

  “I need to get the hell out of here,” I mumble. Leaving the band behind me, I stand and half jog the length of the backstage area. Eager to escape, I slam my bodyweight into the first door I see, with no idea what sits on the other side.

  Hundreds of pairs of curious, demanding eyes await. I stand frozen in the doorway. There are only two things separating me from the crowd—a thin fabric barrier and a few security guards who may not even be tall enough to ride large rollercoasters.

  A guy who stands about six feet tall or so—only about an inch or two shorter than me—steps around the barrier with two other men flanking closely beside him. The two security guards closest to me step forward, posing about as much threat as a Nerf gun in a bad neighborhood.

  “I paid for a show. I came to see a show. I expect a show,” the disgruntled fan says, flaunting a pierced tongue. His friends yell a resounding agreement.

  “Fuck off,” I hiss, turning away from them. That should have been the final word. At least, that was my intention, but he spits in my direction. I urge myself to keep walking and forget this jackass exists—but I can’t.

  Not tonight.

  My conscience is as lopsided as a seesaw with only one passenger, encouraging me to turn and give this guy a piece of my mind. The security detail instructs me to ‘Let it go’, which I kindly disregard, shaking free of his grasp on my arm.

  Security is on my heels as I approach the man, who somehow seems bigger than he did a few moments ago. His back is to me, but he yells over the house music, bragging to a group in the crowd as if his disgusting behavior were something heroic.

  I tap him on the shoulder and he turns toward me.

  “How’s this for a fucking show?” I say through clenched teeth and throw my body behind a well-timed right hook. Either my knuckles or his jaw emits a distinct crack as the two connect, but there is no time to think about which it was. He lunges back at me, grabbing the front of my shirt.

  The security staffed by the venue floods the area, separating me from my opponent and the gathering onlookers.

  A salt-and-pepper-haired security guard pushes me backward a few steps as the other guy is escorted from the venue. He looks back at me with fury in his eyes. I curtsy, holding the edges of an invisible skirt, then give him the middle finger as the security detail drags me backstage.

  Chapter Two

  The flashes are instant and blinding—the camera clicks audible, despite the reporters and media yelling their unanswerable questions in my ear as I leave.

  Our personal security guides me forward, the short walk to the tour bus feeling as if it has no end. My eyes had adjusted to the dark venue atmosphere, but now scattered spots from the cameras cloud my vision.

  Finally onboard the bus, I collapse into my favorite seat nearest the liquor shelf.

  My head is pounding. Night after night of drum solos just a few feet behind me may be to blame, but this was more than likely a hard fall from a good buzz. Though both the lights in the bus and the night sky are unlit, I drop my sunglasses over my eyes. I press the heels of my hands against my temples and grab the roots of my overgrown hair in my hands. A single bead of sweat releases from my hairline and drips to the toe of my boots as I lean forward with my face in my hands and the weight of the world on my shoulders.

  The odd blue-and-orange carpet that runs the length of the bus catches my attention. It looks like it was stolen from the floor of an outdated movie theater. I’m lost in the loudness of the heinous carpet pattern I somehow never noticed before when I hear the unmistakable rustle of body verses leather as someone takes the seat next to me.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Blake asks. His tone offers no emotion. He doesn’t seem mad that I ruined the show, but he’s not laughing about it either. He leans the chair back as far as it will go and rests his leather high-tops on the footrest in front of us.

  “Not particularly.” My voice is so quiet I can barely hear it over the ringing in my ears from tonight’s partial set.

  “Okay,” he says as he leans to the side, pulling an unopened bottle of whiskey and two cups from the shelf closest to him. He opens the bottle and pours the amber liquid, handing me one of the glasses. In one large gulp, I swallow the contents.

  “How about now?” Blake asks. Thankfully, these sunglasses mask my expression. He wouldn’t appreciate the narrowed glare I wear behind these tinted lenses.

  “That was a sold-out crowd in there tonight,” Blake reminds me as if the size of the crowd and the ‘Sold Out’ b
anner across the marquee were lost on me. “New York has been very kind to us. We sell out every time we’re here. I don’t even know what happens in this instance. Do they get their money back? Because that’s a massive loss for us.”

  I feel like a second grader being scolded by a schoolteacher.

