Maeve
Iwished I could blame jet lag for the swirling, sick feeling in my stomach, but we’d landed in Belgium two days ago, and I’d had plenty of time to acclimate. This was pure nerves.
I paced the same ten-foot strip of worn linoleum tile in our dressing room like a crazed lion in a zoo.Pace, pace, pace, roar at the people staring, pace, pace, pace.Only, in this case, I wanted to roar at my new bandmates for sitting around, relaxed, like we weren’t about to play the biggest show of my life. Had they forgotten what this felt like their first time? Two albums into their career, and they were already jaded?
“Mae-Mae, I’m about to lose my mind watching you,” Murray called. “Come sit down.” He patted his lap, as if I’d be able to sit still. Even if I could have, my ass on his skinny legs wouldn’t be a great combination.
“I can’t. I’m too nervous.” I shook my hands out, willing the tingles away. “Am I really the only one?”
Mo got up from the cracked and peeling leather couch where he’d been lounging, sipping a mug of warm water with lemon. Falling into step beside me, he rubbed a tentative circle in the center of my back as we paced.
“Talk to me. Tell me what you’re worried about.” He kept his voice low, soothing.
“Fuckin’ up. That’s a pretty big one.”
He didn’t laugh at me, thank the Lord. I was edgy enough, I might’ve slapped him around a little if he had.
“Did I ever tell you about the time Diego nearly blinded me with his drumstick?” Mo asked.
“No, I haven’t heard that one.” They didn’t talk much about Diego around here, which only made me more curious.
“It happened last year, on our first headlining tour through Asia. He was really shredding, going hard. I danced my ass over to him, ready to serenade him, and I don’t know if I scared him or what, but he jumped out of his skin when he saw me in front of him. Then, I guess his hands failed him, because one of his sticks went flying, hitting me right here.” He pointed to a faint, slightly pink scar near the corner of his eye. “I had to get two stitches. Don’t blame me if I don’t come sing to you tonight.”
From across the spacious dressing room, Yael added, “Mo barely felt it and insisted on finishing the show with blood streaming down his face. He said it made him look more hardcore.”
When I turned to Mo, his cheeks had taken on a slight reddish hue. He smiled down at the floor, sheepish. “I channeled my inner Ozzy Osbourne. He bit the head off a bat, had blood streaming down his mouth, I got hit with a stick, had blood streaming from my eye.”
Santiago scoffed, not looking up from the book in his hands. “Not really the same.”
I leaned into Mo. “I bet you got some gnarly pictures.”
He lifted his head to grin at me. “So fucking gnarly, Maeve.” He threw his arm around my shoulders. “See? This woman understands me.”
“She’s always been good with children,” Yael said.
I giggled, already more at ease. “No, I’m not. Kids hate me.”
Santiago looked up, frowning. “How?”
“How do they hate me? Babies always scream when I hold them. They scare me, so that’s probably why.”
“Babies adore me. Kids follow me like the Pied Piper,” Murray said.
Yael rolled her eyes. “And this is why Alex is no longer allowed within one hundred feet of playgrounds and elementary schools.”
“Lies, woman. All lies.” Murray gave her a long look, which she ignored completely.
Mo stopped our pacing in front of the small bar set up in the corner of the room. None of them were drinking, which surprised me—they were hardly teetotalers. Mo set about mixing up a drink—something pink—while I leaned my elbows on the glass top, watching him.
“Is that for me?”
“Yep.”
“What is it?”
He shot me a mischievous smile. “I call it the Maeve. It’s sweet and sultry, like its namesake.”
I shook my head, unable to stop the smile that broke through my nerves. “Oh, shut up. You have no idea what you’re doin’, do you?”