Say it Louder (23 page)

It’s deep teal silk, light as air as it sways on the hanger. I put it on and hold the two halter straps up against my collarbone as I come out of the fitting room.

“Turn around,” she orders, and I when I spin the pleated skirt flares and swishes around my legs. She zips the dress the rest of the way and closes the two pearl buttons that hold the halter closed at the nape of my neck. “Now look.”

I spin back, relishing the swish again, and see myself with new eyes in the mirror. It’s a Marilyn Monroe dress, like the white one she wore over that windy grate, but the dark teal gives it an edge.

It shows more skin and cleavage than I’m used to, but my ocean tattoo looks even bluer with the dress, and the honeybees on my other shoulder stand out in yellow.

It’s breathtaking.

I steel myself for disappointment. “How much?”

She bites her lip, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “I haven’t tagged it yet. Just got it in. But it’s perfect for you. How about…”

She grabs a tag and I watch her write a two, then a zero, then another zero, and my heart sinks. There’s no way I can afford this extravagance. Even if I sell several pieces, I need the money to pay Dave back for all the supplies he bought me, plus the lawyer who revised my contract.

Ryan adds another zero. “Oops,” she giggles, and dots the tag.

A decimal.
 

A tiny little dot that makes this gorgeous dress within my reach.

“Can you do twenty?” she asks, mischief and hope in her eyes.

“Ohmygodyes,” I say in a rush.

Ryan claps her hands with glee. “Perfect! Because it comes with shoes. It has to! What size are you?”

“Eight?” My pulse pounds in my ears and I just stare at her as she buzzes around the store.

“Here. These are exactly right.” I slip on distressed-leather Mary Janes, buttery soft and a dark maroon that somehow goes with the dark teal dress.

I shake my head as I pull out my wallet. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve never gotten to play fairy godmother before.” She hands me a fancy bag with ribbon handles and steps around the counter to give me a hug.

Even though I’m not a hugger, I let her. I actually hug her back and blink back tears. Because besides Dave, this is about the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

She sees me. And now she’s made it possible for the art buyers to see me, too.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I hit the snare to close the song with a bap-badda-boom and practically throw my sticks down. Sweat stings my eyes and I swipe at them with my half-drenched shirt.

“That was some
goooood
shit!” Gavin says with a whoop, stuffing the prop mic back in its stand. He high-fives Jayce and Tyler and then reaches over my kit with an open palm. “You took it up a notch, Dave. Made us work for that.”

I grin and smack his hand hard, knowing I pushed the tempo on the last song a bit harder than usual, but not apologizing. “I think that’s the lack of AC.”

The garage door is open and Pittsburgh’s late August heat reflects off the concrete driveway, cooking us in the garage practice space.

Tyler’s mom Cheryl appears in the doorway between the garage and her house, clapping for our performance like an eager fan.

Tyler groans, but Cheryl gives him the stinkeye. “I’m a mom. I’m allowed to be enthusiastic. It’s great to have you all back. Tonight’s going to be really special.”

Tyler shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. Special is what you say about a little kid’s art project. This is going to be hot.”

Jayce whips off his shirt and wipes himself down. “Hottest show in town. Who decided it was a good idea to play an outdoor concert in August again?”

He points to Ravi accusingly, but there’s mirth beneath his stern look.

Ravi shrugs and points to me. “Dave nailed down the contracts. I just set the rest in motion.”

“Hometown crowd. They’re not going to care if it’s boiling or freezing outside. You root for the Steelers, you can take any kind of weather,” I say.

The media tour and practice are done. Ravi pulls out his phone and swipes down a few screens, reading off details on how tomorrow will go. We’ll do a few VIP meet-and-greets, sound check, light dinner in the green room, then the show. It’s all standard operating procedure, but my pre-show nerves are tingling.

I get nervous. Like, puke-your-guts-out nervous. I used to puke before pretty much every show, with visions of crashing and burning in front of a live audience churning through my brain.

Seven years into this, my stomach has settled into a queasy rumble, but I still can’t shake the feeling that something must go wrong.

It’s too easy.

***

We’ve played the Burgettstown amphitheater a few times, so it doesn’t take long to get our bearings and set up for sound check.

The wide stage and seven thousand reserved seats don’t seem big by day. But I remember walking onstage at dusk the first time we played here and looking up past the seats to the massive, sloping grassy lawn—where the other two-thirds of fans were sitting.

Twenty thousand people is intense.

I request that security let in few local press early to snap shots before the show. I explain to Ravi that this gives us a social media bump to sell any last-minute tickets, even resales, so we can be sure of a full crowd.

He takes it in stride, these little details I throw his way, even though I’m not the manager anymore.

We run through our playlist and I find myself checking my texts at every break, desperate for another little connection with Willa.
 

Her answers are short and often long in coming. She took a lot of time off at Righteous Ink to get her paintings done, so she rescheduled several clients to today.

Me:
Are you nervous about tomorrow?
 

Willa:
Of course. When I walked through the gallery, it totally hit me. How big this is. How real.

Me:
I can’t wait to see you walk in there tomorrow. See how the buyers react to your work.

