Situationship

Prologue Tanner “Crystal wants you off the tour, effective immediately.” Arguments and excuses flickered on the tip of my tongue, but as soon as I opened my mouth to speak, they vanished. I knew I was in the right, but also realized that nothing I’d say would change a damned thing. My cheeks burned and I couldn’t meet Vickie’s eyes. She was Crystal’s manager, and aside from handing me my walking papers, she was usually a decent woman. Well, as decent as a famous diva’s manager could actually be. We were in my hotel room, the rising sun peeking through the violet and orange clouds outside my balcony door. I was perched on the edge of the bed, a blanket wrapped around me, while Vickie paced in front of the floor to ceiling windows. Her anger radiated outward, forming a virtual forcefield of resentment and hate. Vickie’s face was naked, bare of the usual mask of makeup she normally painted on, and her dark circles stretched halfway down her cheeks. Her green crew cut somehow made the purple under her eyes even more pronounced, and I felt a tiny flicker of pity. She’d probably been up all night doing damage control. I ran my fingers through my hair and winced when I hit a snarl. Vickie had woken me up out of a dead sleep and I hadn’t expected to see anyone at all, since it was supposed to be a day off for everyone on the tour. I’d met her at the door wrapped in a blanket, and her index finger had poked me back to the bed. Vickie stopped pacing and pulled an envelope out of her purse. She tapped it against her chin a couple of times, then tossed it at me. I fumbled, one hand keeping the blanket around my body, and just caught it before it hit the floor. It was an airline ticket. Goodbye Spain, hello... who knew? “What the hell were you…” Vickie’s voice deepened, and she finally met my gaze, shaking her head slowly back and forth. “Tanner, you don’t know how lucky you are that Craig isn’t pressing charges. If I’d had anything to say about it, your ass would be in jail. Like, he’s her f*****g husband, and you just had to…” “The bastard grabbed my—” I started, but she cut me off with a chop of her hand. “Doesn’t matter, nothing you say matters anymore. Oh, and you’d better remember to keep your big mouth shut. You signed an NDA and are still expected to follow it. We are depositing fifty percent of your salary in your bank account, which satisfies the termination clause in your contract. I would suggest making yourself scarce, fast, unless you want to risk Craig changing his mind and prosecuting you for assault.” Her words were like fists, pounding into my head. Like, what the f**k? “You know why I hit him, and it still doesn’t count for anything, right?” I wondered if she even gave a damn about the man’s touchy-feely ways toward me and the other male members of the band and crew. Last night I’d had just enough to drink after the show to lose my cool and let my fists do the talking. Vickie shrugged her shoulders and sighed, the anger in her eyes morphing into a flat stare. “I don’t have any f***s left to give. All that matters is Crystal doesn’t want her keyboard player beating the love of her life to a pulp while surrounded by her fans. i********: is having a field day with this, and thank your lucky stars the paparazzi weren’t there. As far as I’m concerned, when I walk out this door...” Vickie crossed the room as she spoke, “...you and your face will no longer exist in Crystal’s world.” Vickie yanked the door open, her contemptuous sneer coupled with a roll of her eyes, and then she slammed it behind her. “What the hell were you thinking?” I fell back onto the bed and groaned. I was the little guy, the hired help. It apparently didn’t matter that I was the one having his career ambushed by a closet case star fucker. After the show last night we’d all gone to a nightclub as usual, a velvet rope in the VIP section keeping us safe from the fans. When Craig grabbed my ass I let it go, not wanting to antagonize him. The second time he tweaked my n****e, I laughed, and then whispered in his ear to stop touching me. After that, he grabbed my crotch, and without thinking, my fist connected to his jaw. Crystal’s bodyguards flew to his side, and one of them punched me in the stomach. I opened the blanket and looked down, noticing a hint of a bruise. He didn’t hit me hard, and I thought he was just putting on a show for Crystal and Craig’s benefit. The bodyguards knew the score, but they had jobs they wanted to keep. Unlike me. “So, what are you going to do now, dumbass?” Six years ago I got my first great, paying gig, lucked into it actually, when the programmer for Particle Play had to have an emergency appendectomy. They remembered my name from a remix I’d done for them and asked if I could learn their set list in forty-eight hours. I did it, and then joined them in South America, staying on tour with them for the next year. Leaving home had been a no-brainer. I’d never wanted to be like other people, with a mortgage and a minivan gathering dust in a garage. I wanted to see the world, not be trapped with a nine-to-five soul-robbing job that chewed you up and spat you back out once your usefulness to the corporation was gone. That world seemed gray to me, lifeless with no color or joy. But, after six years of constant touring around the globe with a variety of bands, I’d come to resent the hotel rooms and snotty pop stars I worked for. As a teenager I’d always fantasized about seeing the world and becoming a famous musician, but the only times I saw any of the globe I crisscrossed, was on the odd day off, or the few weeks I’d hole up in an Airbnb while figuring out what my next gig would be. Nothing in life was permanent. Not love, money or belongings, and until recently I was content with the transient life, but now I wanted something more enduring, like my own home and a regular schedule. I doubted if I’d ever want a Monday through Friday corporate gig, but I craved something I could count on. I felt lost, and I didn’t have a place to return to. I typed my request in English on my phone for it to translate, then held it up so the elderly bartender could read it. “May I have a beer please?” “¿Puedo tomar una cerveza por favor?” He placed a bottle in front of me and shuffled off to the other side of the hotel bar. It was tempting to stay in Madrid—a beautiful city where I knew not a soul—but I’d hate to rely on my phone to communicate with everyone one sentence at a time. I was on my fifth beer, trying to muster up the courage to call my aunt back in Richmond. She’d always believed in me, and was the only relative I kept in touch with regularly. My parents had moved to a tiny town in South Georgia that I hated on first sight, so staying with them until I figured out what to do next was not an option. Though I knew my aunt would be kind and understanding, I still hesitated. I grew up in Richmond, Virginia, and though I Ioved it there, I’d spent my teenage years bragging about how I would get away from it. It had felt oppressive and small back then, and in retrospect I was lucky as hell to have grown up in that strange historical city filled with an eclectic assortment of artists and eccentrics. Aunt Dottie was one of those eccentrics. She had encouraged me to study music and forge a career in the arts. What she never thought to mention was moments like these, where you doubted your ability to create or perform. Those scary days, weeks, or months where you didn’t know what your next gig was going to be. The musical grind exhausted me, and I needed a vacation from my life. Hopefully she would give me the breathing space I craved, so I could figure out what to do next. I picked up the phone with a sigh and made the call. Three rings in and she answered. “What’s wrong, honeybee?” The sound of her smooth contralto voice with its slight southern drawl made my heart ache. “Why do you think…” “Because you never call. All I get are those lovely postcards once or twice a year from Timbuktu or some other bizarre place. So, what do you need?” “I want to come home.”