The Rider List: An Erotic Romance (7 page)

He was questioning my love for him. He was making it conditional upon whether or not I’d move all the way across the country and leave my mom and sister, when all along he knew how important this was to me.

We’d talked about it over the years we were together so many times. He had to know it. It’s not like he didn’t understand where I was coming from.

He just wanted what he wanted, and he was willing to go so far as to question my feelings for him after all this time. He was willing to guilt me into moving there. He was willing to wound me, break me down, all so he could get what he wanted.

I didn’t understand how or why he had changed like that, but that’s what the end result was. So when he called back, I didn’t let him speak. I told him I couldn’t talk to him right then, and I hung up and silenced my phone for the rest of the night.

Sleep was sporadic and fitful that night. I just kept running all those thoughts through my head and arriving at the same conclusion. I must have cried out every last tear in my body.

I broke up with him the next day. The call was short. Wyatt was angry.

He called again twice that week and we kept saying the same things over and over. I don’t know why I entertained the idea that he could rectify the situation.

I guess I was hoping he would somehow magically make those hurtful comments disappear. But he didn’t. I finally told him I couldn’t do it anymore, that nothing he was saying would change my mind. We hung up, both of us angry.

His mother had called me after she got news of the breakup. She wasn’t judgmental about my position on everything. She didn’t condemn his behavior either, though. And she said I should always remember that Wyatt truly loves me.

I didn’t argue with that, even though I had come to believe differently. I’d never once questioned his love and commitment to me until he questioned mine and tried to guilt-trip me. Nobody who truly loves someone would do that to them.

I hadn’t heard a word from Wyatt since that last phone call. That was almost six months ago. I had changed my number because I’d feared he would try to call and I just couldn’t take it. He knew our landline number at the house but he’d gone all these months without trying to contact me.

Now he’s calling again? What’s this all about?

Chapter Eight

Evan

The main goal in coming here was to unwind, relax, take it easy, quiet my life down. But in the hours when Audrey isn’t around, I start to get easily bored. I check online for things going on locally and see there is a band called Three Figures playing at The Windjammer, which is a short walk from where I’m staying.

Three Figures is a band from Savannah, Georgia, south of Charleston. They had opened for us a few times on some our dates in the south. I liked their music and the guys were always cool. I figure maybe it will do me some good to get out of this house and go do something, so I head down there about 9 p.m., an hour before Three Figures is supposed to take the stage.

I go to the bar and take a seat at the end, facing the stage, and order a beer. The place is starting to fill up. No one recognizes me. Even people I make eye contact with don’t hold it for very long, which they would if they suspected that I look familiar. Perfect. Anonymity test completed, I can relax and enjoy the night.

When the band comes on, the place is full. People are jammed into the large, open area in front of the stage. There’s a crowd three people deep around the bar.

The music starts. The guys sound really good.

There’s a gaggle of girls right in front of the stage, arms in the air, and I can hear their
woooos
and
yeahs
when the music quiets down.

One girl in particular is standing right in front of the lead singer, a guy named Keenan who I don’t know all that well. He seems to be concentrating on her, looking down, almost like he’s singing to her.

I’d never noticed it from this vantage point. I’d always been the one onstage. Not as the lead singer, but as the guitarist, and I’d often find a girl to flirt with. Get close to the edge of the stage, act like you’re playing just for her. It was showmanship. The crowd loved to see things like that. It’s interaction without having to physically interact.

Watching the band perform and the crowd react, I find myself feeling nothing. No urge to get back up on the stage anytime soon. No desire to be in the spotlight again. I’d just be happy to have inspiration strike and be able to write a song or two again.

At one point between songs, Keenan goes to the edge of the stage and gives that girl his guitar pick. She throws it back at him. He looks stunned, but picks it up, shrugs, says something to her that I can’t make out, and walks away from her.

Impressed by how Three Figures sounds, I’m reminded of why we chose them to open back then. I’m on beer number three when they finish their short set and it’s time for the next band.

I’m sitting at the bar when I hear my name.

“Evan?” It’s a guy’s voice.

Shit. I turn in the direction of his voice. It’s Chris, the drummer for Three Figures.

“Holy shit, dude. What’s up?” He extends his hand and I shake it.

“Just came to see you guys.”

“Really? What are you doing in Charleston?”

It’s the last thing I want to talk about.

Before I can say anything, he says, “Hey, I saw what happened in Indianapolis.”

“You saw it?”

He nods. “YouTube. Someone in the audience caught it on video. Didn’t look good at all.”

“Didn’t feel good.” This is the first I’m hearing of anyone having video or pictures of the incident.

“I bet,” he says, edging closer to the bar. “How are you?”

“I’m okay.”

“They never said what it was. I mean, I’m not trying to pry or anything.”

“Yeah, it’s all over. I don’t really like to talk about it.”

He slides a ten across the bar and tells the bartender he’d like a Bud Light. “Understood, sorry I asked.”

“No problem.” I need to get off this topic. “You guys sound great.”

“Ah, thanks. We’ve been working really hard. We have a ton of new material and we’re trying it all out this summer. Seeing what people respond to. You know how it is.”

I sip the last of my beer. It’s warm. Time to wrap this up.

Chris lightly hits me on the shoulder with his forearm. “Hey, if you need any of our leftover songs…ha ha ha…I’m kidding.”

I manage a laugh. He has no idea the nerve he’s hit. But I brush it off.

