Gus Read online

  “Requests” means “demands.” I drain the rest of my glass.

  “First, you will start playing ‘Finish Me’ at every show.”

  Franco, Robbie, and Jamie are all looking at me. Their expressions tell me this is the first time they’re hearing this, too. Shaking my head, I huff, “That’s not gonna happen.”

  More throat clearing. Hitler knows he’s in for a fight. “Gustov, this is non-negotiable.”

  I reach for the bottle and take a long swig. Fuck the glass. “Come on, this is America, everything’s negotiable,” I say. I’m going to try humor because I am so close to losing it and throwing this bottle of whiskey across the room.

  He smiles aggressively. “As I said, you will play ‘Finish Me’ at every show.”

  “We’ll see about that, motherfucker,” I say under my breath before I steal another drink from the bottle.

  Franco heard me. He takes the bottle out of my hand and drains some himself before handing it to Robbie and Jamie, who both do the same before handing it back to me. I've been so wrapped up in my own shit that I forgot what solidarity felt like. I love these guys for sticking with me on this. This is why we’re a band.

  Hitler’s quiet. Taking that as my cue, I stand. “I need a cigarette.”

  Apparently he’s not through with the ultimatums yet. “We are not finished here.”

  I sigh and sit—I'm not defeated. I'm irritated. And he knows it.

  “This tour is going to be more demanding than you're used to. Back to back shows almost every night from one end of this country to the other. For these reasons, among others, Gustov, we feel it’s in the best interest of the success of this tour, and this album, that you have a PA for the duration.”

  I squint my eyes and look around at the guys. They all look confused, so I turn back to Hitler. “A PA better not be what I think it is.” At this point, humor is not going to cut it.

  “Scout MacKenzie will be joining us on the tour bus. She will act as your personal assistant in all matters related to this tour, but her main tasks will be scheduling, communication, and PR. She is to be treated with dignity and respect.” The emphasis he put on respect and the way he’s looking at me tells me he will castrate me if I touch this woman. And now even though I’m pissed, I'm curious.

  “Scout,” he calls loudly over his shoulder.

  Impatient, from earlier, walks into the room. My eyes don’t even make it up to her face before I stand. “Oh, hell no,” I say, striding toward the balcony. The cigarette’s already between my lips.

  Hitler’s angry and his voice booms from behind me. “This is non-negotiable, Gustov.”

  I light my cigarette, inhale, and with the cigarette clutched between my fingers, I point at him. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

  His pompous laugh resounds behind me as I rip open the sliding door leading to the balcony. He's practically shouting now. “I’m afraid after your behavior in Europe, you certainly do.”

  Shutting the door on his condescension, I slump into a deck chair.

  I’m lighting a second cigarette when Franco joins me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. I’m irate. “They can’t fucking do this,” I say bitterly. Then I look up at Franco. “Can they?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, dude.”

  Snubbing out my cigarette, I huff. “The next few months are going to be a nightmare. What good is a personal assistant, other than to narc back to fucking Hitler?”

  His eyebrows rise in agreement. “I’m not sure what to make of this either.” He chuckles a little, apparently amused. “She’s definitely not a new fuck buddy. He made sure of that. She’s all business, man.”

  I’m staring at the ground lost in my own rage, but his laughter pulls me out of it. I shake my head. “Have you talked to the girl, dude? She’s rigid as fuck.”

  He laughs harder. “Yeah, I get that. We all got introduced after you left. Go easy on her though, I think she’s just shy. And maybe a little uptight,” he adds.

  “A little? She was completely disgusted with me earlier when she heard me hitting on the stylist.” I look him in the eye and can’t help laughing with him. “This is a goddamn nightmare.”

  He slaps me on the shoulder before he walks away. “Welcome to Hitler’s hell, twat waffle.”

  Nine weeks of hell.

  Nine more weeks and I’m home.

  Nine more weeks.

  Home.

  Saturday, April 22

  (Gus)

  The show last night was probably the best one we’ve played since last year. I was on the uncomfortable side of sober by showtime, but it worked. The crowd was loud and their energy was easy to feed off of.

