Bria punches him playfully while the rest of us crack up.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll have to settle for a harem bathing me.”
“As if you need any of that,” Liam says. “You’ll be wiping your ass with hundred-dollar bills as soon as you turn twenty-five.”
“Fuck off, Campbell.” Garrett is pissed. He looks disgusted, like he’s unhappy about having a trust fund—a trust fund he never talks about. Right along with the family he never mentions.
“We can’t let that shit happen to us,” Brad says. “Let’s make a pact. In fact, Jeremy, maybe you should write up another addendum that says if any band member becomes a diva, we can kick him out.”
“You don’t want to do that,” he says.
“Why not?”
He’s solemn. “Listen, I’ve seen bands go from zero to sixty, and I’ve seen them fade into nothing, but they all have one thing in common—fans. When people worship you, it gets in your head. Some people get a god complex. A lot turn to drugs and alcohol. Sometimes bands break up before they have a chance to hit the top because of disagreements between members. You never know what’s going to happen, and you don’t want a contract dictating who gets to stay and who goes. You’re going to have a hard enough time navigating the waters if everything goes right.”
“Fine. No addendum,” I say. “But I’m telling everyone right now, I will personally kick your ass if you insist on a new fucking towel every time you wash your hands. Now bring it in.” We form a circle and stack hands in the middle. “On three: one, two, three.”
“Let’s get reckless!” we shout.
It’s something we started doing for luck before each show, and it’s become our way of bonding. It’s like a pinky promise. It makes us blood brothers—and sister.
Brad checks his watch. “Can we get going? I have a date with Katie.”
Liam elbows him. “That’s the third time this week. You getting serious about her?”
“I might be. You guys should try it.”
“What, having a girlfriend?” Garrett grabs his junk and motions to some fangirling teens on the other side of the fence. “And give up all that available poontang?”
Liam pushes him to the van. “Easy, Casanova. They’re jailbait.”
“Casanova?” Garrett says, glancing at me. “But that’s Crew’s handle. You giving up your title, man?”
Liam’s eyes dart to Bria and back. “Of course he is, you tool.” Liam punches him in the arm.
“Will you guys quit punching me?” he whines. “I play drums, you know.”
“Pussy,” Liam says.
“So can we go?” Brad asks.
“Can we drop you off, Bria?”
“Sure. Thanks.” She hops in and slides over on the bench seat.
On the way to her place, my phone vibrates with a text.
Bria: Want to come over for dinner?
I look at her and she raises her brows. I text her back.
Me: My car is in Stamford.
Bria: So stay at your mom’s tonight, and I’ll drive you back tomorrow for rehearsal.
I hesitate. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her smile fall. I feel like a dick, having avoided her for two weeks. And other than the car thing, I can’t think of a good reason not to go. The truth is, I want to.
Me: Sounds like a plan. I have to make a stop first.
Her smile reappears, then she bites her lip. Dammit if my dick doesn’t start to swell in the middle of a bunch of sweaty men.
“Liam, can you drop us at my mom’s?”
He looks at me in the rearview mirror. “You stayin’ the night?”
“I think so. She just texted me.”
I’m not sure why I lie to him or why I text Bria instead of having a conversation everyone can hear.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re stepping out on the sidewalk in front of Mom’s place. “Later,” I say to the guys before I shut the van door. Bria stares at me as we walk into the building.
“What?”
“Taking me to meet the parental units? That’s a big step, Christopher Rewey.”
I stop. “Why did you call me that? It’s the second time you’ve done it.”
She looks surprised. “Isn’t that your legal name?”
“It is, but nobody uses it. I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“Sorry,” she says, taken aback.
“It’s okay, but if you don’t want to call me Crew, use Chris.”
“Fine, Chris. But it’s funny your name is what you objected to in that sentence.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve met my mom. She’s been to a few gigs.”
“Met her, yes. Sat and talked to her while you take a shower—no.”