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didn’t count.
    “Oh, shit, you like her,” James said. “That’s even worse. We’re really screwed.”
    “She wasn’t that hot,” Andrew said. “Nice ass. Not a great face.”
    O’Connor’s simmering irritation boiled over into anger. “I will fucking kill you,” he said. Andrew was unbearable.
    “Ooh, hit a nerve,” Andrew said. “I think you’re right, J-Dog. O’Connor’s crushing hard.”
    “Don’t call me that,” James said.
    “Why not?” Andrew asked. “Koreans eat dogs, right? It’s fitting.”
    James’ chair scraped against the floor as he shoved it backward and stood up. “You are not cute or ironic. Knock it the fuck off before I knock your teeth out.”
    “I’m scared,” Andrew sneered, but O’Connor could tell he was at least a little nervous. James was a brawny dude, and he had a temper. He’d punched out a sound guy at Coachella for calling him Kim Jong-un.
    “Andrew, once again, you are outnumbered by people who don’t find your casual racism amusing,” Rushani said. “I would really suggest keeping your mouth shut.”
    “I’m just joking,” Andrew said, the edge of a whine creeping into his voice.
    “You aren’t funny,” O’Connor said. Rushani looked genuinely distressed. James could look after himself, but O’Connor felt pretty protective of Rushani. She reminded him of one of his sisters. And, frankly, he was fed up with Andrew’s constant attempts to be edgy and offend people. O’Connor didn’t think Andrew actually believed any of what he was saying—he just said it to get a reaction.
    Andrew subsided, finally, muttering to himself. After a few tense moments, James sat back down. Rushani closed her eyes and opened them again, a long blink.
    They were all worn down. Touring was hard and exhausting no matter what, and Andrew’s crisis had all of them on edge. O’Connor couldn’t wait until the tour was over and he could go back home to his condo in Chicago and sleep for about a hundred years. Only two more months to go.
    Assuming they all survived the rest of the tour.
    All he had ever wanted, ever since he was a child, was to make music. His dream had come true, better and stranger than he could have ever imagined: the screaming fans, the lights shining on his face, the music hot and wild in his veins. And now it was ending, that long dream, crumbling apart in the face of Andrew’s slow collapse.
    He would do anything, anything at all, to save the band. To keep making that music.
    “I’m tired now,” Andrew said. “I want to go back to the hotel.”
    “Soon,” Rushani said. “We have to make this decision. O’Connor, you know she’s the best. We need to hire her. I’m aware that it might be awkward for you. You’re just going to have to suck it up. Sorry.”
    “I know,” he said, already dreading the conversation they would need to have.
    “And no hooking up on tour,” James said. “I don’t want to deal with that on the bus. Or anywhere.”
    “I know,” O’Connor repeated. “I get it, okay? Obviously I wouldn’t have done anything with her if I knew she was going to be our new bassist. We’ll keep it professional.”
    “That’s all I ask,” Rushani said. “So we’re all in agreement, then? I’ll call Hakeem, and if he approves, we’ll have her sign the contract tomorrow.” Hakeem was their absentee manager: a good guy and a marketing genius, but happy to leave the day-to-day operations to Rushani, even though it wasn’t really her job.
    That was that. Meeting adjourned. Rushani started packing up her bag. Andrew slunk outside to smoke a cigarette. O’Connor rolled his neck, feeling his spine pop. He was tired of this bullshit. He wanted to go find some of the crew and get drunk in someone’s hotel room. He wanted to be gone from L.A. already. Nothing good ever happened in Southern California. The last time they were in L.A., James blew out his left knee trying to impress a girl with what he referred to as his “sweet