I cast a surprised glance back at Aaron who’s grinning like we’re ten years old again as he locks in with the unusual rock tempo. We haven’t played a six-eight time signature since our cover of Queen’s “We Are The Champions” over a month ago. I’ve played around with writing a few, but Chris never liked to stray from our formula. If Mason is game, then maybe… I push the thought away—who says we’d even write together?
Mason must like what he’s hearing from the kit and shoots Aaron an eager grin that sends my own blood pumping a little faster. Mitch adds some cool triplets on the electric guitar and Tivo’s bass starts wreaking havoc with the downbeat. Me? My starved classical background races from the shadows to play with all the extra space in a six-eight time signature. Man, there’s so much I could do with a song like this on keys. By the time Mason starts singing, we’re already simmering on the edge of explosion.
“Don’t tell me to relax
Not when you play my trigger
Just throw the gas and strike the flame
Light it, ignite it, let’s see you try to fight it with those match-less lies you tell
Not so easy when I’m ready
Not so brave when I’m on guard
Cause I’m hot now, baby
Yeah just come and get me
You got your blaze so let’s make it roar
You’ve hit my setpoint, baby
Just the kind of crazy that keeps our ashes burning through the storm.”
Mason jumps back from the mic, leading us through an instrumental build we felt coming on instinct. It was easy to sense after following him seamlessly through the verses and choruses. In only a few lines, he hooked us, guiding us to the moon and back because this song is already ours. Mason gave it to us the second he took our stage and bared his soul. We’ve responded with pieces of our own, hammering at our instruments like each of us wrote it.
In typical frontman style, Mason quickly gets lost in his guitar, bobbing and ducking his whole body with each strum in almost manic pursuit. Chris was the same, except unlike Chris, Mason snaps back to earth when Mitch steps toward him. With boyish grins, they face each other for several progressions, feeding off the other to create some of the coolest riffs I’ve heard in a long time. Mitch looks five years younger as he lets go and follows the music to a new stratosphere.
But he’s not traveling alone. Tivo, Aaron—even I’m trembling from the rush that comes when your soul is locked in with four others to create something cosmic. Something so much bigger than yourself you couldn’t capture or define it even if you wanted to. Studio recording is fine, but nothing can replace the magic of live performance, of handing yourself over mind, body, and soul to your bandmates and trusting them to carry you into the clouds. Trusting. Trusting…
Trusting that the man who pushes you to the heavens won’t rip off your wings on the crash to the ground.
I’m shaking by the time the song breaks down to a stripped back final chorus. Chills rake over my body when Mason lets his strong, gravelly voice shatter on the last few words. It’s hypnotic, haunting, and familiar enough to send me storming from the stage.
CHAPTER 6
Guess what, he has a flaw. No, I’m not talking about the stupid kind, like the way he eats soup or takes his socks off inside out. Of course I’ve seen those already. I mean the big ones. The broken splinters that hide deep and slice you open when you reach in. I was beginning to wonder about his. No one’s perfect. Everyone has scars, and after a month together I couldn’t find a single crack, not that I was looking. Okay maybe I was, but can you blame me? When you fall as hard and fast as I did, of course you need to protect yourself with restraint. But even after a month of digging I was coming up empty. I was beginning to think he might be the one person who didn’t have secrets. How could that be possible? Well, it’s not, and I’m falling in love with a man who guards his better than anyone.
MASON
Liberty Blake. I know from my research that it’s the keyboard player’s band. She and her twin brother started Burn Card in college five years ago, eventually dropping out to pursue music when they started to take off. It’s a rare success story the media and public love to champion, and I guess being a pair of quirky, ridiculously good-looking twins doesn’t hurt either.
My research is also how I know it can’t be good that I’m now staring at Liberty’s head of thick blue and purple hair as she stomps off the stage and smashes through the Emergency Exit. Was my audition really bad enough to spark an evacuation? It felt good in the moment. Incredible actually. Somewhere in that explosion of music a long-dead flicker had reignited and scorched me from the inside out. I hadn’t even intended to play “Setpoint” for my audition. Every rational braincell begged me to choose something more rock-typical like “Hush Hush” or “Lost in You.” Instead, standing there in front of these strangers, watching them cradle their instruments like nothing else mattered, I knew I needed more. That we could be more. That somehow we would grasp a common thread and weave something epic.
But wow. Epic isn’t enough for what just happened, and when we brought the song back down to earth, I thought they felt it too. That is, until a heated, glossy stare shot over at me from behind the keyboard. Now I can only study the door, trying to pull in a panicked breath and make sense of what the hell just happened.
Yesterday I wasn’t sure I wanted this. After what I experienced on this stage, I don’t think I can go back to anything else.
“Shit,” Aaron mutters, flipping his sticks to his palm and slamming them on the snare drum. “I’ll be right back.”
He jumps up from his stool with an apologetic look. I return a weak smile, disappointment swelling in my chest. So this is it. My fate decided by a violent retreat and awkward silence. I never should have taken this audition. Did I really expect anything different? When will I get it through my thick skull that it’s not going to happen for me? Damn Rose and Gary for convincing me to get my heart broken again.