  “You are the lead singer of this band, Xander,” he continues.

  “You don’t say.” The bite in my words is intentional. I reach for the whiskey bottle, but he moves it just beyond arm’s length.

  “Are you okay?” Blake asks. “Physically, is the hand okay? You need that hand to play. I mean, I’m a good musician. I am great, in fact. I can do all the guitar parts myself, but it makes the music better and my job easier when you play,” he jokes, pouring himself another glass of whiskey, then giving in and filling mine too.

  “Yeah.” A light smile crosses my face. It feels transplanted, like it doesn’t belong to me. “My hand is fine,” I add.

  “Good,” he says, “‘cuz it was a hell of a punch.” He laughs and taps his glass off mine. The liquid splashes and the clink of the glasses echoes through the otherwise-silent tour bus.

  “Listen… Whatever it is that you’re going through, put it into the music. You are a talented singer known for the lyrics you write. Smear on some black eyeliner and turn this pain into gold. Put your feelings into one of those sad, dark, borderline scary songs you write so well and lay it out on the stage,” he says around a sip of whiskey. The way he slurs his words makes me think he has already had too much tonight.

  “I have never worn eyeliner a day in my life,” I dispute over the squeaks and whistles of the tour bus as the driver pulls away from the venue parking lot, leaving the cameras and reporters in the distance. The occasional camera flash can still be seen at the rear of the tour bus, as if the photographers think they might catch one last picture of me as we drive away.

  Leaving my sunglasses perched on the bridge of my slightly crooked nose, I lay my head back and close my eyes. The night replays again and again in my head like an inflight movie until sleep finally finds me.

  * * * *

  After what feels like only a few moments but was close to four hours and change, Blake elbows me and whispers quietly.

  “Xander, take a look,” he says with his forehead pressed to the nearest window. I slide my sunglasses onto the top of my head and look out the same pane. In the distance, the perfectly illuminated outline of the Boston skyline interrupts the otherwise pitch-dark backdrop.

  “Home has never looked better than it does right now,” I say through my exhale, leaving my breath on the window in a circle of fog.

  The bus screeches and the air-pressure brakes sound off their familiar hiss as we come to a full stop. Cooper approaches us. Cooper has a first name, but we have called him by his last name for so long that his first name has become obsolete. Greg? George? Gary? Something with a G, I think, but I don’t really know.

  What I do know is he takes care of everything for us—public relations, schedules, merchandise, rehearsals, money. He does it all. I can say, with confidence, that this band would not be as successful as it has become without him at the helm.

  “You guys can go. It’s been a long day,” Cooper says. “I will be in touch with the plans for the next few days leading up to the next show.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder. Blake wastes no time and jumps from the top stair of the bus door to the parking lot without looking back. Dominic, our drummer, and Theo, the band’s keyboardist, both stand and stretch before exiting the bus with some ‘Good nights’ and ‘See you tomorrows’.

  Cooper lifts one hand, effectively holding me back the way a crossing guard would halt oncoming traffic. I fall to the chair again.

  Spectacular. Lecture time.

  Truthfully, this was expected. In fact, it’s a damn miracle we made it out of the venue parking lot before Cooper had one of his infamous speeches prepared and delivered.

  He takes a seat directly across from me and runs his fingers across his jaw line a few times before speaking.

  “Cooper?” I ask, to which he holds up one finger in response, still avoiding eye contact with me. If I’ve ever seen Cooper this mad, I can’t recall the moment now.

  His Adam’s apple trembles beneath a hard swallow as he closes his hands so his palms touch, and taps his fingertips to his tight-lipped mouth.

  “Is it drugs?” he asks, a hollow question revealing no emotion.

  “No,” I reply, but he closes his eyes and his nostrils flare. He doesn’t buy it.

  “Is it drugs?” He repeats with more volume this time, but his deep brown eyes are staring directly at me, into me, looking for the answer my eyes give and not the one my mouth offers.

  “No, it’s not drugs, Cooper. I’ll be fine. I am fine.” The words pour out like water through a broken dam. “I just had a bad night.” His eyes soften, a defeated surrender, and guilt sets in as I realize what he is thinking.

  “I cannot…” he begins but chokes on the words. “I will not lose another member of this band to drug use. Do you understand me?”

