Page 48 of Rescue

I automatically make a gagging motion at the mention of Louis’s name, and James appears to fight off a laugh. “She’s handling it beautifully,” he says into the phone, and I stiffen. Of course she would be asking if I’m managing to keep from going off the rails. Heaven forbid she have any faith in me.

“Yeah, she’s here,” he says, and I groan audibly. I would have preferred he talk to her for a few minutes longer—enough time for me to make an escape, at least. He holds out the phone to me, and I make a face at him before taking it.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Haylee!” she cries, and I hold the phone away from my ear a little. “Sweetie, how are you?”

“I’m good, Mom. The tour is going really well. Did James tell you we’re in Barcelona today? It’s so sunny Mom, you would really—”

“I was just telling James,” she interrupted, and I wondered if she heard a word I said, “that the press you’re getting over there seems to be very good.”

And we’re talking about the band again. Of course. “We’re getting press?”

“Of course you are!” She sounds disapproving now. “How are you not following yourself online?”

“I guess I just figured I could count on you for that, Mom.”

She ignores the edge in my voice. “You really should be on top of these things, Haylee. It’s important. Anyhow, everything seems really positive. They loved you in England, you know. And Dublin! And your radio play over here is up significantly.” I lean back into my chair, letting her words wash over me. I know I won’t get a word in edgewise. Once she gets going on my success—or lack of it—it’s nearly impossible to stop her. It’s been her obsession from the day I first opened my mouth and sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”

“Anyhow, you really should get some things lined up for when you get back,” she’s saying now. “Ride this momentum.”

“That’s all up to Louis and the label, Mom. You know that.”

“Hmm. I wonder if I should call Louis.”

I brighten a little. “Oh, you should definitely call him,” I say happily. If there’s anyone who deserves to be tortured by my mother, it’s Louis. And vice versa.

“Okay, I’ll do that then, sweetie. I should let you go.”

And that’s that. No questions about how I am, how I feel about the tour, what we might have seen or experienced. Except for her query to James about how I was managing—a reference, I was sure, to how my problems might be affecting the tour—she hasn’t shown the slightest interest in me.

“Really nice to catch up, Mom,” I mutter, hitting the end button on my screen. I toss the phone on the table, glaring at James. “That woman is as bad as ever.”

“Oh, come on.” He pulls out his wallet, dropping a few bills to the table. “She’s not nearly as bad as she was when we were teenagers. Remember the Blue Parrot?” I wince, remembering the smell of cheap beer and acrid smoke that had filled the little dive bar in one of the sketchier neighborhoods of Detroit. She’d booked that gig for us when I was seventeen and had refused to let us back out even when we passed what appeared to be a meth sale near the front door on our way in. “A gig is a gig,” she had trilled, her oft-repeated mantra.

“You ready to go?” he asks, drawing me from the memory. “We have two hours before sound check, and I wouldn’t mind taking a shower first.”

“Sure.” I stand, slipping my arm through his as we reach the door. “Thanks for talking to Jess.”

“It’s one of the perks of the job, babe.” He holds the door for me. “And byjobI mean the role of best friend, of course.”

“And you also meant one of themanyperks, right?”

He snorts. “The perks are few and far between, let me tell you.”

***

The show in Barcelona is the biggest crowd yet. Louis told us, in one of the many strategy sessions he subjected us to prior to the start of the tour, that Ransom’s fans were primarily concentrated in England and Scandinavia. Of course, they were popular everywhere, but the centers of that popularity were pretty easy to predict based on their record sales and fan club membership. So far, the tour seemed to be proving many of those assumptions wrong. The two stops in Spain and Dublin both saw sold-out crowds and long lines stretched around the buildings.

The better part of the surprise, as far as we are concerned, is that the fans seem nearly as eager to see us as they do the Ransome boys. Seeing people in the audience singing right along with me is a thrill I didn’t think I will ever get used to. Seeing it happen on a different continent is even trippier.

“Awesome job,” Dylan says as we meet in the wings. “Best show yet, I think.”

Louis is waiting there for us, and to my surprise, he’s grinning. “Agreed,” he says. “Really well done.”

Since Louis’s praise is generally nonexistent—or, at the very least, buried by his incessant criticisms—we’re all taken aback. “I have some news,” he says, gesturing us toward the stage exit. “Let’s go to the dressing room.”

Five minutes later we’re gathered on the raggedy couch in the dressing room, bottles of water or beers in hand. “What’s up?” Dylan asks from his spot on the floor.