"Nobody gives a shit about Stephen." Raf gestures with his phone. "All this coverage. The fire, the kidnapping, the whole dramatic shitstorm, and the actual villain of the story barely gets a footnote.Former manager Stephen Hughes was found dead at the scene. That's it. That's the sentence he gets. Remembered as nothing more than a loser shithead incel stalker for all time."
Carmine tilts his head. "Well, yes. That's how it usually works. The people behind the scenes don't get much attention. Managers, producers, handlers… they build empires and nobody remembers their names. It's the artists who stick."
Phoenix leans forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees. "Hey, Carmine. For what it's worth,welike you."
Carmine's expression goes flat. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Beniceto me. I'm your manager, not your therapist." He straightens his tie. "We have a professional relationship."
Phoenix's blue eyes go warm and earnest in that way that makes grown adults want to adopt him like a puppy. "We appreciate you handling the press. And the legal stuff. And the hospital. And the?—"
"Phoenix."
"—cops, and the fire investigators, and the label, and the?—"
"I ambeggingyou to stop."
"Oh, don't worry." Phoenix leans back, and the warmth doesn't leave his face but his smile sharpens into a grin. "There's still a whole pile of shit we're pissed at you about."
Carmine looks at the sky and heaves a dramatic groan straight to the gods.
A huff of air comes out of me before I can stop it and the corner of my lip twitches, tugging at the scarred side beneath the mask.
Bells catches it.
She's watching me from her folding chair, and when she sees my pathetic approximation of amusement, she smiles wide and bright. The kind that shows her little pointed canine and makes her nose scrunch.
Okay. So she likes it when I laugh. Whatever.
I'll try to do it more, then.
Carmine is shaking his head, but the lines around his eyes have loosened. He looks older than his years, and his hair's grayer than ever lately. Guess that means he gives a shit about the band, at least. He uncrosses his legs and tucks his tablet away.
"Twenty minutes to stage. I'll be in the wings." He pauses at the door. "And Phoenix? For the love of everything holy, if a journalist asks about your relationship status tonight, the answer doesn't include the word 'fucking.' Your job is to say 'no comment.'"
"No comment," Phoenix repeats dutifully.
"I don't believe you for a second, but I'm choosing to move on."
Carmine leaves and the room settles.
Phoenix stretches until his spine pops. Raf pulls the strap of his bass over his head and plucks a few warm-up notes while Bells leans on his shoulder, the crazy patterns she carved into her mask with her knife glittering under the light.
My fingers find the G minor chord again and hold it.
Nash would have liked this.
The four of us in a shitty dressing room, talking shit, laughing at our manager who's become part of our fucked up family somehow, getting ready to play. The part where the music isabout to start and everything else, including the headlines and the lawsuits and the millions of views, falls away.
The part where we're just a band.
Apack.
I set the guitar aside and stand. The bullet wound pulls and I ignore it. Bells is already on her feet, pulling the rabbit mask down over her eyes. Raf slings his bass. Phoenix spins a stick between his fingers and catches it.
"Ready?" Bells asks the room.