Showtime roadies 4, p.1
Showtime (Roadies #4), page 1
Table of Contents
Showtime
Copyright
Want to get more FREE from Erika
Dedication
Flashback 1
Press review 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Press review 2
Flashback 2
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Flashback 3
Chapter 8
press review 3
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Flashback 4
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Flashback 5
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Press review 4
Chapter 22
Press review 5
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Flashback 6
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Books by Erika Vanzin
About the author
Acknowledgements
Copyright © 2022 Erika Vanzin
Showtime
ISBN: 978-1736645291
All Rights reserved.
Staci Frenes, Line Editor
Cameron Yeager, Aurora Publicity, Proofreader
Cover Design by Elizabeth Mackey
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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To all who love to color outside the lines.
Ten years earlier
“What the hell are you doing here?” I look up at Michael, who has just sat next to me on the bus.
“Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and found half the bed empty and your clothes gone.”
I take a breath and look out the window. The number of people in line to get on this bus is too long and slow. I pray for the doors to close and leave the station as fast as possible.
“It’s more of a surprise that you got up at seven this morning. That’s normally the time you go to sleep.”
He doesn’t respond, but I feel his gaze on me. He’s not joking like he usually does, and his seriousness puts me in a bad mood. I got up early and dressed in absolute silence to avoid seeing this look—it makes me feel guilty.
“How did you find me?” I ask him.
“Joe can’t keep his mouth shut. He acts like a bad guy with that baseball bat behind the counter, but when it comes to keeping an eye on strays he drags into his place, he’s worse than a mother hen. All love, friendship, and doing the right thing.”
I smile because Michael is repulsed by anything related to affection. Even Joe’s. That man is the closest thing to a father the three out of four of us have ever had.
“How the hell did you get on the bus without a ticket?” I ask him when the vehicle closes the doors and moves from the station.
He shows me a piece of paper with a sly grin and a raised eyebrow. “I stole it out of the bag of someone in line. And you? You don’t have the money for a ticket.”
It’s hard for me to hold back a smile. I shrug my shoulders and look again out the window at the road and Manhattan traffic, full of cars and pedestrians bustling at this time of the morning. “I stole it out of the pocket of someone in line.”
Silence falls like a wall between our two seats. It’s strange because there’s usually never a second of peace with Michael, nor awkwardness. He plays down everything with a joke, so the fact that he’s quiet makes the air between us heavy.
After half an hour of tortured silence stuck in the city’s slow traffic, Michael gives in, wanting to know more. “So, are you leaving the band?”
“It’s not like we’re the Rolling Stones. You can change bass players and the fans won’t freak out.” The four drunkards who regularly frequent Joe’s bar will be happy not to have to put up with us making noise while they get drunk all afternoon.
“Who cares if we’re famous or not? Don’t you care about us? We got out of that crap thanks to the band, doesn’t that matter to you?”
“You decided to leave behind the life you had before going to juvie. I just looked for a way not to go crazy while I was there. I have someone to take care of, who I don’t want to abandon.”
None of us ever talk openly about our life before we ended up in prison. A little story, a phrase that suggests a bit of truth, but nothing honest and open, exposing our feelings. They know I grew up in a foster family, that there were other kids with me, but it ended there. They have no idea what I left behind in that place.
“So you think the solution is to go back to robbing banks?” There’s disappointment in his voice, as though he expected something more from me.
“What should I do? Clean toilets at Joe’s for a hot meal until I get old? It’s not like we’re rolling in the money playing music,” I bark.
Michael decided to give up everything and everyone, erase his past. But I don’t want to do that. Robbing banks allowed me to provide for the person I care about. I’ve already lost two years being locked in there. What does he expect me to do? Sit here waiting for something to change?
“We’ll find something, but you’re not stuck with being a professional criminal.”
“Michael, don’t you get that I don’t have many choices? I’ve been in prison, I don’t have a diploma, I don’t know how to do any kind of work. I do what I know best, which allows me to take home enough money for me and someone else. Stop judging me for how I decide to provide for myself.”
Michael tightens his jaw and frowns at me. He seems almost angry, and I’m a bit sorry. He’s not to blame. We ended up together in that prison and helped each other to get out of it, but we don’t have the same ambitions, the same vision for the future. At some point, you have to be realistic and understand you can’t live on hopes and dreams.
