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“Why so quiet, Blaine?” asked Mel.

They were at the Fox and Fiddle.  It was the last day of rehearsals, and it looked like they might party well into the night.  They had the whole show timed down to the second.  The construction crew could set it up and take it down in a couple of hours.  The set list was complete.  Everyone was pleased with the order of the songs.  A couple had been eliminated but Tom’s suggestion to replace them with something Backstreet had been quickly rebuffed.

Tom called them all over for a meeting at the end.  Rafe had disappeared somewhere.  Tom told them all how wonderful they were and how this was going to be a great tour.  He told them that they had the next week off and then the musicians were meeting in New York City for some press stuff.  The construction crew and the equipment would be heading off to Holland, where the tour would kick off.  Rafe was hoping to get Nick on the European Music Awards, either as a presenter or a performer.

Nick sat in the corner and sulked for the entire meeting.  He knew why Rafe had disappeared.  Because he knew that Nick wanted to talk to him.  Nick was pissed.  He had been after Rafe for a month to talk about opening acts for the tour.  Rafe kept putting him off, and then, earlier in the day, he had presented Nick with a list.  No discussion, no input.  Just – here’s the list, it’s all final, live with it.

Nick had not been impressed with the list.  On his last tour, he had tried to get local bands and give them some exposure.  That had worked out very well in some cases and had been totally disastrous in others.  And now this!  Rafe had handed him a list that was similar – mostly local bands – but this time, it was not new, young talent.  It was…well, has-beens, Nick thought.  Groups that he had vaguely heard of.  Groups that had had a hit or two twenty years ago.  Guys in their forties now, maybe even older. 

Nick could just hear the critics now!  How was he supposed to prove he was grown up, if that’s what he was compared to?  He would always be younger.  Even if he were compared favorably, it would be ‘young Nick Carter’.

When everyone left for the Fox and Fiddle, Nick told Tom to start a tab in his name and that he would be along later.  Then he went looking for Rafe.  Everyone else headed out to the bar and had a boisterous time, sharing funny moments from the past month, doing imitations of Rafe and Murray and even Nick.  The people at Tofu Sandoval’s table were laughing so hard they could barely breathe.  They had taken over the pub.  The couple of late-afternoon drinkers that were there on their arrival had quickly downed their beer and gone elsewhere.

“Blaine?”  Melody repeated the question.

Blaine looked at her.  “Just wondering who the spy is,” he said.

“Spy?”  Melody looked at the assembled group.  “What do you mean, ‘spy’?”

“Someone is spying for Rafe.  He finds out what’s going on way too fast.”

“Well, that would be Tom, wouldn’t it?  Isn’t that kind of his job?”

Blaine laughed.  “Yes, but that’s too obvious.  First of all, we never tell Tom anything.  Rafe knows stuff before Tom does, even when it happens right in front of him.  Nope, there’s somebody else.”

Blaine looked at the smiling faces.  “But I think we can eliminate Tofu,” he suggested with a grin.

“Ah yeah, I think so,” said Melody.  “Rafe couldn’t get the time of day out of him.”

“He really hates the suits, doesn’t he?” said Blaine.

“Well, we all do,” said Melody, “But Chris has got a good reason.”

Blaine nodded.  He already knew this story.  Christofol Sandoval had had a difficult time breaking into the business.  Because he was Mexican.  Pure and simple racism.  That’s what it came down to.  Born in Mexico.  Latino-American maybe they would accept, but born in Mexico?  Never!  He was asked for his immigration papers at every job interview in the beginning.  He had been an American citizen since he was six years old, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Oh, he got offered jobs, he was too good not to - but they were always for Latin music, playing with mariachi bands.  He couldn’t break into the rock scene.  He persevered, however, and was making a name for himself.  He formed his own group and was close to getting a record contract.  He had written some songs, and so had his bandmates. 

Then the suits got involved.  They dangled the record contract out there and then demanded that almost everything about the group be changed – the name of the group, the kind of music they played, the number of members in it.  Every time they thought they had it settled, another suit would say, “Just one more thing.”  And then one of the biggest of the suits propositioned the lead singer, Tofu’s girlfriend, and told her that if she didn’t sleep with him, the deal was off.

