Page 39 of Crimson Desires
“Awesome. Thanks.”
It only took a few minutes for the tech guy to finish setting up the cameras and microphones. He pointed to the center camera.
“Y’all ready?” he asked, his voice a low drawl.
We nodded. The tech guy counted us down. Then, the cameras rolled.
Cal looked at the center camera. We followed his gaze like cats tracking a laser pointer dot.
“Hey, everyone! Cal here with Kaleidoscope Radio. Today, we’ve got an exclusive interview with Jack Maverick and his band, Wicked Crimson.”
“Hang on,” I said, making a cutting motion with my hand. “Can we retake that? I’d like us to be introduced as just Wicked Crimson.”
Cal made a face.
“You did say that this was prerecorded, right?” I pressed.
“I guess I did,” Cal said, straining to grin. He took a deep breath. Then, he introduced us again. “Hey, all. Cal here with Kaleidoscope Radio. Today, we’ve got an exclusive interview with Wicked Crimson!”
Better, I thought, smiling dazzlingly for the cameras.
Cal looked at me, his dark eyes meeting mine. “So, tell me about your tour. How does it feel to travel the East Coast?”
“Warmer than I thought it’d be,” Zephyr said. “I’m a SoCal native. My entire life, I’ve grown up hearing and seeing stereotypes about the East Coast being cold. But let me tell you, the weather in New York was fucking brutal.”
Cal’s laugh was as good-natured as it was fake.
Zephyr continued. “Forget my bitching, though. Honestly, every show has been full of energy and love. And we owe all of that to the fans.”
Arguably, Zephyr was the best out of all of us when it came to interviews. He had a natural charisma that bled into every word that came out of his mouth. Zephyr could say anything—no matter how corny or cheesy—and make anyone believe it.
In a past life, I could see him being a filthy rich scumbag salesman.
“Now, Jack, be honest,” Cal said, “is the tour bus more cramped than you’re used to?”
“A little. But it’s also infinitely more fun. Being alone on tour can be mentally taxing. I mean, touring is an amazing experience, and it’s a privilege—don’t get me wrong. But waking up in a new city every morning can be stressful. I love having the guys around. When you tour with a band, you have people around you who understand what you’re going through. People who can support you.”
“Does the band do a good job at supporting you?” Cal asked.
My jaw tightened. I didn’t like how this guy was centering so much of his attention on me.
“We support each other,” I said.
Axel’s eyes flickered between Cal and I. Smoothly, he cut in: “Absolutely. I mean, just last week, I was freaking the fuck out because I lost my favorite guitar pick. And without even having to ask them, the guys just swooped in and helped me tear apart the bus to look for it.”
Damien snorted. “It was in the pocket of his jeans.”
“Right, right,” Cal said flatly. “Anyways, Jack—I wanted to briefly touch upon your career if that’s okay.”
So that was his prerogative. An interview with Jack Maverick. I should have known.
It wasn’t uncommon for journalists to request an interview with Wicked Crimson so that they could get to me. I didn’t exactly blame them. Back when I was a pop star, getting an interview with me was near-impossible if you weren’t a seasoned reporter from a reputable outlet.
Now that I’d switched genres, the bar had dropped substantially. Media outlets that would never have a chance with me (cough, cough—Kaleidoscope Radio) now had an easy in. All they had to do was pretend to care about my band.
Zephyr nudged me.
“Go on, dude,” he murmured.