“You were great, by the way,” Aaron says suddenly, pausing mid-stride on his way to the door. “Like, really, really good. Just…” His gaze flickers back to the exit. “Sorry, give us a second.”
The others shift uncomfortably once we’re alone. Sam spouts something about not worrying before taking off after Aaron. Tivo clears his throat and starts playing with the effects on his pedal board. Mitch leans forward and gives me a clap on the arm—a consolation prize, I guess. The band leader hates you, but those riffs we played were cool, huh? They were. Incredibly cool, which is why my stomach is sick at the thought of not having a chance to do it again.
You have Brooklyn. Those tiny arms around your neck when you get home will make it all okay. But will they this time? She’s everything, no question, except maybe I’d just started to believe I could have something else too. A life with Brooklyn and music. Could a dream I never dared to have actually come true? Guess we’ll never know.
I force another smile and start unstrapping my gear. It’s probably better this way. I haven’t slept in days worrying about this audition and how I could possibly make it work if they said yes. If they said yes… my god, what if they’d said yes? Another rush of disappointment plunges through my stomach at the loss.
“Yo, what are you doing? You done?” Mitch asks, standing over me as I lay my guitar in its case.
I glance up, surprised at the hint of panic on his face. “Oh. Um… I mean…” I look toward the emergency exit that’s claimed so many souls in the last few minutes.
He follows my gaze and sighs. “Shit. Yeah. Okay, look, it’s not you. I mean, it is but not in the way you think. It’s…” His foot taps rapidly beside me. “Dammit. I wish I could tell you more.”
“No, man. It’s fine. I get it. You want to go in another direction.” I offer another tight smile and finish latching my case. Every musician has heard that dreaded phrase at some point in their career, just maybe not as brutally as I have. And if I could survive what Eastern Crush did to me, I can p
ick myself up after this. Maybe. I don’t know. Damn, it hurts. I’ve forgotten hope. How much it freaking breaks you when it’s stripped away.
“Wait, no, you don’t get it,” Mitch says, blocking my path off the stage. “Ah!” He clasps his fingers on his head, his eyes practically begging me not to leave. I stare back in silence, thoroughly confused. “Just… wait for a few minutes, okay?”
His phone buzzes, and he smirks at the screen. Turning it to me, he pauses as I read the message from Aaron.
Don’t let him leave.
Okay no, confused isn’t the word for how I’m feeling right now. Hell, words in general are proving inadequate for this entire scenario.
“Hey, so can I see your J45?” Mitch asks, dropping to the edge of the stage.
With a quick smile, I remove it from the case again and hand it over.
“Chris almost never played an acoustic,” he says, running his fingers over the smooth wood. “Guitar wasn’t really his thing. Half the time he’d just leave it on the stand, if we’re honest. You can play though, dude. Like, legit shred.”
“Thanks.”
He nods back and balances my guitar on his lap, strumming lightly. It’s been years since someone else cared enough to share my instrument, this piece of me that’s slowly become less and less. One moment, though, one brush with that black hole where musicians get lost, and I’ve been sucked back into the void. Shit, what if I can’t go back to normal after this?
Emotion starts to gnaw at my stomach, longing, inadequacy, fear of the future I want. Terror that I won’t get it. The empty stage screams at my back, beckoning its temptations as I balance on the edge. My leg swings back and forth to the rhythm of Mitch’s impromptu song. D, G, B-minor, A, back to D. Over and over his fingers move effortlessly along the frets in the same progression, his mind clearly elsewhere.
Almost ten minutes pass like this, Mitch playing quietly and making small talk to distract me while Tivo pretends whatever he’s doing with his pedal board is more important than the future of his band. Yep, ten minutes of awkward almost-silence until Aaron and Sam return to reveal how very loud the room actually was. Our gazes lock on them while they move through the door and let it clatter closed behind them. They approach carefully, faces unreadable as they exchange a quick glance. I push myself to my feet.
Aaron clears his throat and casts a nervous look to Mitch before focusing back on me. “So I think we can all agree that you’re an amazing musician, Mason. It’s just…” He stops, and I feel Mitch deflate before I do. “Shit,” Aaron mumbles, shoving a hand through his dark hair.
“Oh come on,” Mitch says, his fist tightening on the neck of my guitar. “Really? Are you fucking kidding me?” he barks at Aaron.
Aaron shoots him a look, and Mitch straightens further. They continue their silent argument, until Aaron finally sighs and turns back to me. He studies me for several agonizing moments before stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
“You know what, screw it. You want to go grab dinner? I’m starving. Let’s talk over a bite. Sound good?”
Wait, what?
“Uh—”
“Yes! Perfect,” Mitch says, already pushing me toward the door before I can finish my sentence. “He definitely wants to eat. Right, bro?” he directs to me. I don’t think I could say no even if I wanted to.
“What about my stuff?” I ask, almost to the exit.
“We’ll come back for it. The room will be locked, don’t worry,” Aaron assures me. “You coming, man?” he calls back to Tivo. Tivo’s spiky blond hair moves just enough to imply a nod as he balances his bass on a stand. Guess his pedal board emergency is now under control.