  There it is, the words I knew were coming but didn’t want to hear. Cooper has been the only father figure I’ve ever had, starting the day he accepted a position with this band. Even now, just shy of thirty years old, I hate hearing any form of disappointment in his words.

  Consistently Inconsistent, now a four-man band, began with a fifth member, Julian Young. A uniquely talented musician, he birthed brilliant guitar riffs and harmonics that were nearly impossible to imitate. A born guitarist, sure—but he could keep up on the keyboard with the best of them and had even been known to take over the drums on occasion. He was, as the saying goes, a jack of all trades, but offered a twist on the old trope as he was, indeed, master of all.

  He was an original member. Blake and I had planned to play in a school talent show, and he showed up to a rehearsal. Blake’s and my two-man act became a three-person performance. Before long, we had added Dominic and Theo and had a band name and a set list.

  Julian, however, could fit all his positive qualities in a handbag while he dragged his suitcases full of negatives behind him. He had struggled on and off—more on than off—with drugs over the course of the last two years. Of course, that was all that we knew of.

  We tried to help him. Cooper pushed to be in Julian’s corner as often as possible to help him get and remain clean, but Julian couldn’t do it. He didn’t want sobriety bad enough.

  He started showing up late for shows, skipping practices, ignoring calls and texts all together, and we knew we couldn’t have that kind of instability going into the tour.

  Though our band name paired with my antics tonight would suggest otherwise, Consistently Inconsistent was a group of musicians as reliable as they were talented, a description that no longer fit Julian. Before hitting the road, we released a statement saying Julian Young was no longer a member of Consistently Inconsistent and he would not be appearing with us going forward.

  As a band, it was the hardest decision we had ever made, but it was the right thing to do. Maybe, just maybe, if he weren’t exposed to the lifestyle this career offered, he would finally get the help he needed—but from what I’ve heard, that wasn’t the case.

  Cooper must think I’m going to make the letdown of tonight become a routine thing, because that was what he was accustomed to, thanks to Julian—and now, me. Worrying about Julian over the last two years had aged Cooper in a way that I’d never noticed until he was sitting this close to me, worrying about me now too.

  “Go home, Xander,” Cooper surrenders, his shoulders releasing from their tensed state. “Go home and go to bed. Go directly to bed. Do not stop at any bars. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Got it?”

  “I make no promises.” I raise my partially filled glass of whiskey his direction. I wink, and he sighs. Following Blake to whatever shit-hole bar he has found for the night isn’t on the to-do list, but plans change. Cooper pats a han
d on my shoulder and we stand at the same time.

  As we exit the bus and walk toward the waiting town cars, he looks at me and says, “You know we’re here for you, right? The band, me… If you need us, whatever it is, we can figure it out together. We always do.”

  “I know,” I say, as a driver opens the back door of the car set to take me to my apartment—an empty apartment where I have no desire to go.

  * * * *

  Overlooking the cityscape below me, my reflection stares back at me from the pristine glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the high-rise apartment. The smell of my home, my life and my belongings enter my lungs for the first time in almost seven months as I breathe in. The crystal glass from the tour bus remains in my hand, and if I were a betting man, I would say it never finds its way back. It will find a home among all the other glasses and plates I’ve stolen from various limos, room services and bars.

  Back and forth, back and forth… I pace at the window in silence for a few moments longer before I turn on the TV. I know this is a terrible idea, but I’ve spent my whole life ignoring my instincts and I’ve survived this long, so I roll the dice and click on the entertainment news channel.

  A blonde female news anchor with overly Botoxed lips and long hair set in large, flowing curls speaks to the camera.

  “Just a few hours ago, fans got more than they bargained for when Xander Varro, front man of the well-known rock band Consistently Inconsistent, left the stage not only mid-concert but mid-song. Concert goers report that a fan confronted the lead singer as he tried to exit the doors, telling him they ‘paid for a show and expected a show.’ Varro didn’t take to kindly to the confrontation and punched the man, as you can see here in this video that was submitted by a witness to the altercation.”

  My head falls so my chin touches my chest and my dark hair drops like a curtain over my peripheral vision. I don’t want to watch this, but I don’t want to turn it off. I shift my gaze slightly so I can see out of the corner of my eye, checking every few seconds to see if it is over.