“Speaking of which, the lead single off your new CD, ‘Insane,’ debuted at number one on the rock charts last month.”
“Yeah.” I send an appreciative wave toward the audience. “Thanks, guys.”
A handful of girls scream my name and the rest of the audience applauds.
“Fuck me, Tro!” the girl in the back shouts.
I shield my eyes with my forearm and squint through the lights to a seat near the back where two security guards are converging. “Be right there, doll.” I flick a hand at Jimmy. “Just give me a sec to finish up what I’m doing here.”
Jimmy rolls his eyes and tosses his note cards. “We’re going to be able to air like three words from this entire interview.”
“It’s all good, man,” I say with a wave as they haul the girl off.
He swivels his chair. “So, Roadkill kicks off your world tour tomorrow night with two sold out shows at Madison Square Garden.”
I nod. “We’ve got nine weeks touring the U.S. and Canada, then we head to Europe and Asia for another eight.”
He whistles through his teeth. “That’s long time on the road.”
“Got nowhere better to be,” I say with a shrug.
And it’s true.
I’ve got apartments in L.A, Austin, and London, but there’s really no one who would miss me if I never set foot in any of those places again. Besides, I like being on the road—the rush of waking up somewhere and having no fucking clue where I am. I show up, play my gig, then do whatever or whoever the fuck I feel like doing. The next day, I get up and move on. No strings, no accountability.
Jimmy sets the CD down. “It’s got to feel good that your shows are selling out worldwide within minutes of tickets going on sale.”
“Pumped that people are digging what we’re doing,” I say, bobbing a nod.
“Well, they’re going to hear some of that now, right, guys?” Jimmy says, looking toward his house band, The Roots, with raised eyebrows.
“On it, man,” their drummer says into the mic.
Jimmy looks into the camera and holds the CD up again. “We’ll be right back with Tro Gunnison and The Roots’ schoolroom instruments rendition of ‘Insane’.”
Chapter 2
Shiloh
They say be careful what you wish for, but when your wildest dream comes true, never in a million years do you expect to regret it. And I don’t.
Mostly.
It’s just that I don’t belong to me anymore. Everywhere I go, every second of every day, somebody wants a piece of me. I’m starting to feel more like a thing than a person.
I got a break from the talk show circuit for a few months when we were in the studios recording, but since the new singles started releasing, it’s been non-stop radio and TV shows. Today is the big one: we’re kicking off the start of our North American tour with an appearance on The Tonight Show.
I sit still, despite the compulsion to squirm out from under the makeup artist who’s touching up my face, and watch the screen in the corner of the Green Room. Tro Gunnison, the frontman for Roadkill, the tour headliner, is setting up with Jimmy Fallon and The Roots to tape a schoolroom instruments version of the Roadkill single that’s been sitting atop every rock chart for the last three weeks. Jimmy starts the beat box. It sets the breakneck rhythm Roadkill is known for. He starts pounding out the melody on the xylophone then nods at Tro, who shakes his maracas and blends into the mix. A devil’s smile flashes over Tro’s face, making his deep dimples pop, as he opens his mouth and starts singing the lyrics.
His voice is like smoke over gravel, the type of sound that seeps through every cell in your body and becomes part of you. A shiver runs down my spine at the first note. There are certain voices that will do that to me every time. Tro Gunnison’s is one of them.
The Roots accompany Tro and Jimmy with the pound of tambourines, the hum of kazoos, and the clang of cow bells, and it almost sounds better than the original. With just the acoustic schoolroom instruments, Tro’s vocals carry the show. I close my eyes with the rush as my skin pebbles into goose bumps.
“I need them open to touch up your mascara, sweetie,” Tammy, or Tony, or whatever the makeup lady’s name is, says.
I open them and fight to keep them that way as she nearly blinds me raking the brush over my lashes. I’d never worn makeup before The Voice, and even after a year, I’m still not used to it.
“All done,” she says, pulling off the paper bib she put on me to keep from dusting my clothes with the heavy powder.
I chance a glance in the mirror. They never match my coffee-with-too-much-cream skin tone very well, but this one did better than most. No one knows my ethnicity because no one knows who my parents are, but on every state form I’ve ever seen it says Hispanic. I’m thinking one of my parents must have been black, though, because my hair is a copper afro if I let it go. I slick a few strands back into my tight ponytail and slip off the chair. “Thanks.”