  We didn’t play “Finish Me.” Hitler was furious. I’m beginning to take some serious pleasure from seeing that vein in his forehead throb.

  I went to sleep as soon as we got on the bus after the show and didn’t wake up until noon today. I’ve never slept so hard on the road. I feel almost human.

  Before I open my bunk curtain, I tug on a T-shirt. There’s a decency line I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t cross this time around. The last thing I need is Impatient calling sexual harassment on me.

  It isn’t until after I use the bathroom that I realize the bus isn’t moving. And I’m the only one on it. After putting on some jeans, socks, and my shoes, I grab the essentials and make my way out into the bright sunshine. We’re in Phoenix and it’s hot. I don’t mind the heat; it beats the hell out of the cold. I’ve had enough cold this winter to last me a lifetime.

  While I light the first of many cigarettes for the day, I survey the surroundings. We’re parked in the back lot of the venue. There’s a taco joint across the street, and my stomach starts growling at the sight of it. This boy needs tacos.

  The place is small inside and cleanliness doesn’t seem to be high on the list of priorities, but it’ll do just fine. And when I see veggie tacos on the menu, I know I’m home. I order a six-pack of tacos and a bottle of water and take a seat at the booth by the front window. The tacos don’t taste like Ma’s, but they’re damn good.

  When I’m done, I find that I don’t want to leave. The sidewalk outside isn’t crowded but there’s a fairly steady stream of people. I love to people watch. I could sit here all day and try to guess people’s stories. Or make up their stories in my head. I can get creative, and it’s entertaining. So I sit back and watch. The blinds are closed except one that’s bent open. I feel like a spy peeking through it.

  About five minutes later I spot a tall, slim brunette wearing a loose red hoodie and shorts. The shorts aren’t obscenely short, but they show off her spectacular legs, long and lean. She looks like a runner. She’s talking on a cell phone. Some people walk around, especially when they’re distracted by something like a phone, and don’t pay attention to what’s going on around them, but even with her hood pulled up, I can tell by the subtle movements she’s making that’s she’s looking at everything around her. She’d be a brilliant witness to a crime; I'm betting that nothing gets past her. It’s fascinating. At one point she stops moving and leans up against the wall. She seems intense and focused. She doesn’t talk with her hands. The hand that’s not holding the phone is tucked in her front pocket. And even though she’s standing still, she can’t stand still, like there’s a nervousness that she can’t shake. Or maybe it’s impatience kicking in. I feel for her. Calm is elusive most of the time; I miss it.

  She’s still on her phone when she pushes off the wall and crosses the street. She's walking toward me. The closer she gets, the more I can’t look away. I don’t know if it’s those damn legs or the natural grace with which she moves. She’s like the human equivalent of a gazelle.

  I’m fixated on her until I realize who she is. It’s Impatient. And my eyes instinctively jump away, but only momentarily before they bounce right back to her. She’s probably twenty feet away when I realize I’m staring.

  I shouldn’t be staring. Especially when she ca
n’t see me through the blinds.

  But I am. I'm not trying to be rude. I'm curious.

  There’s scarring on her right cheek. It looks like she was burned severely. Her hair falls around her face, but I can still make out the scar tissue. It looks like it starts below her eye, just missing her nose and mouth, and continues down her cheek and neck, disappearing into her shirt. I wonder how much of her torso is affected since her legs are unblemished. How did I not notice this before? I’ve been around her for two days. I’m usually a little more observant. Now it's obvious that I really have been ignoring her and the job she’s supposed to be doing.

  She’s coming in this restaurant now. Luckily, my seat keeps me obscured by a plant. I can’t see her, but I can hear her. Her voice, though quiet, is anything but meek. It’s the kind of voice that holds authority, but presents it to you in hushed, soothing tones. And there’s a slight accent I didn’t notice yesterday—East Coast, maybe. I decide to listen in.

