I stifle a sigh. “Nice to see you, Hollister.”
“I’m getting a tour together.”
“I heard.”
“We need you.”
“You don’t need to butter me up, Hollister. Just give me your spiel and I’ll consider it.”
He rubs his hands together, like some comic book villain. “I’m taking five bands on tour, including Threat Alert. Crowds like the variety, but we charge more—for everything. For booze. For food. For merch sales. Each band gets a share after management.”
Interesting. Threat Alert is a rockabilly band with a bluegrass sound. They were just signed to a small indie label and had one song on the Billboard Top 100 chart. “What’s your role?” I ask warily.
“My job is to set up the gigs and Right Stuff will take care of the rest.”
I perk up. Right Stuff is a legit outfit. They ran a big tour out east a year ago and two bands of the seven that worked the coast ended up playing at big summer festivals.
Damn. This might be the real deal.
I don’t ask how Hollister hooked up with the promotional firm, because it probably involved shit that wouldn’t make me happy. “How long?”
“Five months.”
I whistle. “That’s a long damn time.”
“I know. But all you got to do is show up. I swear the thing is going to pay for itself. Look at the crowd tonight.”
Over Hollister’s head, I take in the venue. People are lingering by the stage, as if they’re afraid if they move they’ll lose that euphoric feeling that engulfed them while we were playing.
Hollister presses me. “Four hundred people paid a twenty-dollar cover tonight. They’re spending a ton on booze and I bet if you checked with your merch man, you sold a bunch of CDs.”
It’s never been about the money for me, but that’s not true for the rest of my guys. Ian’s got a new baby. Rudd lives in a trailer with three other guys. And if I’m pulling Davis off his cushy desk job, I’ll need to dangle a real carrot in front of him.
“Don’t know. I’d have to talk to the band. Davis, my singer, has a day job.”
Hollister grimaces. “Well, he’s going to have to quit that.”
“It’s a real job. Benefits and all.”
“We need a big name, Rees, and yours is the biggest around here.”
“You mean my dad’s name is the biggest around here,” I correct.
He shrugs. “Same thing. Last I checked, you’re still Adam Rees.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, not wanting to get into a big argument about using my last name rather than my music to gain success.
“All I ask.” Grinning, he pulls an envelope from inside his jacket. “The details are in here, including the Right Stuff management contact. You’ve always wanted to tour without using your old man’s connections. This is it.”
I fold the envelope and stick it into my back pocket. “I’ll let you know.”
“Don’t take too long,” Hollister warns. “There are a dozen other bands that would kill for this.”
Try a thousand other bands, but there’s no point in showing Hollister that I’m eager. He might have questionable ethics, but he’s sharp. Pretending lukewarm interest is the right play because any excitement will be leveraged against me. “Like I said, I’ll let you know.”
Hollister purses his lips in frustration. He wants an immediate commitment, but that’s not going to happen. I want to investigate this deal, but most of all, I’m not going to commit to a five-month tour of anything until all the guys are on board. I stare implacably back at him. When he realizes he’s not going to get an answer tonight, he gives me a sad shake of his head. “You’re going to be a headache on this tour, aren’t you?”
“You’ve known me forever, Hollister. Did you think I wasn’t going to question everything?” I’ve spent my entire life keeping one eye out for people who wanted to take advantage of me—my money, my skill, my parentage. Because of that, I’ve cultivated a close set of friends outside of the music i