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The same fucking question from some fucking reporter for the last seventy years: "You guys are always touring, always on the road. Don't you get tired?" The reporter flashed his polished teeth, as if he knew what life was like rolling from town to town.
Before there were TV personalities with bulletproof hair, or newspaper hacks with ink-stained fingers, there were intrusive townspeople who weren't there for the music. Just to steal some of the glow.
Trevor Sand swirled the bourbon in his glass. The lights from the small television studio caught the ice, sparkling like heavy rain pierced by lightning. The TV man, Roger Toms, still smirked, waiting for an answer. The other uptight guest scowled in an ageless look of mocking disapproval. Morning talk shows. Little bumpers of relief for news channels that normally spread fear and images of lurid death. So maybe Trevor could give the viewers of this local LA station some relief. A little rock and roll to spike their coffee. And promoting the latest tour wouldn't hurt either. Bigger audiences brought more power.
Toasting Roger with his glass, Trevor gave him a wink. "I'll sleep when I'm facedown in a shallow grave."
He downed the bourbon in one gulp. As long as his guitar was strung and the crowd jumped as he lashed the music over them, he would never die. Some rock legends lived on in lore and recordings. Trevor and his supernatural brothers were near immortal.
"It's nine a.m." Roger glanced from the glass, then into the camera lens, where his audience probably didn't give a shit.
"Never wear a watch." Trevor set the glass down and ran his fingers along one of the leather necklaces he wore. Calluses from guitar strings dulled the sensation. "And morning's just a little sunlight if you haven't slept yet."
Roger shuffled some papers, searching for his next question. The other guest to Trevor's left, Mr. Carter or Mr. Cockblock or something like that, shifted in his seat uncomfortably like an unwilling visitor in a disease ward. Trevor had been through it all with these types before, but it was worth an awkward morning if it meant giving his fans a little thrill to see him on TV. After all, they kept him alive.
Finally, Roger found his inspiration. "Many of your songs are quite romantic." Clearly this fake-tan-coated television personality hadn't heard any of Trevor's songs. But he listed them anyway. One of his interns must've done the research. "'She's Incoming,' 'Love's Edge,' 'Spellcaster.'"
Mr. Cockblock made a small groan, as if he'd been run through with a broken sword.
Eager anticipation glinted in Roger's eye. The trap he'd set was about to be sprung, right there at the round table and three chairs of his live morning show segment.
Pressing, Roger continued. "Sounds like you're looking for true love out there. There's a woman with green eyes in more than one of your songs. Anyone in particular? With all this touring and gigs on the road, how is a rock and roller like Trevor Sand supposed to find the one?"