  “Yeah, it’s only for nine weeks. I really need this money. I can do anything for nine weeks, right? … I haven’t really talked to Gustov yet, but he seems pretty rock star cliché … ” She sounds a little bitter. “His ego seems to project out in front of him. You know, you run into it before you even meet him. Honestly, he seems like a jackass … Listen Jane, I need to grab something to eat before I dive into day two. Do me a favor and go outside today. Take a walk. Get some fresh air … Okay. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

  Well, that’s unfortunate. I was kinda hoping I could ease into friendship or at least roll with the whole PA idea. You know, if you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em? Yeah, that. I know I judged her hard, initially. It's just the whole idea of her as my PA that I don’t like. My first impression of her rubbed me the wrong way, but I may as well not fight it. I mean, hell, I don’t need another obstacle. Guess she’s not open to friendship, though. She’s right about one thing: I am a jackass lately. In my opinion, she’s out of bounds with her “rock star cliché” assessment. I’ve always kinda prided myself on not being cliché.

  After hearing her less-than-stellar characterization of me, I decide it’s best if I slip out of the restaurant while she’s ordering so we don’t bump into each other.

  I don’t see Impatient until later that afternoon. I’m sitting in my bunk on the bus when she approaches. And I know it’s immature, but I’m a little hurt by what I overheard her saying about me earlier and I’ve been stewing on it. And maybe a little mad at myself because I’m starting to question who I’ve turned into. I don’t want to be a cliché. Whatever the reason, I don’t even look at her when she starts talking. It’s rude, but I can’t help myself. She meets my evasiveness with a little of her own and stands facing away from me while she talks. Touché. Head turned slightly, she’s side-eyeing me, but she’s direct and to the point. The conversation goes something like this:

  Scout: “You need to blah, blah, blah. And when you’re done with that we need to go over blah, blah, blah.”

  Me: Ignore, but nod as if I’m listening.

  Scout: Silence. My rudeness has been met with irritation. She’s pissed and doesn’t try to hide it. At least she doesn’t embarrass herself and kiss my ass. She just flat out doesn’t like me and has no qualms about it.

  I’m discovering more and more that people in this business have no pride. They’ll sacrifice morals, ethics, hell, even their own mother if it means getting ahead. It’s fake. Everyone wants to be your friend. Everyone wants a piece of you. It disgusts me and warps my sense of reality. I’m almost happy this girl so blatantly doesn’t like me. It restores my faith in humanity.

  Sunday, April 23

  (Scout)

  I may not have many friends, but I try to give everyone a chance. I try to give them the benefit of the doubt. Probably because people have never really done the same for me. But lately, these past few months, my patience is shot. I make split second judgments on people and rarely go back on them. And they’re usually negative. I’ve been around Gustov Hawthorne for a little over forty-eight hours now. He’s an ass. My first impression was dead-on. I walked in on him trying to hit up the stylist. The fake, easy-going charm oozing out of him like some kind of toxic playmaking trap set for his next conquest. Men are pigs. Gustov may be one of their leaders. Not to mention that sobriety doesn’t seem to be on his agenda for the next two months. He’s going to live up to the “rock star” title if it kills him. And it just might. What a waste.

  I’m here for the money. That’s it. I’ve got a job to do. And I’m going to do it if it kills me, because I can’t go back home. I can’t. Okay to be fair, I’m here for two reasons: money and escape. Maybe leaning more toward escape, the opportune but temporary variety. I’m finishing up my two final online classes to graduate and get my degree next month. A degree and the money I make will hopefully allow me some permanent escape when this job is done. I know I’m running away from my problems. I know that. And I hate that. But being home reminds me of him. It makes me feel ugly inside. It makes me feel used. It makes me feel like a failure. And I hate failing at anything.

  So, when I was offered this job very last minute, I jumped on it, even though it’s not ideal. It boils down to the lesser of two evils. And this evil provides an exit from the other evil.

  And so far, Gustov is fairly low maintenance—at least for me. I don’t need his input for the majority of my daily tasks, and when we do need to communicate, I use a passive approach. Direct doesn’t seem to work with him. I’m great at passive, and I prefer it; it’s how I’ve lived most of my life. People respond better to me when I'm passive. And anyway, I don’t think Gustov likes me either. That’s fine. It’s better this way. He’s just a job. I’m here as a buffer between him and management because they don’t want to deal with him. Honestly, I can't blame them. I want this job to be over with, but I’ve got this. That’s my pep talk … I’ve got this.

