The Rocker's Muse

“Is there anything you can do in the meantime? Medication or therapy?”

“Rest and voice therapy are the only things I can do right now. But neither is feasible in the middle of a tour. So I really need to focus on fixing this shit once we have a break. I just hope I don’t lose my voice entirely in the meantime.”

True worry filled his eyes. “If you need anything, man. Let me know. I’m gonna start researching, too. What did you call it? Lollipops or some shit?”

“Polyps. And you’re a fucking idiot.” I laughed.

“You know me. I find stuff that others don’t. If I have to make you a fucking witch’s brew, I will. Throw some holy water on you. I’ll do whatever I need to.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thank you. I appreciate that, man.”

“We’re gonna get to the bottom of it.” He gently punched my arm. “Nice way to get us off the subject of Emily, by the way—dropping that bomb about your voice.”

“There’s nothing more to say about Emily, because there’s nothing going on.”

“There’s got to be some reason you felt compelled to leave the bus last night to go talk to her,” he pushed.

“She and I are friendly. We hung out in Detroit,” I admitted. “I took her to Abdul’s. We ate and talked. That’s it.” I sighed. “She’s cool. Reminds me of the calm and peace of the life I had before I left home.”

“You mean eons ago when you were a teenager?”

“Yes, jackass. I’m not a damn teenager anymore—obviously. But I feel like myself around her. You’ve never met anyone who made you feel like that?”

He grimaced. “I’m not really looking to be reminded of my life before music. It was pretty crappy and nothing I want to remember.”

I ate my words and nodded. I’d had a pretty stable life growing up, but Ronan had come from an abusive home. His parents were both alcoholics, and he looked at this as an escape from all that. He didn’t have any nostalgia for his childhood.

“I get it, man,” I said. “Maybe I’m just getting too old for this shit. More and more, I’ve been thinking about what life might’ve been like if I hadn’t left.”

“Yeah, you’d be piss-poor and out of shape. Probably far less tattoos.”

I chuckled. “You don’t know that.”

“Look, there’s no sense in thinking about what might’ve been. You could also be dead—could’ve gotten hit by a truck stumbling home from some no-name bar in the bumfuck town you grew up in.” He put his hand on my shoulder and shook me. “What you should be focusing on is how you can make your current life—the only life you have—better…by getting your voice back in check.”

I took a deep breath. “You’re right.”

“Don’t think I have no ulterior motive here.” He snickered. “If you go down, the rest of us go down. We all need you.”

The pressure in my chest built. “I realize that. We’ve worked too hard to get where we are to have me take us down.”

“It’d take a lot for you to lose them. People love you. Even at your worst, you’re better than most.” He sighed. “As much as I hate to admit it, you’re the draw. It’s fucking you. Bass players, drummers—we’re more replaceable than someone with the voice you have. It’s one of a kind.” He pointed at me. “And remember this moment, because my damn ego won’t let me repeat what I just said.”

“Understood.” I smiled, thankful for Ronan and relieved that I’d gotten some of this off of my chest. It did make me feel better.

“What’s going on in here?” Atticus interrupted, whipping the door open. “Some kind of private talk? What did I say about you two assholes ganging up on me?”

“Not everything is about you, Atticus,” Ronan said. “Anyway, we’re just adjourning. I need to go have a smoke.” He headed out.

“I’ll join you,” Atticus said, following him.

Relief washed over me that Atticus didn’t pry. I panicked for a second, worrying that Ronan was going to tell him everything, but maybe that would be easier than having to rehash it. He’d said Atticus had noticed my voice anyway. The less talking I did about the situation—and the less talking in general—the better.

A few minutes after they left, Atticus’s nephew, Kieran, walked in. “Do you have a second, Tristan?”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ve got a little time.”

Apparently, my room was a revolving door this morning.