“Is this person more important than us? Is that why you’d trade the happiness of three friends? We have been close to you in the worst moments of your life. Where was this person when you were in juvie? Because I don’t remember them ever coming looking for you. And now you’d give up the ones closest to you for someone who gave up on you.”
The thickness that grips my stomach almost makes me vomit. Nicholas was only thirteen years old when they arrested me. Now he’s fifteen; how could he visit me in prison? He’s not old enough, but Michael can’t know that. The guilt at not being there to protect him makes me hate myself and the stupidity that landed me behind bars.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Michael.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I don’t want to explain it to you! It’s none of your business,” I snap, and regret the words as soon as I see my friend’s hurt look.
The rest of the two hours pass in absolute silence, even when we get off and walk together for forty minutes. I wish I had the courage to tell him what’s happening to me, why I can’t stay with him, Thomas, and Damian, but I am not capable of it. It’s not just my story, and I don’t want to betray Nicholas’s trust.
We arrive in front of the house where I’d grown up since I was five years old. It’s where all my memories are linked, beautiful ones and ugly ones. It’s quiet. Not a living soul inside, and I’m a bit disoriented. There’s always someone coming and going, windows open, doors slamming, shouting inside. I walk hesitantly up the sidewalk that leads to the porch, and it takes me a few seconds before knocking on the red door.
No one answers. Michael is holding his breath next to me. I don’t know what he expects to find here, but he looks as nervous as I am. I knock another time, but no one comes.
I walk to the window and spy through it, seeing the worn brown leather sofa, but there’s not a living soul nearby, not even the TV is turned on, the usual background in this house, day and night.
I go around to the side gate that leads to the backyard and open it. The grass is up to my knees, the house seeming almost uninhabited. I try to open the patio door into the pastel yellow kitchen, but it’s locked. Another oddity that shakes me.
“There’s no one there anymore, if you’re looking for the kids who lived with you.” Mrs. Sanchez’s hoarse voice draws my attention to the other side of the worn-out fence that divides the backyards of the two neighboring houses.
I approach the half-
“After they put you in jail, one of the kids got hurt, and they came to pick him up in an ambulance. Social services came to check and took away the others from their custody as well.”
My heart sinks into my stomach, cold as if it had stopped beating forever. “Do you know where they went? Have they been placed with another foster family?” My voice trembles, and I feel Michael’s hand on my shoulder, supporting me.
“I don’t know, but it’s been two years since there were kids in there.”
The words rumble between my chest and brain in an echo that makes my head spin. He isn’t here. Nicholas hasn’t been here for two years, and I didn’t have the faintest idea. Is that why he no longer answers my calls? But it still rings—why doesn’t he answer? Doesn’t he want to be found?
I can feel my breath getting shallow, the air struggling to enter my lungs. How do I find him? How do I take care of him? Not knowing if he’s okay torments me. Michael’s arms wrap around me and pull me tightly into his chest. Only now do I realize my eyes are closed and my hands clenched in fists at my sides.
“Will you come home with me now? We’re your family, Simon. There’s no one left here waiting for you.” Michael’s whisper hits my chest like a loud banging.
There is no one left to take care of.
I thought I was different from the rest of the Jailbirds. I thought I had a reason to go back to my old life, but it looks like that reason couldn’t wait for me. The pain that creeps into my chest is so searing it takes my breath.
“Come home with me, please, Simon,” Michael begs, holding me tight.
“I thought he would wait for me,” I say barely in a whisper.
“Maybe he had no choice.” Michael’s tone is not patronizing, not an attempt to console me. He really believes it.
At thirteen, you can’t decide who to live with. When you’re inside the social services system, someone decides for you whether to stay or change families. But knowing this doesn’t soothe the pain. I follow Michael without a look back when we leave the house and the hope I had of returning to the only love I’ve ever known in my life.
Hi, Roadies!
How are you spending the holidays? Another year flew by, and we’re here summing up twelve hectic months on this New Year’s Eve. Looking back at what happened this year is undoubtedly essential at Jailbirds Records, especially in this challenging year where uncertainty ruled the roost—leaving a well-established record label for a whole new adventure.
However, all things considered, the choice turned out to be the right one. It reflects the values of honesty and transparency toward the fans the Jailbirds have always tried to maintain. And the fans’ support has repaid the efforts of the enormous amount of work that a new record company entails. The success of the surprise concert tour was terrific and gave an injection of confidence worth much more than any contract with the big names in the industry.