  Nine fucking weeks.

  God.

  Fucking.

  Help.

  Me.

  Wednesday, April 26

  (Gus)

  Scout is a big fan of sticky notes.

  And she’s kind of a smartass.

  I just came back to the bus to grab my phone, because I forgot it. It’s sitting on my bunk with a sticky note stuck to it that reads: You forgot your phone. Again. It was dead. It’s charged now. You’re welcome.

  I can’t decide if I love it or hate it.

  Pretty sure I hate it, which is why I’ve resorted to equal opportunity sticky note torture. Two can play at this game.

  I turn the note over and write on the back: I didn’t forget it. It’s a cranky bastard when it doesn’t get time to snuggle in my bunk. It was napping, not dead. I drop the note on her bunk before I leave.

  Thursday, April 27

  (Scout)

  It’s been one week.

  I've discovered that Gustov drinks a lot.

  He drinks all day long.

  I thought it was all part of the rock star act, but I get the feeling now it’s how he gets through the day, like he needs an aid to deal with reality. At first, I didn’t like him. Now that’s coupled with feeling a little sorry for him. For the most part, I try to avoid him. When I can't, I tolerate him. Although, I have to admit his sticky note replies are pretty witty. He’s kind of a smartass, which is fine because smartass is my second language.

  The rest of the guys, Franco, Jamie, and Robbie seem okay. I don’t talk to anyone much. This isn’t anything new. I’ve always been a loner. I try to keep to myself, but they’re all polite. And sober most of the time, which is a bonus for intelligent conversation. I haven't watched any of their performances. I don’t plan on it either. I sit on the bus reading while they’re playing and when the chaos settles post-show, I go back in and play damage control if it’s needed. It’s usually not needed. The only thing I seem to run across is Gustov being pawed at by some overly enthusiastic groupie. He disappears into dark rooms with them every night.
r />   Eight more weeks to go.

  I’ve got this.

  Friday, April 29

  (Scout)

  Now we’re in Kansas City, Missouri. I’ve never been to the Midwest. It feels comforting and stable in a way I can’t explain, like the people here have life figured out. No one’s in a rush and that’s nice. I wish I could live that way. My brain never turns off. Maybe that’s what happens when you grow up in New York, in a city that never shuts down and reboots. Sometimes I wish I could turn my mind off altogether, but I can’t. That's just stupid and unrealistic. Life is a fight. And I’m a fighter. And I’m good at fighting. I’m good at protecting myself when I have to.

  I’m standing outside the bus when my cell phone rings.

  “Hi, Jane,” I answer with relief. It’s been a few days since we talked last and I’ve been worried. I need to know she’s okay.

  “Hi, Scout.” She sounds happy. It makes me glad, because it’s rare that I hear genuine happiness in her voice.

  “So, how’s it going today? Anything exciting on tap?” I ask. It’s how we always start off our conversations. Even though I don’t want to be home, I still want to know what’s going on. And that Jane’s okay. So we talk every few days. I don’t miss home, but I miss the feeling of home. I miss security, or the illusion of security. I’m a creature of habit. I miss having a routine.

  “Paxton’s home this weekend. We’re going out to lunch in an hour. I’m meeting him at Pasqual’s Deli.” Now she sounds nervous. Maybe even scared. Paxton is her son, and they have an extremely strained relationship. He’s seventeen. He's my cousin, and he and I grew up together. Even though there’s a six-year age difference between us, we’re close. He’s my best friend. He goes to a year-round boarding school in Boston and he hates it, everything about it: the school, the spoiled kids he’s surrounded by, the isolation. I don’t blame him. It stifles him. It’s changed him and stunted him socially and that breaks my heart. Basically the school is an alternative parenting strategy. The school parents the kids so the parents don’t have to be, you know, parents. Because, honestly, Jane can’t parent at this point. And Paxton doesn’t want her to. I hate being in the middle of them. I try to play peacemaker. I usually fail horribly.