Smiling, she nods and winks. "Thanks Gustov. And just so you know, if I wasn't completely, madly in love with the guy, I would've said yes to dinner."
I smile like a schoolgirl, release her hand, and walk out the door.
The photo shoot, an event I usually loath, isn't as miserable as I expected. And I'm not even drunk. The photographer, Jack, isn't the type we've worked with in the past. They usually take themselves too seriously and wear the title, artist, like it somehow elevates them to a state incapable of communicating with the lowly "talent." Jack has a sense of humor and humility. It's a nice pairing, one of my favorites. He gets all of us to loosen up and act natural. Hell, I don't know what natural is anymore, but I'm doing it.
By the time I get out of the shower and change into some clean clothes from my bag after the shoot, Lindsey's gone. I kinda wanted to see her again, but I know that's a little too stalker for my style. It just felt good to be attracted to someone so normal, but she's taken and that means it's time to put her out of my mind.
I'm startled back to the present by the sound of Hitler barking at me from the living room. "Gustov, join us. We've got a few things to go over before soundcheck." He says it like he's involved in soundcheck. I'd be surprised if he's ever touched an instrument in his life. I walk to the bar and fill a glass with whiskey before taking a seat on the sofa next to Franco. My ass barely hits the cushion when I realize I can't listen to Hitler sober. So immediately I rise again, grab the bottle from the bar, and set it on the coffee table in front of me before settling in.
He gives me one of his looks. It's the degrading, I-don't-get-paid-enough-to-tolerate-your-shit stare. "Anything else you need before we get started?" Pure sarcasm.
Which of course I meet with a little of my own, because I can't keep my mouth shut. "Lunch and a hooker? We are in Vegas, you know."
He shakes his head in disgust. He's so over me it's not even funny.
Shrugging, I take a swig from my glass. "Had to try."
Franco shoots me a warning look to shut up, but his smile is seeping through. The smile's winning.
Hitler ignores my retort and clears his throat. "As you know, I'll be with you for the duration of the tour. And though Europe was successful, despite a few rescheduled shows," he says, glaring in my direction, "a lot is at stake with your return to the United States. The US tour last year was good, but your album is really taking off in the states now. 'Finish Me' is in the top ten on the alternative charts this week. You can't afford any mistakes now." He's staring at me as though he's waiting for an answer to a question he didn't ask. When I don't respond, he continues, "Management has a few requests."
"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."