The girl went straight to Tofu, who stormed into the suit’s office, threatening him with a variety of tortures before a slow, painful death.  The suit rose to his feet and looked from one to the other.  Then he calmly informed Tofu that the girl had, in fact, come to him and offered to suck his dick for a solo contract.  But it didn’t matter, he said, he really didn’t have the time or patience to deal with sluts and wetbacks.  And he picked up the contract from his desk and tore it in two.  “Now get the fuck out of my office,” he replied.

Tofu was beside himself with anger.  He ranted and raved to his bandmates and talked about lawsuits and sexual harassment.  They tried to calm him down.  They felt like they were watching their careers dissolve before their eyes.  The girl begged him not to pursue it.  It’s my word against his, she said.  Guess who’s got the power.

So Tofu calmed down.  They started over again and six months later had a recording contract with another company.  They learned from their mistakes and their innocence the first time around and got a pretty good deal.  The group and the girl were long gone by now.  But Tofu’s hatred and distrust of the suits was still with him.

“What about Toby?” asked Mel.  She had never been able to get over her initial distaste for the man.  And she knew that, for some reason, he didn’t like her either.

“Could be,” mused Blaine.  “Or maybe Gus-Gus.”

Melody snorted, spitting a little wine on the table.  “Jeez, Blaine, warn a girl, would ya!?” 

Gustavo Deloro had jumped into his job with both feet.  He followed Toby everywhere, making notes, leafing through the file folders, copying his every move.  If Toby handed a bottle of water to Nick, Gus handed one to the rest of the musicians.  Tofu had remarked to them all once that they might as well move the rehearsals into the bathroom, they were spending so much time there… 

But it was Rashad who had given him his nickname.  He had spent some quality time with his kids, watching the Disney video, Cinderella.  There was a character, a mouse, who followed another mouse around all the time, but didn’t really seem to know what he was doing.  It was a visual memory that they all had stored from their childhood, and when Rashad had said, “Gus-Gus”, it evoked it for them all.

“Gus-Gus can only be the spy if Toby tells him to,” said Melody.

“True,” said Blaine.  “But it has to be somebody close to the band.  It wouldn’t be Scott…”  His voice trailed off, but there was a question in it.

“No, it wouldn’t,” said Melody matter-of-factly.  She sighed.  “It will probably end up being me.”

“What?”

“Because I’m the woman.  Just you wait and see.  If everyone starts thinking there’s a spy, eventually they’ll point the finger at me.”

“Well then, I’ll shut up about it.  I haven’t mentioned it to anyone else, and I won’t.  But I’m keeping my ears open and my mouth shut.”

“Good plan,” said Melody.  Then she winked at him.  “I’ll tell Rafe.”

They laughed together.  Suddenly, Blaine sobered.  “Uh oh.”  He nodded at the doorway.

Uh oh, indeed! thought Melody.  Standing in the doorway was a very upset Nick Carter.  “I guess he didn’t find Rafe,” she said.

“Or maybe he did,” countered Blaine. 

They watched as Tom and Toby descended on Nick from different directions.  Tom started talking really fast in a low tone.  Toby handed Nick a beer and bobbed his head up and down, nodding at whatever Tom was saying.  Some of the fire started to leave Nick’s eyes.  Melody looked around.  Everyone in the place had one eye on the doorway.  Conversations dwindled and then stopped.  Tom kept talking.  Finally, they saw Nick mouth the words, “Aw, fuck it,” and then he tipped up the beer mug and drained it.  He handed the empty mug to Toby and waded into the party.

People relaxed and conversations started up again.  Toby put another beer in Nick’s hand and followed him around the party.  They stopped at each table and chatted for a few minutes before moving on.  Nick had had four beers by the time he got to Blaine and Melody.  He had Rashad and Tofu with him.

Nick pulled two pages out of his pocket and threw it on the table.  “What do you think?” he demanded. 
Tofu picked up the pages and looked at them.  Then he passed them on to Rashad.  Rashad didn’t say anything, just read the pages and passed them to Blaine.  Blaine and Melody put their heads together and looked at the papers.  It was the list of opening acts.

“Well?” said Nick. 

The musicians looked at each other.

“This seems to have you upset,” said Rashad, cautiously.

“Well, nobody had any say in it,” said Nick.  “And I want us to have some say.  All of us.  So does anyone have a problem with this?”

Besides you, they all thought. 

