Part 9 (1/2)
I shake my head. ”No, you're fine. It's just...”
He waits, his eyebrows raised.
I have no lines to feed him, so I try honesty. ”I'm exhausted. Major jet lag.”
Zach nods, and he's close enough that I inhale the scent of his aftershave and soap-nice clean scents. No cologne or stale cigarette smoke or pot. He's so different from every other guy I've ever been with, which is saying something.
About how narrow the field I played was, I suppose.
”Sorry,” I say. ”I'm about to fall asleep. Not that you're...”
”Boring?” He smiles.
”That is not the issue.”
”Let me walk you to your room.”
”Thanks, but...” I say. Eventually I'll slip. Someone will get a picture of me with Zach, and then it'll all blow up. Someone from my past will blab. I even made a s.e.x tape once, and I'm sure it could be found with a little investigation. I am the poster child for what not to do before you become famous. ”I'm fine,” I finish lamely.
”Okay, well...let me walk you to my door at least?” He escorts me all ten feet of the way and gives me a hug that presses my body against his muscled torso. Agony. I make sure the hall is empty before I slip out. I have no idea what time it is; my body clock is way out of whack. I just know that I need to get some sleep before morning, when it'll be back to work. Around Zach.
TO PREPARE to shoot the concert footage the next day, we have to step things up a notch. This footage can't be shot with a handheld camera, but rather requires a crane and several wheeled cameras. We have to work while the roadies set the stage for the concert, so there's a lot of tripping over one another and murmured apologies as we haul equipment around.
The stage is enormous, but not as enormous as the rest of the venue, which makes Journal Pavilion look like a school auditorium. The population of Santa Fe could fit in this arena.
We work until lunch, for which we go to craft services, and after we eat, it's time to run through the lighting presets while Brent and two other camera operators ensure that they'll be able to get clear shots with the right color and light balance. I once thought I knew a lot about cameras. Photography's a hobby of mine. Compared to these guys, I don't know anything. The cameras they've rented for this occasion have more controls than an airline c.o.c.kpit.
After the technical run-through comes sound check, and this is when Triple Cross and the rest of the musicians make their appearance. Zach and Logan look fresh-faced and ready to perform. Ben looks a little rougher, like he didn't sleep much last night. He greets me with a salute and a smirk. The members of the band are all still in their casual clothes without their hair styled, and they hop up on stage and grab their mics while the rest of the musicians set up their instruments.
Zach's gaze pans across the small crowd of a.s.sorted crew and lands on me. I freeze.. He smiles and waves and I wave back. n.o.body turns to look askance at me. The band members all turn to each other and start talking while I busy myself by helping the roadies wheel some equipment away, not that they need my help. I just need to have something to do all of the sudden. My hands are itching.
Minutes later, everyone is ready and the musicians launch into the opening riff of the first song of the set, ”Don't Leave Me Baby,” the first single off Triple Cross's latest alb.u.m. I could sing this song in my sleep. That's how many times I've heard it, but I keep my mouth shut and don't even lip sync as the musicians give the cue. The three guys break into their unique harmony, their three voices blending as they belt out the lyrics.
This whole operation reminds me of a film shoot, and I suppose that's logical. Aidan wants top quality concert footage to punctuate all the candid moments he hopes to catch in his movie. Though I wonder how much candor really makes it through the process. Triple Cross, as Jason says, is a brand. Everything about them goes through a spin machine before it gets told to the public. I'm curious to see how close the film is to the reality I'll see during the next six weeks.
The band blares its way through part of one song before Zach holds up his hand. ”We're getting a ton of feedback on these mics,” he shouts.
”Yeah,” one of the sound crew shouts back. ”We're trying to fix that. Take it from the top and let's see if it's any better.”
The band starts the song again and I watch, transfixed, as Zach strides across the stage, singing. Logan and Ben are more subdued, just standing in place and chiming in with their vocals for the chorus. Then it's Logan's verse, and while he sings, Zach points at his ear and shakes his head. One of the sound guys nods and starts talking to the rest of the sound crew, who then scatter to do whatever it is sound people do to fix whatever this problem is they're having, while one technician mans the sound board, moving sliders and twisting k.n.o.bs. He looks up at Zach and gives a tentative thumbs up.
Zach unfocuses his eyes a moment, listening, then returns the gesture.
”Hey,” Ben says, bringing the song to a halt. ”Is my mic even on?” As he says this, his voice blares through the speakers and he winces. ”Sorry. Okay. Just thought my vocals sounded weak.”
”Yeah,” Logan agrees. ”But what's new?”
”Shut up.” The two tussle playfully while Zach squats down at the edge of the stage to talk to several more crew members.
”Kyra?” Aidan calls.
I remember that I'm on the job and snap to attention. ”Yeah?” I jog over.
”We need these wires taped down.” He points to electrical wire snaking across the floor.
Back to my glamorous job. I grab a roll of duct tape and get to work, securing them to the floor so people and equipment can walk and roll over them without snagging. The music starts up again and the band launches into ”Don't Do Me Wrong,” my absolute favorite song. Most of the vocals are Zach's, and I used to listen to this song in my room, earphones in my ears, volume cranked, and the whole rest of the world a million miles away.
They sing the whole song without stopping, but afterwards there's another pause and a lot of conferring.
It's a fantastic way to spend the afternoon, really, at a private rock concert. Even after the singers leave, the band continues to play, rehearsing songs and timing. Aidan sends me to craft services to get everyone coffee and then asks me to help the road crew remove some cases and other heavy items. By dinner time, I'm bushed. We all tromp over to craft services for a quick meal before Aidan takes me and Brent and a couple of others backstage to film the band getting ready.
Backstage at an arena like this is a warren of concrete tunnels with various rooms branching off them. Everything that is needed for the show, from rehearsal s.p.a.ce to costume racks and storage to food and drink service, is down here. The whole place smells like cold pavement, far more damp than this same setup would be back home in New Mexico.
The dressing rooms are pretty sw.a.n.k with big mirrors and comfy couches. Rack upon rack of clothing wheel past as I follow Brent to Logan's dressing room, where he's powdering his nose. ”Aw, man,” he says. ”You caught me in a girlie moment. You gotta edit that out.” He grins though.
Logan isn't as blond as his brother, Zach, but he's still pretty fair. His eyes are more gray than blue and his hair's a medium brown. He also has fantastic skin; fifteen minutes on stage and his cheeks go all ruddy in the s.e.xiest way.
There's a knock on the open door and Zach leans in. ”Seen Ben?”
”He's not in his dressing room?” says Logan.
”Nope. He's not still hanging out in the lounge at the hotel, is he?”
”I dunno.”
”You guys didn't ride over together?” I ask.
”No, he's always slow.” Zach glances at me. ”This is the usual routine, freaking out over where he is before showtime.”
”You've got an hour,” says Brent. ”Wouldn't panic yet.”
”Yeah, well, just you wait.” Zach moves on from the doorway.
”You want some chocolate, Kyra?” Logan asks. ”Or port? Someone sent a bottle of port.”
”Okay, every time you talk to her or she talks, we have to cut it,” warns Brent.
”Oh really?” Logan lifts a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and looks at me. ”Why?”
”I haven't signed a release,” I say. ”I'm just the intern, remember?”
”Yeah, but you're a friend of ours too.”
I am? After one dinner? Or has Zach told him to be nice to me? I shrug and smile.
”You should totally sign a release and let people see you hanging out.” His grin is hopeful.
I shake my head. No way am I going to end up in their concert movie. Not a chance.
”Listen,” says Brent, ”can you go back to just talking to me or to yourself?”