Willa:
Could you walk me in there blindfolded? And with ear plugs? I don’t want to overhear someone trashing my piece.

Me:
Please. They won’t.

Willa:
But if they do?

Me:
Hey now. Give the phone back to nothing-scares-me Willa.

Willa:
Busted.

Me:
Listen to me: I’m sure of you. And I’ll be there with you, every step. Even if I have to carry you through the night.

Willa:
You might.

Me:
Grrr. I mean it—get rid of that attitude. What are you doing right now?

Willa:
Re-pinking my hair. I finished my last client about an hour ago.

She sends me a snap of a goofy face, her hair coated in magenta goop. I send her a picture back of the amphitheater, mostly empty except a handful of sound and lighting techs and a few press.
 

As I look at the space, still five hours until we go on, I imagine how it will feel filled to the brim.

It’s like no feeling in the world, this ability to capture the attention of thousands, and with one stroke on a drum, launch them into the next song that most of them know by heart.

A movement from the back right corner of the amphitheater catches my eye and I watch the progress of a half-dozen security guards in a bunch, first talking animatedly to each other, then pointing at the stage.

I take a slug of water and inspect my playlist. When I look up, they’re moving rapidly down the aisle to stage right. When they get closer, the uniforms come into focus.

There are security guards, gray polo shirts with SECURITY printed in white block letters front and back, belts bearing heavy Maglites and walkie-talkies.

And then there are police officers. The real deal, Pittsburgh’s finest, two with checker-trimmed hats.

The squirming in my gut from nerves transforms into a nest of snakes when I realize their eyes are trained on me.

“David Campbell?” The lead officer’s deep voice is more command than question. Gavin whips his head around and moves toward me, prompting another officer to square his shoulders toward Gavin, as if bracing for a confrontation.

“Yes?” I want to force my voice low to match his register, but it comes out more like a rasp.

“We’d like you to come with us now.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I stand on shaky knees but Gavin intervenes. “What’s this about?”

“We’d like to talk to him. Now,” the officer says.

Gavin shakes his head and smiles, turning on a magnetic charm that removes panties faster than you can say Tattoo Thief. “Now’s not an ideal time, since we’re getting ready for a show. How’s tomorrow for you?”

Gavin’s charm is lost on the lead officer and I glance around to the rest of the band. Tyler looks worried, Jayce dumped his guitar and is striding toward our little group, and I guess Ravi’s somewhere backstage.

And just past the stage in the media pit, cameras are clicking. Shit.
 

“We’d like you to come with us,” the officer repeats, and his hand on my shoulder feels like cuffs.

“Stop.” Jayce says.
His
voice is strong enough that the lead officer actually stops, but he doesn’t let go of my shoulder and his body shifts into a more aggressive stance.

“What’s this about?” Gavin asks.

I hang my head, the memory of the freezing night in February slamming into my chest, knocking my breath away.
She told someone.
Kristina’s getting her twisted revenge.

“He can’t go with you right now.” Jayce folds his thick arms across his chest and physically blocks their path to the stairs.

While I appreciate him sticking up for me, it’s only making the scene worse. The cop’s grip on my shoulder tightens and another cop thumbs open a snap on his belt, the pocket where cuffs are kept.

I look at Jayce, my eyes pleading for him to back down.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to step aside,” the officer says.

“No.”
 

Jayce’s cold statement is like tossing a grenade in this huddle of people. Two cops move lightning-fast to flank me, while another grabs something—a taser? Pepper spray?—from his duty belt and aims it at Jayce.

The ampitheater’s security guards just get in the way, taking cues from the cops while Jayce, Gavin, and Tyler are shouting and demanding answers.

But no amount of posturing is going to get me out of this. I stand there, wordless, pinned between two cops and duck my head away from four reporters in the media pit who are snapping pictures as fast as possible.

From the corner of my eye, I see Ravi run out from the stage wing, stopping in his tracks as he assesses the scene.

“Can’t this wait until after our show?” Tyler asks the lead officer in his best peacemaker voice. “He’s our drummer. We need him.”

And damn if it doesn’t feel good to hear Tyler say that, even though I’m about to colossally let them down.

“Let him go.” Ravi’s voice carries across the stage, and for a moment I think he’ll magic up a way to get me out of this.

Then I realize Ravi’s command isn’t for the police. It’s for my band. He’s telling
them
to back down and let the police take me.

“No!” Jayce and Gavin say in unison. Jayce shifts his and dives toward me, grabbing for my shoulder. He’s spun back and an officer takes out his knees.

He lands with a thud and a curse at my feet, his face red with rage as a thick boot rolls him and cops wrestle him into cuffs.

Holy. Shit.

Jayce keeps up a wicked string of curses and demands until Ravi gives him another little kick in the hip to shut the fuck up.

Ravi’s apology on behalf of Jayce and the rest of the band is poetry laced with groveling. He completely ignores me while the cops consider what to do with one writhing, cussing guitarist.

At least Gavin and Tyler have the presence of mind to stand there, contrite. But their eyes are huge with questions and all I can do is press my lips together and give them a tiny shake of my head.