YONI

The band trickled in. We did our sound check. The club manager warned us, “Five minutes,” and then doors opened and we scooted back to the dressing room for a smoothie. I went over the play list for both halves of the show, with the slow version of the new single “Baby, Come Home” about four songs from the end of the second half. I figured we’d give ’em that, pretend to close, get some encores, and finish with the longer, dance-pace version of “Baby, Come Home” again. Good way to promote the new CD.

And it would send my guys home in a good mood about the future. I couldn’t really pay them enough to back me. They had to have extras. Club dates were good for those—the guys got to feel the love up close and personal.

I said, “Baz, do you want to be backstage for the second half, or do you want me to call you up out of the audience?”

He fidgeted. “Uh . . .”

“Audience,” I decided while he wavered. “More dramatic. And more clubby. The audience goes crazy. That’s why they’re paying so much for these intimate side gigs. I’ll name you, you climb up onstage and flash ’em a grin, and we’ll swing into it right away. And wear your anti-charisma until your entrance. Make ’em gasp.”

I glanced around at the band. They nodded.

“Grab some more eats,” I warned them. “It’s a long evening.”

We all fueled up.

Baz came over and picked at a piece of pepperoni.

“You okay?” I said.

“You’re a different person on the job.”

I chugged some water. “I’m in charge,” I said, wiping the corners of my mouth delicately with my thumbs so my lipstick wouldn’t smudge, and eyeing him. If he couldn’t handle me in charge, he couldn’t handle me.

“Will you be okay in the audience?” I said.

He hunched a shoulder. “Nobody’ll know me.”

“Until you step onstage,” I said. “When you’re up there tonight, you’re Ashurbanipal of the Mesopotamians. I don’t care if nobody knows how you got in here.”

He still didn’t look comfortable. I remembered how hard he’d dodged when I asked him what killed his music career . . . or more accurately, what made him kill his own music career.

“Baz,” I said, and stepped closer, letting that sacred boundary between me and the rest of humanity go a little fuzzy, breaking my own rule against closeness when I was on the job. “If you can’t—if you don’t want to do this, we can do the number without you.”

He looked at me with eyes wide open, but he didn’t seem to see me. Was he on drugs? Shit!

“What is it?” I demanded, less friendly. “Are you fucked up?”

“I’m scared,” he muttered. “Okay?” He kept looking me in the eye.

I realized that his pupils would be weird if he was on something.

I relaxed. “You don’t have to do this,” I repeated.

“You have my promise.”

More gently, I said, “If everything you promise to do scares you, you need to rethink that.”

While I watched, his shoulders slumped. His eyelids slid half-shut. He tilted onto one hip. My chilled-out sex demon was back.

“Banzai, buddy.” I winked at him.

He nodded. “Remember the Alamo.”

I was onstage before I realized that that wasn’t exactly the spirit I was aiming for.