Launi

Rockstar life is supposed to be glamorous, but if you've ever been around a real band you know the bling and shine aren't 24/7. This hotel is beautiful, but we aren't staying in it long. Just tonight, then back on the bus tomorrow. I made it to the hotel even though the pouring rain was fighting against me the entire way. Tonight is the first show. I'm barely going to make it. Free Pony's bus is at the stadium already. If I didn't have to sit through my final exams, I would have been here two days ago, prepping and creating content. I'm glad everyone is willing to be flexible with my schedule, but I need to drop my bags in my room and catch another Uber.

My clothes cling to my body, wet from the downpour I really should have planned for, it's Seattle after all. I don't have time to change. I roll my bag into the room, barely stepping inside and then make a sprint for the elevator. My phone is charged, I have an extra battery, the small tripod is slung over my back I check off each item mentally as I go through my small list on the way down to the lobby. Tonight will be underwhelming as far as social media goes. I'm going to need to rely on fans posting so I can repost their content and engage with them around it. Tomorrow night I will be more prepared.

The Uber drops me as close as they will allow him and then I hike the remaining way up to the stadium and to the staff entrance. The crowd is eclectic. There are many older fans my parent's age, but Rye has clearly attracted my generation. Girls are arriving in droves, skimpy outfits and posters created to catch his attention. This is exactly what the band needs. My lips curl up as I pass a group of them squealing as they see the larger-than-life band photo displayed outside on the bright sign. Rye stands tall and large almost menacingly behind the band, sticks in hand and tattoos on full display. He's all grown up and not at all what I was expecting when I saw him at the funeral. I have no idea where that skinny little boy went, but the man that took his place easily catches the female gaze as if he was drawn by the maker for that exact purpose.

My credentials get me inside where their manager has arranged a golf cart to take me to the band. I'm going to have to find moments to catch that will hype up their audience, but mostly it's my job to sell them on Rye. Rye, who I haven't spoken to in years and who I never really cared for anyway. But I can be professional.

The golf cart driver hands me some disposable ear plugs as we drive close. He points to closed black door and stops just short of the end of a hallway. "In there," he says.

"Thanks," I answer, hopping out to start this adventure. It probably should be noted that I haven't seen my dad in long time either. We aren't the cute father-daughter combo the media has shown you. Those were photo ops at events I was truly surprised he made the time to attend. Missed my high school graduation but showed up for my senior prom pictures. Couldn't be bothered with my eighteenth birthday but slid in town for my twenty-first.

I show my badge to the guard at the door, and he allows me to pass. I can hear a noise coming from the green room. Taking a moment, I pull my clothes away from my body, hoping no one will notice how drenched I am. My fingers brush through my hair and I realize there's no hiding it, I'm just going to have to walk in like being caught in the rain is no big deal.

The door swings open before I reach it, a cloud of smoke pluming out and enveloping me. It's a familiar smell, one that reminds me of the weeks we would travel together while they wrote their music. Sometimes five families in one cabin were hidden away from the rest of the world. Our mothers would do their best to entertain us while Free Pony smoked and drunk their creativity into peak rock and roll. Outsiders might judge that process, but I know my dad does his best work under the influence of something—drugs, alcohol or other women. The thought pulls me back to present time as I step inside the dark room lined with couches and filled with every vice imaginable.

"Launi!" my dad shouts from his position on the velvet couch. The younger woman pushed from his lap as he rises to meet me. I'll give him credit, for the first time in a long time the woman he chose looks closer to his age than mine. "Get over here," he says, opening his arms for a hug. I can hear the opening band start their set as I return the hug I'm offered. "Jack, look who made it," he says as he releases me with a small nudge in the direction of the bassist.

"Good to see you Princess," Jack says with a tight embrace. Jack is my favorite member. He's a family man still married to his wife of twenty-five years.

"Hey Jack," I greet. "How's Pam?"

"Great. Just dropped our youngest at college. She stayed to get him settled," he replies.

"Empty nesters!" I tell him enthusiastically.

"Don't remind me," he says sadly.

I nod in understanding. Searching the room for the others I quickly find Eric, the keyboardist, and Tony the rhythm guitarist. Rye is nowhere to be found. Great, already making my job more difficult. I hope this trip isn't going to be me chasing around a party animal in hopes of a few pictures and sound clips.

I consider pulling my phone out to start recording, but honestly this look isn't what the label will want. It's a process and this part of the processes is not pretty. The men are drinking and smoking and reveling in the attention of some of the hanger-round girls. Some bands meditate, some dial in their instruments, Free Pony starts the party. A large lounger in the corner is a perfect place to wait. I'll film them heading for the stage and then I'll get some clips from the side of the stage and eventually the mixing booth.

The crowd outside is warming up and growing impatient for the show, meanwhile there isn't an ounce of angst or tension in this room. It's as if the years of touring and performing together has depleted the resource of anticipatory anxiety. This tour is make-or-break-it, but you wouldn't know that sitting in here.

It's three minutes to show time and still no sign of Rye. I wonder if he showed up for the preshow practice and then disappeared or if he is even going to be showing up at all. Last night I had fallen into the rabbit hole of his supposed break up. I need to be informed of is reputation and the current temperature of how fans are feeling about him. I signed an NDA and it took all I had to not confess to Parker that I knew for certain the break-up was staged. The current PR manager said the whole relationship was a set-up, but I've seen a lot of candid photos of her leaving his place at all hours and not looking her best, so I know a few of the overnights were real. Only the two of them know the real status of their relationship, and the truth is none of my business. I am here to spin the story I'm being paid to spin.

The door creeks open one minute to show time. Rye enters, his frame taking up the large space the door used to occupy. He must be at least 6'3" and far broader than your typical drummer. Although I would argue the back, shoulder, and arm muscles of any professional drummer in his prime could rival the US Olympic team swimmers, chiseled and strong.

Our eyes lock. He's not the pesky little boy I used to get annoyed with anymore. Those big blue eyes have lost their spark and instead the gaze feels heavy enough to hold me down on my chair. My skin is cold from the rain, but this man has successfully heated me up with just one glance. 

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