Happy New Year, Roadies! This post is for you, who have always supported the Jailbirds since the beginning of their career. This is their way of wishing you a year full of happiness and dreams come true. The Jailbirds are looking forward to giving you some awesome surprises in the coming months.
Be Kind and Rock’n’Roll,
Iris
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“Ten! Nine! Eight!”
Thomas’s house is as meticulously decorated as a furniture magazine or one of those Pinterest pages where even the drink coasters are decorated. The snowflakes in the candle centerpiece are so realistic I didn’t touch them, for fear they’d melt.
In one of the band’s now rare outings, Thomas told us that Iris has a new passion for resins, transforming a room in their house into an art studio where she does strange experiments with silicone molds and chemical agents worthy of a meth lab.
“Seven! Six! Five!”
I watch my friends, glued to the TV tuned to Times Square, watching the big ball come down to announce the arrival of the new year. I study Levi’s curious eyes, and I realize that in just a year, so much has happened that fifty years could have passed. I would not be surprised if tomorrow morning I woke up and found myself, almost eighty years old, sitting on the porch enjoying my retirement.
I’m happy because we’ve finally freed ourselves from the weight of the lies we carried with us from our past. We’ve taken back the freedom they denied us. Still, I feel restless, looking for something I can’t even identify.
“Four! Three!”
At twenty-eight, I have four houses, more money than I could spend in a lifetime, a career that, despite everything, is going well, and friends who show their affection for me constantly.
Yet I’m here, in this room, looking at the centerpiece and wondering how the hell Iris created such a complicated thing, instead of enjoying the excitement of an old year ending and a new one beginning. The anticipation for a new beginning isn’t there, like in other years, with a pleasant squeeze in my stomach.
“Two! One!”
I shift my gaze from the smiling faces of my friends to the silver balloons covering the floor. The red confetti sticking under our shoes. The bread crumbs from the appetizers fallen on the floor from the huge table still covered with dishes of leftovers from our dinner.
The grapes, the lentils, the donut-shaped cake, the beans are all dishes traditionally meant to bring luck, money, prosperity for the new year. But I don’t know where to start eating them because I already have all these things. What’s the point of wanting more if it doesn’t take away this restless feeling I’ve had for a while?
“Happy New Year!”
The cry draws my attention to my friends who exchange greetings with smiling faces and happiness in their eyes. Damian grabs Lilly by the ass and pulls her in for a kiss that looks like a prelude to a fiery night rather than a New Year’s greeting. Evan hugs Levi, who makes a disgusted grimace when Michael takes Faith’s face in his hands and delicately touches his lips to hers. Thomas kisses Iris before leaving her in Emily’s clutches, looking at her with a lover’s eyes.
Everyone has someone to turn to for the first thought of the year while I’m here, standing still, watching the happiness that swirls around me, never reaching me.
I grab the heavy sweater from the back of my chair and head down the hallway leading to the backyard. When I set foot outside, the icy air hits my face and I put my hands in my pockets to avoid freezing. Shivering with cold and cursing myself for not wearing a jacket, I look up at a dark cloudless sky and breathe. The air freezes my chest, and I close my eyes.
Beyond the wall surrounding the backyard, the city is in full swing. People shouting, music coming from some open window, someone else blowing those annoying trumpets that seem to materialize in massive amounts on the shop shelves during the holiday season. I suppose that’s the price to pay when in Manhattan, where it’s forbidden to have fireworks.
I don’t smell gunpowder on national holidays anymore, and I miss it a bit because it reminds me of those few moments of my childhood when I was really happy, when we allowed ourselves to be children for one day.
“Everyone’s wondering where you ended up.”
I turn to Evan, who joined me out here. His lips form a smile, but his gray eyes scrutinize me, trying to read my thoughts.
“Really? Or did you come here to make sure I didn’t run away?”
Evan shakes his head and looks away. He is freezing inside his elegant coat and scarf, and when he snorts, trying to hold back a little laugh, the white cloud of breath creates an almost ethereal halo on his face illuminated only by the streetlamps.
He shrugs his shoulders and glances at me before looking again at the grass beneath his feet. “They’re still in that honeymoon phase, where they only have eyes for their lovers. You’ll see, sooner or later, it will pass, and you’ll go back to going out with them like before. They’ll be your old friends again.”
