Page 77 of The Encore Effect

“Seventy-five minutes,” Gideon put in.

Jackson glared at him. “Plenty of time to raise a little hell.”

“Please don’t,” Gideon deadpanned.

“I don’t think Kat would like that,” Nico said.

“She definitely fucking wouldn’t,” Beckett grumbled.

“She isn’t our mother!” Jackson leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “When was the last time we all went out like this? Just us. We used to do this all the time. We had a spot in every city.”

“We used to be in our twenties,” Logan said.

“Don’t you remember what it was like? We’d walk into a place like this and we were fucking gods. Women lined up to offer to suck our dicks,” Jackson said.

“There are still plenty of women who would be more than happy to get on their knees for you,” Nico said.

“That’s not the point,” Jackson said.

“Then what is the point?” Beckett barked, his patience with Jackson’s constant complaining wearing thin.

“We used to know how to have a good time. None of this curfew, no going out on show night bullshit. Party all night, sleep all day, do a show, find a Storm Chaser or two to take back to the hotel and do it all over again.”

“Again, we used to be in our twenties,” Logan said.

“Logan’s right,” Zach said. “I can’t party like that and still dance for two hours the next day.”

“Or sing,” Logan said. “Alcohol is so dehydrating.”

“Staying out all night sounds fucking awful,” Nico said. “I need at least six hours of sleep or my balance poses go to shit.”

“You know how cranky he gets when he has a bad yoga session,” Logan said.

“Those fans pay good money to come see us,” Zach said. “I want to give them the show they deserve more than I want to party with some Storm Chasers whose names we won’t even remember in the morning. Especially if this is our last tour.”

Jackson’s head snapped towards Zach. “Why would it be our last tour?”

Beckett’s stomach sank as Zach eyed the other guys warily. “I mean, it might be. Right?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jackson asked.

“Jacks, come on,” Logan said gently. “You don’t really want to be touring all the time anymore.”

“Of course, I do. Why wouldn’t I?” He turned to the rest of the guys. “I knew Beckett wasn’t sure about doing more, but he’s been saying that shit since we started. He always comes around. But the rest of you?” Jackson’s knee bobbed up and down, the dregs of his drink sloshing in his glass as he grew increasingly agitated. “We’re selling out goddamn arenas. This is just the beginning.”

“I don’t know, man. I’m not sure I still want to be singing ‘Hurricane’ ten years from now,” Zach said.

“We can write another album. I’ve already got a few melodies. They just need lyrics. Fuck, let’s write ten more albums. What the hell else are we going to do?”

Zach looked sheepish. “I’ve kind of always wanted to open a restaurant.”

“I can see that,” Logan said. Zach beamed. “I’d like to get more involved with charity work. Give back, you know?”

“I’ve gotten a few calls about some reality shows. Coaching new singers, judging competitions, that kind of thing. Could be fun,” Nico offered.

With each confession, his bandmates seemed to grow lighter, as if simply voicing that there might be a life after Midnight Storm had lifted a weight from their shoulders. But not Jackson. His mouth fell open in shock, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, couldn’t fathom that anyone would want to do anything other than what they’d done for the better part of the last twenty years.

“Becks?” Jackson asked.