Shit, he was late. Travis tossed a handful of kibble in the cat’s bowl, grabbed his guitar and jetted out of the apartment. He should have been at The Cove already. The guys were going to have a heyday with this one. Dependable Travis, last one to the gig for once. He could practically hear them now. He needed something to shut them up. Not the truth. Hell no, if they found out he was late because he met a girl online, and worse, during a Scrabble game—he’d never live it down. Guys who played rock music didn’t behave that way. They weren’t supposed to behave at all. The club’s parking lot was overflowing when he pulled up. Excellent for his band, even though he had to park down a side street. Not only was Black Box getting the standard flat fee for the gig, they were getting a cut of the bar receipts during, and for an hour after, their set. Thanks to him. The guys never mocked his business savvy. That alone should be enough to keep his bandmates off his back. As if it would.
