Atlanta was the tipping point.
Tryp had watched from his drum kit every night for weeks as Xan’s voice grew more ragged, but anyone who told him to slow down got an icy English glare and assurances that he could carry on, but if you couldn’t, you should let him know in time to make other arrangements. You just didn’t tell Xan Valentine to slack off, to rest, because Tryp was pretty sure he couldn’t.
In Atlanta, Tryp stomped his bass drum and twisted in his seat, his shoulders and muscular arms pounding on the skins, beating his frustration and anger out.
Three days had passed since Nephi and Teancum had threatened him.
Seventy-seven and a half hours of wondering if they were beating Sariah yet.
Ninety and one-half hours left until Nephi’s one-week deadline.
And it had been just one day since Elfie had made the most selfless offer he had ever heard when she said that she would help him get Sariah out of New Empyrean. He had almost broken in half and told her that he loved her, but she deserved better than a dirty rocker. She deserved a man who would make a home for her, provide for her and their children, and stay with her, not waste his life on the road with a rock band.
Tryp smashed harder on the drums, painfully aware of everything he wasn’t.
He had left his wallet with Jonas because they were, Dear God, once again pulling a runner to hit the tour busses tonight before they drove north, but he had stuffed Nephi’s card right behind his driver’s license in there, the most secure position.
Not that he needed the fucking card. That phone number burned like a brand in his head. He even saw it when he was dead drunk.
Damn, he wished Elfie would ride the band bus with him. He missed the feel of her satiny skin in his hands, the scent of that rosemary and mint shampoo in her hair and the softness of her long, blond hair around him, and the sweet sound of her voice when she said everything, even when she was chewing him out for drinking too much.
Especially when she was chewing him out for drinking too much. No one else gave a shit if he fucking died in his sleep or of a heroin overdose in a bathroom, his blood painting the walls from an artery puncture.
To stay with her, he would do anything. For a few extra moments with her, he would lie, cheat, or steal. He had been bribing the property gaffs to tag her luggage for his room instead of hers for weeks.
Tryp had already called the reporter from Rolling Stone to write another interview so he would recant everything he had said. No one would probably believe him, but it gave Kumen and Nephi the deniability and reasonable doubt they would need to fight subpoenas and indictments based on his statements.
He would confront Xan on the band bus tonight and, first, try to convince him to pull the single, and when that didn’t work, threaten him with lawyers. Tryp would do anything short of breaking the band to get that single down.
Kumen and Nephi would continue to abuse women and girls out of the public’s knowledge, but they wouldn’t post over two thousand one-star reviews and destroy Killer Valentine.
Because if Tryp broke the band, he wouldn’t ever see Elfie again, because when the tour disintegrated, she would leave and find some other way to earn the money for college.
Gone.
Tryp couldn’t bear that.
All for her. He would do anything to keep Killer Valentine alive just so that he could see her if only for a few minutes a day.
Yet, he couldn’t leave Sariah to torture and death at the hands of his step-father, either. He had arranged for a guy whom he had known at the Colburn School conservatory, Hippie Joe, to sit in for three shows while Tryp went to Utah tomorrow to bust Sariah out of that cult.
Under the burning lights of the stage, Tryp was destroying his drum kit while they sang “Nine Levels of Tortured Souls,” working out his rage at Nephi and Kumen and Teancum and all the rest of those fuckers who should burn in any Hell that might ever exist, when he heard Xan’s voice seize up.
Jesus, it was too soon. They weren’t even singing “Standing on the Mountaintop” yet.
“Nine Levels” wasn’t even a challenging song. They’d transposed it down a third of an octave for performances, and the chorus was nearly a monotone chant.
Tryp’s sticks froze in the air for an entire measure when he saw Xan grab his throat and go down on one knee. Xan’s harsh gasp echoed through Tryp’s in-ear monitor like Xan was hanging on his shoulder.
His struggling wheeze sounded a lot worse than usual.
Tryp stood inside his kit, watching Xan over his line of snares.
Rhiannon vaulted the monitor wedge on the floor and ran to Xan, her chubby legs flashing beneath her skirt, singing the whole way into her mic. Tryp didn’t have her line in his monitor, so he could only hear Xan choking and sucking air like he was drowning in the middle of the stage. Tryp could see that Rhiannon was still singing, even if he couldn’t hear her, so he sat and came in on the downbeat because the show must go on.
Shit. Xan was getting worse, a lot worse.
Down below the bank of drums, Cadell was jogging over to Xan, his fingers flying on the frets and dragging the electrical cord behind him on the stage, and damned if he didn’t miss a note the whole way over there. He crouched beside Xan, still playing, and said something to Rhiannon, who rested her pale hand on Xan’s dark coat sleeve but was singing the melody line of the song. She was so close to Xan that the mic taped to his cheek picked up her golden alto voice behind Xan’s choking and struggling for breath.
Jonas came out on the stage and bent over Xan, his expensive gray suit an understated contrast with the musician’s antique costume. Rhiannon and Cadell stood and backed off while Jonas led Xan off the stage. Xan coughed a sick, constricted wheeze in Tryp’s ear until a static squawk cut him off and Rhiannon’s clear, bright voice filled his head.
Tryp had a two-minute drum solo at the end of the bridge here, and he took the opportunity to pour rage onto his drums.
Centerstage, Cadell and Grayson slung their guitars over their heads and switched instruments. Now that Cadell was tethered to the amps at stage right, Cadell traced back Grayson’s cord and followed Xan and Jonas, his fingers still a blur on the neck and body of the guitar, though now Cadell strummed the bass line and Grayson played the lead guitar’s line.
Tryp settled in, listening to Rhiannon sing and bop down near the crowd.
Evidently, the crowd was aware that Xan sometimes blew out his voice, because there wasn’t a hushed, horrified silence. They all just danced to Rhiannon’s vocals.
Tryp drummed extra hard to give her a vibrant dance beat behind her voice to get the crowd on its feet and rocking, but it seemed like the audience was already dancing, their arms waving in the air and jumping to her voice.
When Tryp looked over to the wings, Xan was watching her dance and sing to the audience and holding that electrode thing to his throat to stop the spasms, terror written on his face.