“Thanks, brother. You were great. You sound like you did when we were kids.”
Tom gives a fleeting smile with that row of too-white teeth on his too-tan face. He’s like an old house with too many layers of paint. He takes a deep breath. “That’s just it, man. We’re not kids anymore.”
“I get it, Tommy. I promise it won’t happen again, I just—”
“I’ve got three ex-wives to support,” Tom interrupts. “My daughter’s in her second year at
Berkeley. I need this job, man.”
“Trust me, so do I,” Donnie says. He holds back his resentment at Tom’s tales of financial woe.
Tom took all the songwriting credits—at the time the rest of the band didn’t understand that if your name isn’t on the song the money stops. It’s the reason Tracer’s Bullet broke up. Donnie’s the only other member who was desperate enough to come back.
“That’s what makes this hard, Don.”
“Tommy…”
Tom offers a sad expression. “It’s done, my friend. I wish you nothing but the best.”
“You can’t do this to me!” Donnie’s voice rises.
A couple of roadies look over.
Tom shakes his head.
Donnie’s voice breaks now. “You owe me, man.”
“I’ve gotta go.” Tom turns. Donnie grabs his arm roughly and Tom twists around, his face dark now. “I suggest you let go of my arm.”
Donnie stares at him a long beat. And releases his grip.
Closing in on midnight, on the promenade deck—the most secluded section of the ship after hours
—Donnie takes the last swig of the bottle, hating himself for drinking again. Hating himself for not standing up to Tom. Hating himself for what his life has become. He stares out at the ocean. With the moon hidden by clouds, there’s nothing but blackness.
He ponders where he can get another bottle. The ship’s bars are closed. There’s room service, but his account is maxed out.
A woman appears in the weak light. She’s in her early twenties, younger than the band’s usual fans, but she’s wearing a Tracer T-shirt. Probably someone’s kid who grew up with their music. That happens sometimes.
Her face brightens when she sees him.
“Oh my god. Are you Donnie Danger?” She looks around as if she wants to confirm what she’s seeing, but no one else is on the deck.
“The one and only,” Donnie says. His southern drawl gets more pronounced when he’s playing rock star, particularly when he’s drinking.
“Will you sign an autograph for me?” she asks.
“I’ll do anything you want, sweetheart.”
She smiles, her teeth glowing in the dim light.
“Anything? ” she says seductively. She walks over next to him, leans against the protective railing.
“Your wish is my command, darlin’，” Donnie says, trying to muster more southern boy charm, but it’s half-assed and lazy.
The woman reaches inside her shirt. He thinks she’s going to pull it off. Have him sign her breasts. It’s been a while since he’s done that, but it’s part of the job, who’s he to complain?
She doesn’t remove her top. Doesn’t ask him to sign her ample cleavage. Instead, she’s reached into her waistband and pulled out a handgun.
“Well, my wish”—she says the word with derision—“is that you jump.” She motions the gun at
the ocean below them, then trains it back on Donnie.
He chuckles, like she’s kidding. She’s fucking crazy, but he’s always been drawn to crazy women. The gun looks real, but surely it’s a fake; she’s only playing. Offering a rakish smile, he says,
“Look, sweetheart, I don’t—”
He’s cut off with a hard blow to his head with the butt of the gun. Donnie doubles over. After what feels like a long time but might be only a few seconds, he stands, his legs wobbly. He touches his head. There’s red on his fingers. His eyes look into hers. She’s definitely not playing.
“Jump.”
She puts the barrel of the gun to his forehead, its muzzle cool on his skin.
“I don’t understand.” Donnie’s heartbeat swirls in his ears now.
“You don’t need to understand.” She holds up five fingers with the hand not clutching the gun. She begins ticking off her fingers.
“Five…”
“All right, hold on, wait.…”
“Four…”
“Wait, hold up.”
“Three…”
“Okay!” He raises his hands.
She retracts the barrel and steps back, motions her chin for him to get up on the rail.
A chill races up Donnie’s spine. He hops his ass up, feeling the cold metal through his jeans.
He’s no longer shit-faced drunk, but he’s still unsteady from the terror.
The woman gestures with the gun for him to swing his legs around, and he does, fear seizing him as he sits precariously on the ledge, his feet dangling. On this side of the ship there are no decks below. A straight drop into the ocean. His eyes search for life preservers but find none.
“Two,” she says.
He twists his head around. She’s displaying an awful peace sign with her fingers.
“Please—What’s—I don’t understand.”
Before he pleads more, he hears her say, “One,” and feels the shove into the abyss.
CHAPTER THREE
NICO
Nico clasps the flashlight and swings the ray around the coal mine.
He’s been the executive producer for the unexpected reality TV hit The Miners for a year now, but he still feels claustrophobic in the cavern. The low ceilings, the fog of coal dust, the rats. The coal company closed Mine B in the 1980s, and it’s now only used as one of the show’s sets. The cast always grumbles about shoots here, complaining that staging scenes in an inoperable mine takes away from the authenticity of the show. Nico listens patiently to their gripes, fights the urge to remind them that they’re hardly living an “authentic” coal miner’s life. The star of the show, Roger, who’s spent the better part of his life working in a godforsaken hole for $47K a year, drives a Bentley for fuck’s sake. But for better or for worse, they’re Nico’s meal ticket.
Like the cast, his income has skyrocketed with the success of the show—the most popular reality series on cable （take that, Housewives!）。 Not to mention that Nico has become something of a sex symbol with his weekly live recap show, The Black, which has thrust him into the national conversation. His DMs from women would make even the Tinder crowd blush. It almost makes living in the boonies of West Virginia worth it. Almost makes being at the beck and call of Roger—who texted Nico to meet him at Mine B tonight for some bizarre reason—less annoying. And, best of all, the influx of cash keeps the bookies and loan sharks off Nico’s ass, a refreshing change of pace.
Why the hell did Roger want to meet here, anyway? He probably wants to talk about getting more on-camera time. Complain about his co-stars outside their small enclave where gossip and grievances are more abundant than meth … which is saying something in this town.
Nico stares at the railroad tracks and the old handcar that looks like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. The cast complains about the handcar too, since it bears no resemblance to the mantrips that real miners use to travel through the tunnels. But it makes for good television. In the cliff-hanger for Season 1, they filmed a scene in which the brakes just so happened to go out. Nico’s convinced that Davis, the network asshole who’s been trying to muscle in on Nico’s job, had someone grease the brakes. The cast had similar suspicions but forgave Davis the moment the scene went viral on social media. Maybe Nico should be more like Davis. Yeah, he should’ve hidden a camera for this meeting with Roger tonight. A secret meeting that could stir up trouble with the others. Great content for a new episode, but Nico has his limits when it comes to orchestrating drama. It’s the only area of his life where he has limits.