Tone Deaf(52)

24


JACE


WHEN I FINALLY make it backstage, I’m swarmed by the stage crew. The rest of the band is already onstage waiting for me, and the crew buzzes around frantically, speed-talking through last-minute prep. I was planning on actually being on time for once, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave Ali. Usually, concerts turn me into a ball of energy and nerves, and I’m always anxious to jump onstage. But I would have preferred to spend this evening with Ali, who was peacefully dozing by the time I left.

The stage crew is officially freaking out as they recite instructions I already know by heart. Once I have all my mics set up and my guitar in hand, they all stop panicking and direct me toward the stage. Tony is waiting for me by the steps. He rushes forward and grabs both my shoulders in a vise-like grip, and I quickly shrug his hands off, shooting him an impatient glare. He pins me with a similar expression, but lowers his hands to his sides.

“You’re forty-eight minutes late,” he snaps. Tony gestures toward the front of the stage, where the rest of the band waits with all our equipment. Killer catches sight of me and waves. I don’t wave back.

“I got sidetracked,” I say, and start making my way toward the stage.

Tony walks beside me, his footsteps heavier than usual. “Jace, you can’t be late to your own concert.”

“I always am.”

“Yeah, five or ten minutes. This is different. You kept fans waiting for almost an hour. People are getting restless, and it’s your fault. Some people have already left.”

“Then they’re not true fans, and I don’t need them.”

I jog toward the steps leading to the stage. Before I reach them, Tony grabs my arm and yanks on it, stopping me. I curse and whirl toward him, my fists automatically clenching. He backs away a step, but his tone is sharp as he says, “Those people out there are your livelihood. And not just yours, but all of ours. Don’t screw things up.”

“I won’t.”

“You already are. You haven’t been acting like yourself lately, Jace. Something’s off, and I want to know what.”

“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

“The manager at that studio called to complain that you left early yesterday. He said you were rude to fans, which doesn’t surprise me, but he also said you ignored them. Since when do you ignore people? And then there’s that poor deaf girl you flipped off the other day.”

That poor deaf girl. I flinch at the memory. Flipping off Ali definitely qualifies me for the Jackass of the Year Award. If I’d just known what she was really like . . .

No, that’s not an excuse. I never should have treated her that way. Period.

Tony doesn’t seem to notice that I haven’t given a response and continues his rant. “That, plus you’ve been holed up in your RV all the time, and you’re acting all secretive.” He steps toward me, until his face is right in mine, and says in a softer voice, “If you’re hooked on something, let me help. Please.”

What the hell? He thinks I’m on drugs? Me? I shake my head, unable to form any words, and kind of glad I can’t. I’d just say something I’ll regret. But does Tony really think I’d follow in the footsteps of my dad? Tony knows I’m far from angelic, but I thought he also believed I’m not a monster.

Tony takes my silence as an answer—the wrong type, of course. He looks down and shakes his head, and for some reason, that hurts. Even as he glances back up and forces a small smile, the pain stays. I’ve obviously disappointed him, and . . . and, dammit, I don’t want to disappoint him. For once in my life, I want someone to be proud of me. I want for them to tell me that I’m a good guy, that I do the right things, that . . .

. . . that I deserve Ali.

Tony pushes his glasses back into place and puts on his usual businesslike expression. “We’ll talk later. Okay? For now, you’ve got a show to put on.”

I nod tightly and walk up the steps to the darkened stage, stomping a little harder than I need to. At the sound of my footsteps, Arrow turns and shoots me a glare. But I pick up on the concerned edge to his expression, which is the only reason I don’t explode right then and there.

Jon raises his eyebrows at me, and from behind his drum set, he mouths, “It’s about time.”

I flip him off and stride over to the microphone at the center of the stage. Usually, this is the part when my adrenaline takes over, and everything hazes out into a blur of raw energy and music and applause. Today is different. My thoughts are still back in the RV and concentrated on Ali. That’s where I want to be—relaxing alone with her, not putting on a show for strangers.

But I’m here, and there’s not much I can do to change that. I’m about to cue the beginning of the show, when Killer jumps up from behind his keyboard and rushes over to me, an anxious look on his face. I open my mouth to tell him to mind his own business, but he cuts me off by whispering, “Is Ali okay? You look worried.”

I try not to show my shock. He seems genuinely concerned about her, and in any other situation, I probably would have thanked him. But I give him a warning glare, nodding to the small mic clipped to his shirt. He taps it and shakes his head. “It’s off.”

Letting out a long breath, I quickly double-check that my own mic is off and murmur, “She’s fine. Um . . . thanks for asking.”