A Fistful of Rain by Greg Rucka

practicing that one,” she said mildly.
    “I was. I was, but I think it captures the essence.”
    “It wasn’t bad.”
    “I’ll swap you insurance for a statue,” I told Van.
    “Fuck that, I’ll take either of yours for the walking dead,” Click said.
    Graham got to his feet, looking at all of us, touching one hand to his breast, faking the wound to his heart. “All I do for you, and yet you mock. Do I not care for you? Do I not provide for you? Do I not love you?”
    We all told him that yes, he loved us very well, indeed, and we laughed more, and set about getting cleaned up and ready for the first wave of backstage passes and VIPs. As our manager, Graham is required to be our greatest advocate, but even his hyperbole knew some bounds; seeing him like this, tonight, was different, and only reinforced the sense of triumph.
    The parade of visitors started, and we played nice with them all for another hour or so. Most of the flock went to Van, but Click and I had enough attention that we couldn’t duck out without being rude. You never know who’ll be coming backstage; we’ve had politicians and movie people, we’ve had local celebs who act like we should know them, and people who’ve won contests who act like we shouldn’t. Sometimes someone from the label shows, or someone hooked into the Big Money, and they’ve got to be treated like insiders. So it’s part of the job, to be nice backstage, and after a show like this one, it’s even easy, and pleasant.
    The last were two girls, late teens, with passes won at a local record store, and Click and I did our best to keep them engaged, getting them to talk about themselves, as Van finished with her clump. Then Graham was at the door, telling us we had to get back to the hotel, and I walked the two girls out, giving them a handshake, thanking them for coming. Graham went with them down the hall, to make sure security got them out the rest of the way without trouble, and that left one person alone, outside, a good-looking white kid in his early twenties, holding three white roses.
    “Hey, you,” I said. “What’s your name?”
    He actually checked over his shoulder to see if I was possibly talking to someone else before giving me an answer. “Pete.”
    I nodded and stepped back, searching for Vanessa, who was getting the last of her things together. “His name is Pete,” I told her. “He’s waiting outside.”
    She grinned at me, a little caught, a little conspiratorially, and I thought what the hell, it’s been a good night, I’ll make it easy.
    I leaned back out into the hall. “Hey, Pete—we’re getting ready to go back to the hotel.”
    “Oh,” he said. He did a bad job of hiding disappointment.
    “You want to hold on a minute, you could probably ride back with Van.”
    It took him a second to parse it, to trace the thread to its inevitable conclusion. Then he said, “Oh,” again, but this time it was far more enthusiastic.
    “Be a second,” I said, and closed the door.
    “Thanks,” Van said.
    “Cute.”
    “God, yes.”
    “He a keeper?”
    She shrugged, pulling her bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”
    Pete was enough of a keeper that he was at breakfast the next morning in the restaurant, looking dazed to be seated between Van and Graham. Click was there, too, but I didn’t realize I was running late until I saw our tour manager, Leon, with them, as well. I caught the last of the day’s marching orders, and then Van told Pete to go with Leon. I downed some orange juice, listening to their idle talk.
    “Well?” I asked Van.
    “Throwing him back,” she told me.
    I nodded and switched to coffee, doctoring it with way too much sugar, just for the added jump start. Click was working on an omelet, and Graham was futzing with his PDA.
    “You hungover?” Van asked.
    “Just a headache,” I told her.
    “Not coming down with something?”
    “No, just a headache.” I looked closer. “You’ve got a