“You like Thai food, Mason?” Aaron asks, slinging his arm around my shoulders.
The guys are great. Down-to-earth, hilarious, and embedded with music in the same way I am. We joke and riff our way through dinner like we did on that song an hour ago. The chemistry is undeniable, and by the time the dessert menu is passed, hope has started to blossom inside me again. Liberty’s opinion is obviously important, but is it the only opinion? But my humor starts to fade along with the budding optimism when the server presents our mango fried ice cream and there’s still been no mention of my future. Samantha Turner’s uncomfortable silence for most of the meal starts to scream louder as well. My gaze drifts past the flickering votive candles to rest on hers with question. She returns a tight smile before taking a sip from her water glass.
When she leans forward with authority, the friendly chatter dies away. “Look, Mason. We really appreciate you coming out. We know how valuable your time is and it wasn’t easy for you to make this trip on such short notice. The thing is…”
I feel the collective intake of breath as the dark ambiance of the restaurant dims further.
“The thing is, this is a huge decision for Burn Card. I’m sure you can understand the vast repercussions of a transition like this.”
Shit.
“Sure, of course,” I say, studying the lumpy yellowish pool of melted ice cream on my plate.
Vast repercussions. Isn’t everything a fucking repercussion? What about the repercussions for me as I fly home and go back to my life of scraping by doing roof repairs? “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, Mase,” Katrina had barked at me after she told me she was pregnant. I was an artist then—passionate, fierce, and shameless in my display of every emotion and thought.
But wounds become scars, scars become armor, and five years later desperation masks itself as a solemn glance into soupy mango slush. I stare at it now, trying to decide if I even liked the concoction.
“What she’s trying to say is that we really like you, but we need time,” Aaron blurts out.
I glance up, meeting his pleading gaze across the table. His dark eyes flicker with the candlelight, so heavy, so similar to the look mirrored on Mitch’s face. In fact, as I study each of them, only Sam wears a professional, blank expression. The rest of the band… Wait, who are the desperate ones here? There’s an unspoken message they’re begging me to read.
We don’t want you but we do.
Stay even though you have to go.
Bam.
That’s it, isn’t it? They all want me. All of them except the one who really matters.
CHAPTER 7
His flaw? He doesn’t believe. In himself. In his talent. In his future. In anything except the here and now which is never going to scratch the surface of what he could be until he does. His doubt is so ingrained, I don’t even think he sees it. He doesn’t know he’s his own worst enemy. He transforms on stage, convincing himself as much as every soul in the audience that he’s a god, and maybe he is for those forty minutes of freedom. But last night I saw the truth. Off the stage, in the shadows, when he’s forced to face what’s left of himself outside of the spotlight, his mask shatters. The emptiness spills out. The lie he believes takes root and convinces him that he’s nothing but the music. A hollow prodigy that won’t exist without it. Mason can’t dream because he has no idea who he really is. So I guess that’s the question, my mission should I choose to accept it—and him. Can I believe enough for the both of us?
MASON
It always amazes me how quickly the highs and lows of life revert back to the stasis of survival. Two days ago I was in California, flirting with a fantasy, certain my path had been snapped in one irrevocable direction or another. Two days ago, I was surrounded by palm trees and the glitz of a world I’d only imagined. And yet, just two days later it’s back to arguing over chunky versus smooth peanut butter. For the record, it was definitely chunky last week when I bought the jar.
“I don’t like the rocks in it!” Brooklyn whines, shoving her plate away.
“They’re not rocks,” I grit out. “They’re peanuts. The chunks make it more fun to eat.”
Remember your own words last week when you insisted on this exact jar?
“They get stuck in my teeth. See? Like this.”
I glanc
e over from the sink to watch her take a giant bite followed by exaggerated chewing that would make any hippopotamus parent proud.
“Shee? Shtuck!” she forces out through a mouthful of food. Her brow scrunches in resentment as the plate gets heaved even further across the table.
I pull in a deep breath, my fingers curling around the sponge in my hand. “Okay, fine. Then don’t eat it.”
“I want ice cream!”
“You’re not having ice cream for dinner.”
“With sprinkles!”
I ignore her demand and focus on the red streak throbbing over my palm. Of course I sliced it open on an exposed nail at work today. Why wouldn’t I after everything else that’s gone wrong? After helping me clean it and wrap it in gauze, Rory told me to make sure I got to the doctor for a tetanus shot, maybe stiches. Right, because I have the time or money for that.
“How was your day off?” he’d asked shortly before the injury blew up our afternoon.
“Fine.”
“Do anything interesting?”
“Not really.”
No need to share news of what’s looking like a non-event with more people who will feel sorry for me. Gary and Rose were harder to appease and felt they deserved more details for their role in watching Brooklyn while I was gone. I told them it went well but probably wouldn’t work out. With a touch of bitterness, I even surprised myself by adding that I’d decided to stop pursuing this stupid dream and look for another part-time job instead.
Rising West: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 1) Page 5
