Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
▪️Monday, December 14th, 2017▪️
▪️Las Vegas, NV▪️
The cold compress on my left hand is a brutal reminder of many reasons why touring and playing the keys day after day is not my idea of a dream job. I'm grateful for the tour, for the loads of new followers, and thousands in my merch sold over the past two-and-a-half weeks, but. But. Composing with The Whats has been the truly mind-blowing development. The only part I wake up and look forward to each morning, no matter how late we stayed up the night before. The schedule we settled into has been go to bed after midnight and asses in the recording studio by eight a.m. The last time I voluntarily woke up before eight was when I went on a juice cleanse and had to use the bathroom every couple of hours. Do not recommend.
The days we are on the road and not giving concerts, we keep the morning sessions, but I get to go to bed at an early hour. Which sometimes ends up being right after dinner. Since Mike took over the responsibilities for the dojang, he refuses to admit he needs sleep, pretending he can wait up for me after I'm done with my concerts instead of us only talking on my nights off. We've both fallen asleep while talking several times, because staying up till nine when I'm not performing is proving difficult. The switches in my daily routine are running my body ragged. No matter how many pills I take, keeping the state of my hand hidden from everyone on the bus is more and more of a challenge.
"You're a mess," Amelie tells me what I already know. We figured out an hour for us to sync up and talk. The Marco-Polos we've been exchanging are fun, but real-time is better. She gave me a festive tour of the cottage her mom renovated in her backyard in France for her, all ready for Christmas, with cute French baubles I can't wait to get my hands on. This will be her first Christmas with her mom, and no matter how much she refuses to talk about it, her first one without her dad. Paul is on both our minds.
"Preaching to the choir." I prop myself on the pillow in my room. After a twelve-hour drive from Denver to Las Vegas, we have a night in a hotel before the two-day and four-concert sprint.
"You need to get an appointment and have some steroid shots for your hand, or you'll be out of commission. Can't their guy play for you?"
"By their guy you mean Oliver St. John? He might sound like he's the softest of them all, but he's the biggest prima donna. No way in hell is he playing the keys for me. And I'm not asking him. I'll be fine. Can't let them hire someone else because I'm unable to perform my contractual obligations. The five-day Christmas break in LA is only a week away. I'll have time then to rest my hand and take care of my needs."
"Your needs. It's one name to call Mike. He's still coming, isn't he?"
"His latest message was an itinerary for us." He's way more into planning than he needs to be. I have a couple of spots I'd like to hit, but an hour-by-hour itinerary was a buzzkill. "Oh, and he rented a motorcycle."