Tofu went next.  “I can kind of see where Rafe is coming from on this…I know, I know…”  They were all gaping at him.  It was a sentence they never thought they’d hear out of his mouth.  “…but didn’t he say he was trying to find rock fans instead of…”  He hesitated.  No one said Backstreet Boys around Nick any more.  “…you know…younger fans?”

“Yeah,” said Nick.  “That’s what Tom says too.  But what do you guys think?  Do you think people will compare…?”

“Sure, they’ll compare,” said Blaine, “But so what?  It gets the fans in the building.  They get a bit of nostalgia, and then they get their asses rocked off by us.  It works for me.”

They all turned to Melody.  She was the last one. 

Nick stared into her eyes.  “Mel?”

Melody felt very small with Nick looming over her.  She stood up from the table.  It didn’t come close to making them eye-to-eye, but it was better.  “Listen, Nick,” she began.  “Blaine is right.  I don’t care if they put the friggin’ Rolling Stones up there ahead of us.  You are so good…we are so good…it won’t matter.”

Nick stared at her.  Then he looked at the rest of them again.  Finally, he relaxed.  “Shit,” he sighed.  “I hate it when Rafe is right.  Okay, if it works for you guys, I’ll make it work for me.  Thanks.”  He picked up the pages from the table and turned to Toby.  “More beer!” he shouted.

Chris Sandoval looked at Nick’s departing back and then at Melody.  “The Rolling Stones, Mel?”

Melody laughed.  “Well, maybe not the Stones.”

“I really don’t see any problem,” said Rashad.  “Do you guys?”

Nope.  None of them did.  They were the best, and they knew it.  And the kid had impressed the hell out of all of them over the past month.

Rashad said his goodbyes and told them all he’d see them in New York next week.  Blaine stood up to follow him.  He was taking Cathy to Vegas for the weekend, going to spend some quality time, just the two of them.

Melody looked at her watch.  It was still early, but she didn’t feel like staying.  She was tired and frankly, she’d had enough of these guys.  She wondered if she would get time alone on tour.  She sure hoped so.  She made the rounds and said goodbye to everyone. 

“Don’t let him drive,” she whispered to Toby as she went by.  Toby nodded at her.  Taken care of. 

“Hey, Mel!”  Nick followed her to the door.

She turned back.  “Yes?”

Nick had a silly grin on his face.  “The Rolling Stones?” 

“Okay, maybe not the Stones,” she laughed.

Nick got serious.  “But we’re that good, like you said?”

Mel nodded.

“Everything’s perfect?” he asked and watched a shadow cross her face before she could stop it.  “What?”

“It’s going to be great, Nick,” she said.  “Go back to your party.  I’ll see you in New York.”  Melody went out the door.

Nick followed her out.  “What’s not perfect?” 

Melody sighed.  She so did not want to do this now.  “Nick, go back inside.  You’ve had a few.  Now is not the time to…”

“Now is the time.  You got a problem with something, I want to know about it.  How come you never brought it up before?”

Melody kept walking.  She turned into the parking lot at the side of the pub.  She was not having this discussion.  But apparently, she didn’t need to.  Nick was still talking, almost to himself.

“I asked.  I’ve been asking for a month.  ‘What do you guys think?’  I asked it about every song.  And you guys told me what you thought…so what’s the problem?”

Melody reached her car.  She unlocked the door and then turned to Nick.  “Not every song,” she said.  She stared at him, and he stared at her.  For a long moment.

“You don’t think I should play the guitar,” he said finally.

Melody took a deep breath.  “No, I think if you’re going to play the guitar, then you should play it.”

“What’s that mean?”  Nick swayed a little on his feet.

“It means that you don’t play a song.  You play a little bit, and then you sing a little bit.  You don’t do both at the same time.  If you can’t…”

“I can!”

“Listen, Nick.  Why don’t you pick a song, an instrumental, and learn it?  Then you can rock your brains out on the guitar, and you won’t have to worry about singing at the same time.”

“I can do both!” he said.

“Okay, whatever.  It’s all good.  I gotta go now.”

“Going out with the girls?” sneered Nick.

“Sure, why not?” answered Mel, although she wasn’t really sure what he meant.  She nodded her head at the pub.  “It’ll make a nice change.”

Nick felt bad that he had made the remark.  His feelings were hurt by what she had said about the guitar, but that was no excuse.

“Go on,” he said.  “Have fun.  I’ll see you in New York.” 

He  turned and staggered back to the pub.