“We need to tighten this up before Paris.” Tommy nodded his head in agreement with Link’s statement. “The last two shows were awesome, but we’re heading over to smaller venues and more dates, so we need to expand the sound to build up the energy. You know, make it fuller without the big shit that won’t fit. Anyway, I gotta go take a leak.” Link placed his guitar back in its stand and exited the stage they were rehearsing on.
Ross swiveled around on the small stool perched behind his drum kit. He needed to get his sound guys to work on the mike placement and the triggers before tonight’s performance. Things were just a little bit off. “Hey, Tommy, can we add the song ‘Until You’ into tonight’s set? I want Darling to see me doing that one live.” He spun his sticks in his right hand a few times, far more dexterous than any baton twirler in a parade.
“Sure thing. How about right after ‘Pussy-Whipped Bitch’?” Tommy asked, waiting for Ross to probably flip him off. He was too happy to take the bait. “Well, you’re in an agreeable mood. That extended vacation seems to have done you some good. You show up here all bloody chipper and happy. It’s good to see. Falling in love and having my family is something so wonderful I want it for everybody else I love. You deserve to be happy.” Tommy reached closer to him and gave him a playful punch in the shoulder to break the awkward sentimental words up.
“Yeah, thanks, man, I hear you. But in my defense, it wasn’t an extended vacation. I couldn’t get my fucking visa until the very last minute. I guess if fucking Interpol hadn’t flagged my name, I might never have really got to know Darling. Nah.” Ross shook his head. “I would have tracked her down after the tour and scared off anybody she might have met.” He tapped the cymbal, silencing it with a grasp of his strong fingers. Tommy kept staring at him. Damn, had he become that bad in front of his friends? Did he talk like he was as pussy-whipped as Tommy, Link, and definitely Rick the bass player? Fuck it, he didn’t care what those guys thought of him if it meant feeling as good as he did these days.
“What the bloody hell are you talking about? Interpol and visa delays? Are you back on the smack or something?” Tommy asked him with a raised eyebrow.
Ross’ wistful grin fell from his face. “Dude, Madison told me you called Link the afternoon we were to fly out and said there was a hold up with my visa. I checked with Shannon at Canterbury, she said the same thing and that it was being worked on. Until you called me after that gig in Hartford, I thought it was still tangled up in the lawyer’s hands. Did I miss something?”
“Either you missed something or I sure did. Look, laddie, I never said anything about a problem with your passport. Everybody’s paperwork, visas, work cards—hell even the tax shit—was all handled in advance by the lawyers two months ago. If there was a problem with you traveling to Europe for this tour, I would of known about it.” Tommy picked up his coffee, took a swig, and gave a slight wave in departure.
What was going on? Had Darling talked Madison into setting him up? Was the whole visa thing just a ploy so she could bag her own member of Becket? He shook his head, feeling lost. He had thought Darling really cared about him and that they were getting to know each other. The very idea she had schemed to keep him around long enough for her to get her claws into his heart left him cold. He believed his relationship with Lisa and groupies over the last few years had given him a first-rate education in spotting women who only wanted him for his status and not for who he was. The feelings coursing through him were gut-wrenching.
What had he been thinking? That a sweet, educated girl like Darling had been interested in a high-school dropout and former ranch hand? Of course she’d wanted him because of his fame and money. She had played him as smoothly as any master con artist. He’d fallen for her routine hook, line, and sinker. He couldn’t help but wonder if Link knew how Darling and his wife had plotted on this one. He wasn’t sure what would be worse: finding out his bandmate was in on the scam all along or having to explain how he’d been duped and played a fool. Ross flexed his hands together, cracking each knuckle, and picked up his drumsticks. For the next hour he wailed on his drums, slamming out beats as fast as he could. Anything to burn off some of the rage he was feeling.