9. Reed

9

REED

“LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH & FAMOUS” – GOOD CHARLOTTE

A little while later, taller buildings return to the landscape as we get closer to Lexington.

After parking in the garage adjacent to a hotel, we walk over to the elevator and click the lobby floor to take us up from the basement.

“Guys, there’s a little problem,” Dunn begins as the elevator rises. “I didn’t actually reserve us a room.”

“Uh, excuse me?” I bark.

“Yeah. I didn’t think we’d need one.”

“Are you serious right now? Please tell me you’re joking. You begged me to come here today and we don’t even have a room reserved?”

He shrugs. “We were going to stay with my military buddy when I bought the tickets. He’s in Hawaii now, though.”

“So why are we at the Remington Hotel?” I ask as the elevator doors open in the lobby.

“Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

As we step out, a few young women approach—concert-goers, judging by the Zach Bryan merch they’re wearing.

“You have a plan…?!” I try not to raise my voice.

“Yes. I have a plan. I’m coming up with it as we speak, actually.”

Luna shoots him a funny look.

“Bro, let’s just find some motel out of town,” I say.

The women are chatty as they board the elevator. “Oh my God,” one of them says. “Did you hear the Red Lemons are staying here ?”

“Where’d you hear that?” another replies.

“My friend’s cousin used to date the bass player.”

“Get out! I’m obsessed with them.”

The door slides closed, and Dunn leans over and whispers in my ear. “It’ll be fine. Just act confident, Walker.”

I groan, but I know Dunn has made up his mind and we’re at least going to give this—whatever we’re doing—a go. There’s no reason to protest.

“Um, what’s going on?” Luna asks quietly.

I try to whisper low enough that the girls in the elevator don’t hear. “Dunn is on to one of his schemes. It could blow up in our faces, but let’s roll with it and see what happens.”

“Ohhh.” She gives me an exaggerated wink and a nod. “A scheme. I like it.”

We walk up to the hotel desk, and the middle-aged man behind the counter offers a cordial, but not happy, smile.

“Hi,” the man says.

“Hi,” Dunn replies.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes.”

“Name?”

Dunn hands over his military ID.

“Charles Galveston Dunn,” the man reads.

“That’s me,” Dunn replies.

The man looks over at me and Luna.

“They’re the band,” Dunn explains. “I’m the protection.”

I have to admit, Dunn does look the part of band security in his aviator sunglasses with his military build.

“Okay…?” The man clears his throat.

I start to open my mouth, but Dunn kicks me in the shins. He shakes his head at the women behind us in line. “Do you really not know who we are?”

The man sighs. “I’m afraid I’m not a big music guy. Why don’t you just tell me your name?”

Dunn lowers his voice and speaks softly through his teeth. “They’re the Red Lemons. Rest of the band is coming later.”

“The Red?—”

“Shhh…” Dunn puts a finger to his lips. “We’re trying to stay low key. Por favor . ”

The deal with the Red Lemons is that a few years back, their lead singer passed away, and some didn’t think they’d make it through that tragedy as a band. However, they held strong and remade the band with a new singer—Violet Benson, the redheaded girlfriend of the deceased lead singer—and now they’re on tour after their latest album was one of the biggest of the year. Their sound is some fusion of midwest punk, rock, country, and folk. I call them folk punk. But if you ask me, they just make good music. Their stuff is fire.

Anyway they’re a popular band, but not so huge that many people outside of music know them. Dunn, whether by coincidence or skill, has picked the perfect band for us to impersonate. I think I could pass for Henry Cooney, minus his tattoos, though maybe it’s a stretch to say Luna could pull off Vi given their different hair colors.

Regardless, the man at the counter is not impressed by the game Dunn is playing. “I’m very sorry,” he says. “I’m going to have to ask you all to either produce some ID or exit. We can’t just be giving out rooms to?—”

“I’d like to speak to the manager, please.” Dunn raises his voice now. “I’ll let them know you’re not taking care of the Red Lemons.”

The man’s demeanor changes momentarily, and the women behind us start to get chatty.

“Oh my God, is that Henry Cooney?” one says in a hushed voice.

“Well, I’m going to have to verify you somehow.”

“You have my ID,” Dunn says smoothly. “We’re keeping one of the rooms in our block under my name. I’m sure you understand why we don’t like to make a big deal out of our entry.”

“Look, I’m afraid I can’t…”

Dunn clears his throat and takes down his sunglasses. “How many rooms do we have in our block?”

“You requested three.”

“Exactly. The rest of the band will be here later. Look, we’ve been on the road for hours on our way from Nashville. Would you kindly give us our room?”

“I’m going to need to verify this with our team. Please wait.”

I spin around and see that Luna has disappeared. Off to the bathroom, perhaps.

The hotel clerk’s phone rings, and he gives us the one-minute finger.

“Ah. It’s your PR team calling,” he says as he answers.

A shudder runs down my spine, and even Dunn flinches for a split second.

“That’s perfect,” he says, recovering. “Why don’t you put him on speaker?”

“It’s a she,” the clerk says, and then into the phone, which he does indeed put on speaker, he adds, “Hi, Miss, uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Miss Miles. Grace Miles. Has the band arrived yet?”

It’s Luna.

“Partially. Just two—a man and a woman with their security.”

