Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

Here's the prologue for my current writing I'm sure to shelve. I'm calling it The Reunion Tour.

Jason threw what little clothes weren’t already in his bag back in, pulling the cinches on the old army-style duffel bag shut quickly. He looked over at the only other thing he carried himself, his guitar case, and sighed. “Damn you, Bobby,” he muttered as he slung his duffel over his shoulder, and grabbed his case. He took a look around the hotel room, and forced himself to look away. He wouldn’t miss being in a different hotel room almost every night, but at the same time…

He stopped himself from that line of thinking, and with his guitar case, knocked the ajar door all the way open and stepped through, using his foot to pull the door shut behind him. He boarded the elevator, having to make room for a family that boarded at the third floor. They looked at him apprehensively, and he could hardly blame them. Scraggly bleached hair down to his shoulders, a few days growth artfully remaining on his face. He’d be wary of himself in normal circumstances. Once at the lobby he let the family exit first, and made his way out the door. No need to check out, he figured the tour manager would probably take care of that stupid detail.

He exited the hotel and saw the cab waiting for him, which was nice. He had called for it only about ten minutes prior, and he had horrible luck with cabs in the past. He let the cabbie take his duffel and throw it in his trunk, but he wouldn’t part with his guitar case. He put that in the backseat before climbing in, taking one look back at the hotel, and taking a mental image for future cataloguing. The Ambassador in…oh damn, where am I? he thought. He looked at the cabbie’s license, which was issued in Missouri, right. He was outside Kansas City today. The Ambassador Hotel outside Kansas City, to be filed under “Where it All Fell Apart.”

The cabbie climbed in to the driver’s seat, and looked back with a “where to?” raise to his eyebrow. When he didn’t get an immediate answer, he cleared his throat. Jason, his reverie broken, replied “closest major airport, please.” Based on the cabbie’s grin, he figured it was something of a long trip…he’d probably be spending most of his money on hand for the fare. He sighed again, and hoped Brian was doing okay. He rubbed his hands over his face, and felt a sudden rush of guilt. He shouldn’t have stormed out like that. Well, he had every right to storm out, but he should have stayed to help Brian, or taken Brian out with him. He didn’t even consider how Brian was going to take this when he barged out. He sighed again, and decided to try to get an idea of how Brian was from the tour manager when he called from the airport. This was a conversation he was most definitely not looking forward to having.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Jason settled in to his seat somewhat. He had no idea what he’d do once he got back home. But he knew there’d be a lot of questions…like why after five years as a national act, and right in the middle of a huge multi-country tour, Morning Star imploded. Questions he really didn’t want to answer.