“Listen,” I say, “I’m here to get away for a while—”

“Writing?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “But I haven’t told anyone where I am. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention to anyone that you saw me.”

Chris looks at me blankly for a few seconds as the bartender hands him his beer and change. “Not even the guys?”

I shake my head no. “I’m trying to stay under the radar. You’re actually the first person to recognize me.”

He laughs. “No shit? That’s wild. I knew it was you right away. But sure, I’ll keep this between you and me.”

He holds up his beer bottle, tilting it a little. I lift mine and we clink bottles. I sip and there’s nothing but a little bit of warm foam. It really is time to go.

“I’d appreciate it. Gotta run,” I say.

“Hey, we’re playing here in a couple of weeks for the big July Fourth bash. Think you can make it?”

“I’ll try.”

He extends his hand, I take it, and he wraps his other arm around my shoulder, pulling me in for a hug. “I’ll keep the secret. Just don’t forget about us on the next tour.”

Free of his hug, I assure him I won’t. “You got it.”

I’m walking toward the door when I see the girl who threw the pick back to Keenan. She’s coming out of the bathroom. I recognize her from the other night. She’s the one who was sitting with Audrey at the rooftop bar. She holds eye contact with me, but I break it and slip out the door.

Being recognized by Chris has me a little worried I’m going to blow my cover.

During the walk home, my thoughts shift from concern about Audrey’s friend recognizing me and putting it all together, to thoughts of whether Audrey was at The Windjammer tonight.

If she was, I wish I’d seen her and I really wish I could have brought her home with me.

I get home to the empty place and get my laptop. I need to check YouTube for that video Chris mentioned. Jesus, do I even want to see it?

. . . . .

We were doing a sold-out show in Indianapolis, in front of almost fifteen thousand people. It wasn’t anything new. I’d played shows that large before, especially over the last three years as the band got more recognition and we had a string of hits.

But something wasn’t right that night. I could feel it backstage. I could feel it intensify as we got closer to show time. And by the time we were onstage, I just knew it—I was sick.

Maybe it was the flu, I thought. Or some kind of stomach bug I had picked up from eating something the night before that had been sitting backstage for two hours during our show.

I thought of it as we started our first song—it was a meat and cheese tray, and I had made a roast beef sandwich. Yes, that had to be it, I thought. Just a little food poisoning. But how was I going to make it through the show like that?

Turns out, I didn’t.

When we started the third song, the lights became a blur. The noise, usually loud and booming in my ears, became muffled. I got tunnel-vision.

The senses of sight and hearing were shutting down. My heart raced, even fluttered, skipping beats. I heard the pounding in my ears and I began to sweat like I’d been out on the stage for hours under the bright hot lights and in the humid air.

What the fuck was this?
I remember thinking, just before I couldn’t think at all.

I had passed out. I woke up backstage. The band was still playing. I was disoriented and had a headache like no other I’d ever experienced. It hurt to open my eyes and even when I could, they wouldn’t focus.

I heard ringing in my ears, the only intelligible sounds registering were broken phrases: “hospital,” “ambulance is here,” “gonna be okay, dude.”

Three hours later, with the band out there in the waiting room, a doctor came back with my test results.

“It wasn’t a heart-attack,” he had said. “It wasn’t a stroke, and you don’t have food poisoning. Your potassium and electrolytes are extremely low. You’re dehydrated.”

“That’s it?”

The doctor shook his head. “No. How long has it been since you’ve had some time off?”

I had to think about that for more than a few seconds. “I don’t remember.”

The doctor slid his reading glasses up to the top of his head, crossed his arms, tucking my chart into his armpit. “You need some time off, starting when you get out of here in a couple of days.”

“A couple of days?”

He nodded. “You’re suffering from exhaustion. We’ll need to observe you for at least forty-eight hours, and then you’ll need rest.”

“We still have two shows—”

“Mr. Crawford, this is nothing to play around with. If you don’t address it you’ll be back here or some other hospital with much more serious problems. You’re twenty-nine?”

I nodded.

“You’re in otherwise good health,” he had said, “but that can change very quickly. I’ve heard your music. It’s not my usual preference, but I like it. So it was nice meeting you, but honestly, I’d rather not see you wheeled through these doors again. And if you don’t do something about it, that’s what’s going to happen, either here or some other hospital.”

The guy was friendly, but this news was pissing me off.

The band went on to Louisville, Kentucky, for the next show while I stayed in the hospital in Indianapolis. They were understanding, told me not to fuck around with my health, and that things would be fine—this is one of the reasons we travel with a few studio musicians. In my case, it was a backup guitarist who would fill in for me.

So as I lay there in the hospital bed that next morning and thought of all of that, I had to factor in the threat to my health as well.

And it hit me. I was about to turn thirty. I’d made it past age twenty-seven, but Jimi Hendrix didn’t, and neither did Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain, and more than a dozen other musicians. They’re known as the “27 Club.” I’d known about it for a long time, but it didn’t hit home until the doctor gave me that stern warning.

I Googled it from my hospital bed. There was no increased risk of death for musicians at age twenty-seven—the number was just a coincidence—but any sample of musicians shows an increased risk of death at an early age, late twenties and early thirties.

While I would never be a member of the 27 Club, the point was that I was running myself into the ground. I wasn’t taking care of myself physically or mentally. Life on the road with the band was taking its toll, and it wasn’t worth it anymore. I needed a change.