“Excellent. I was just calling to confirm that we’ll be arriving in two separate groups. Henry and Violet had a duet gig last night at the Opry. The rest of the band is coming a little bit later.”

“Oh, did they now?”

He pulls up his phone and checks. Indeed they did have a gig last night.

I mean, we did.

“Oh. I see. I, uh…have them here, and I wasn’t sure. They’re refusing to provide identification.”

“Are you always this difficult with your premiere guests? With whom am I speaking?”

“Uhh…Randy.”

“Randy…?” Her voice is irritated yet professional. I have to resist smiling.

“Randy Rice.”

“Well, Mr. Rice, I’d appreciate it if you could get them checked in in a timely manner.”

“These guests, what do they look like?” the clerk asks.

“Mr. Rice, what are you insinuating?”

“I’m saying?—”

“This would make for quite a scar on the Remington’s reputation. I can see the headline now: The Remington Hassles Star Band . What’s your deal? And Henry Cooney is tall, handsome. Carries a guitar. How hard is this?”

Randy’s face turns red as he scans me. I guess I look the part. “I’m sorry, Miss Miles. I’ll get them checked in right away.”

He hangs up.

Moments later, Luna returns.

“The bathrooms are really nice here. Are we checked in yet?” she asks airily.

I have to hand it to her—she sounds nothing like she did on the phone. She’s a verified chameleon.

The hotel clerk gives Luna and me a good, hard stare. But we do look like a band after our trip to the boot store. Luna is even wearing a cowboy hat.

“Very well. Do you have a card?”

Dunn hands him his card, a little reluctantly. “After this, I think you should comp our visit. Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Will you just need the one king bedroom for now?” he asks, looking between the two of us. “You are a couple, aren’t you?”

He waves his phone with the article pulled up about the Opry, which undoubtedly mentions that Violet and Henry are a couple.

I’m just glad it doesn’t have a photo. Like I said, I can pull off Henry Cooney to the untrained eye: medium-tall height, white guy. However, the singer of the band, Violet, is known for her flaming red hair.

Luna’s hair is the same length, but its color is a dead giveaway.

“We are,” I announce. “One bed is fine.”

Luna cozies up closer to me. This could either be brilliant, or it could backfire spectacularly.

I don’t know that Randy is fully convinced, but he hands over a set of room keys, and we head up.

“That was bad ass. Not gonna lie,” Luna says, beaming. “You came up with that plan in the elevator? Seriously?”

Dunn shrugs.

“You were amazing!” I tell her. “Seriously. Miss Grace Miles? That impersonation was insane.”

“Yes,” she says, using an English accent now. “I am a woman versed in disguises.”

“But who is the real Luna?” I ask.

“It is unlikely that you’ll ever know. Muhahaha!” She gives me her best evil laugh.

When we get up to the room, there’s one bed, a bar, and a sofa.

“I’ll take the sofa,” I announce, raising my hand.

“Dude, I have a wife. I’m not going to sleep in the bed,” Dunn says.

I shrug. “I’ll set something up on the floor then.”

“It’s okay. You really don’t have to. I can sleep on the couch,” Luna offers.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. That wouldn’t be gentlemanly. We’ll figure it out. Also, I need to shower. I think I’m still hungover.”

“Get going then. I’m starved,” Dunn says.

“And then we should toss in early tonight,” I tell him.

“Yeah, we want to be fresh for the concert tomorrow. Since we’re here on Friday, baby!” Dunn yells.

“Especially since you’re playing tomorrow,” Luna adds with a wink.

“ We ’re playing,” I clarify.

“Thank God he didn’t check social media for Violet’s hair color,” she says. “But Dunn, what are we going to do when the real Red Lemons arrive and need their rooms?”

He snaps a bite of an apple that was on our snack tray. “Let’s hope they don’t notice we took one of the rooms. And let’s also hope that guy’s shift is over by the time they arrive. And as far as tossing in early, we need to find some grub first. I’m starved. Shower up, Walker.”

We eat delicious burgers and drink a couple of beers in some hole-in-the-wall restaurant downtown, and we’re happily full as we stroll back toward the hotel.

“All right, well, are y’all ready to cash it in?” I yawn. “I’m spent after yesterday’s crazy night out.” I pull out my phone to see if Samantha’s texted me back about chatting later, but I’ve got no new messages.

“Yeah, I guess we should turn in,” Dunn says, but he slows as we walk down the sidewalk. “Or…” He raises a very ominous finger. “Or we could sack up and actually enjoy the night.”

“Dude, I’m still wrecked from last night,” I counter. “Those Chicago handshakes got to me.”

“C’mon. One drink. WWZBD.”

“Come again?”

“WWHCD. What would Henry Cooney do?”

Luna grins. “Yeah. One drink. He’d have one measly little drink to decompress from that long drive.”

We had beers with dinner , I think, but I don’t respond as we continue our slow walk, just blocks from our hotel. I can practically feel the pillow and the sweet sleep it offers calling to me.

We pass a bar where we can hear music flowing out from the basement windows.

“One drink,” I say, reluctantly, imitating Dunn’s one-finger gesture. “Just one, and then we head back.”

“Deal,” Dunn says.

“Unless it’s, like, really awesome,” Luna adds.

“I’m sure it won’t be.”