by W E DeVore
Q locked up the house and walked ahead of him towards the midnight blue Porsche in her driveway. “The reason you and I can’t be friends.”
She slid into the passenger seat and Derek sat behind the wheel. “God damn, I like you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just drive, Cincinnati.”
He backed down the driveway and turned onto Carrollton. They drove in silence for several minutes before he finally asked, “So, how does it feel?”
“How does what feel?” she asked, throwing up every defensive wall she could muster, worried how Derek could respond.
“Your first platinum record, angel. How does it feel?”
Q’s jaw dropped, thinking he meant the album she’d recorded with Stanley Gerard. “What are you talking about?”
He glanced at her expression and smiled. “There it is. I was hoping you didn’t know. I wanted to see that look. You went platinum yesterday, Q.”
“No, I didn’t. Stanley’s record is sitting just past gold. Your album went platinum the day it was released, Derek. My records are still sitting somewhere on the aluminum level.”
He laughed. “‘Archangel’ went platinum yesterday; you didn’t know it was the new single?”
“Of course, I did, but we wrote that together…”
“No. You wrote it. All of it.”
“Since when?”
“Since that night we recorded ‘I’m on Fire.’ I changed the publishing.”
Q gasped. “Why would you do that? I didn’t write it alone.”
He pulled up to the restaurant on St. Charles and parked. “I wanted to give you something. And if we’re being honest, you and I both know that very little of that song had anything to do with me, including the lyrics.”
“But that’s crazy....”
He turned to face her, and a rare flicker of sincerity settled on his face. “That’s not far from the truth, Q. I was strung pretty tight that night and I couldn’t let it drop. Usually, I can. But I just couldn’t. Then something you said… it cut through. So, I figured it was the least I could do for you. I don’t know what I would have done. I hadn’t slipped that far down in a long time.”
“Derek, I don’t know what to say… Thank you,” she said. She watched him a beat too long, wondering what dark secret he was hiding.
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Come on, let’s go get that steak.”
Q got out of the car and hesitated. “Derek, what happened that night? Why were you so upset?”
She knew he had been in utter terror when he’d come to her house to take her to the studio that evening. Some twisted memory had made its way to the surface of his consciousness and was petrifying him. She’d never asked what that memory was, not because she wasn’t curious, but because she was quite sure she didn’t want to know.
“The album was over. It was a big project. It just overwhelmed me, is all.” He refused to make eye contact with her and she knew that creative fatigue had little to do with the actual cause of his distress that night. He straightened his spine and smiled nonchalantly. “Anyway, I got to thinking after you left that my thank you gift for you seemed too small after…” He paused and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I needed you and you were there. I can’t say that about a lot of people. I just wanted to make sure you were taken care of.”
She smiled at him. “You do know my family’s loaded, right?”
“I also know that you gave up your portion of it when you were twenty-five and donated it all to the family foundation.”
Q didn’t think anyone knew that she’d given away her trust fund, not even her family. She’d never told Ben it even existed. “How did you find out?”
“My manager and your family attorney play golf with the same people. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Brian loathes you. He might have called you a spoiled rich brat to the wrong person.”
“He really didn’t like being called a brainless ball sack, did he?” she asked, sticking her tongue between her teeth.
Derek laughed. “No. He’s got a thing about women like you. Don’t worry; you’re not alone. He hates Fi, too.”
Q had only met Fiona Jameson, the drummer for Dark Harm, a couple of times, but she could see how a woman who could beat a snare drum like an Aboriginal warrior while simultaneously flipping Derek off for telling her she was playing too loud, would get under the thin skin of Derek’s manager.
“I take it, Brian doesn’t like being told what for by women?”
“The music industry is awash with chauvinists, Q, what can I say?” He slipped his hand down to the small of her back and guided her towards the brightly lit restaurant. Strings of sparkling lights bordered the green awning outside, making a welcoming glow.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re in the private room.”
Q folded her arms into her most aggravated version of a slacker posture and stopped walking. “This ain’t a dinner date, Cincinnati.”
He shoved her forward. “No, angel, it’s a dinner party.” When she looked at him in confusion, he said, “The rest of the band is here. They’re all dying to meet you. You didn’t think I’d trying something, did you?”
“No, Derek,” she replied sarcastically. “You would never try to fondle a woman in a steak house. That never happens.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “When will you let that drop? I told you, I thought you were playing hard to get.”
She leaned over and said, “And I told you to keep your fucking hands to yourself.”
He held up both hands. “Best behavior, scout’s honor. Now, can you and I finally call each other friends? It would annoy Brian to no end, and I love to aggravate him; especially when he’s being a sexist prick.”
Q smirked, biting back her laughter. “I’ll consider it.”
She followed behind Derek as he walked through the crowded restaurant without acknowledging the staff or the patrons staring at him - some more obviously than others. He flung back the heavy golden brocade curtains at the end of the room to reveal a long table already crowded with wine bottles, beer bottles, and cocktail glasses.
A tall man with a green Mohawk that made him even taller stood up and raised his beer bottle high. “Oh Captain, my Captain.”
Derek gave him a condescending smile and said, “Nick. I see we’re still tour drinking.”
Nick gave him a dopey-eyed grin. “Hey, you brought a drunk to New Orleans. I’m just acting like a local.”
Derek turned to Q and asked, “What says the local?”
“Did you drink something out of a plastic glass shaped like a grenade today?” she asked.
Nick’s eyes widened, and he said, “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. I’m going to have to go with tourist, not local, then.”
Nick laughed and reached out his hand. “Nick Monticello. Aggressive Bass.”
“Q Toledano. Reluctant Archangel,” she replied, taking his hand.
The thin man beside him stood up and reached for her hand as well, revealing taught muscles beneath his fitted blue t-shirt. “Kyle Nakamura.”
“Keys?” she guessed, struggling to remember his role.
“Lead Guitar,” he corrected. “Well, used to be lead guitar, now it’s back-up rhythm.”
Q sensed a bubble of tension forming between Kyle and Derek and immediately recognized the tell-tale signs of a creative power struggle. Without thinking of the consequences, she decided to take the blame off of Derek. “Yeah, sorry about that. I gave Derek a hard time about those guitar parts. Told him he should play more solos.”
Kyle put his hands on his hips and scowled at her. “Yeah, baby, I figured that out for myself, already. Derek and his fucking muse.”
“Oh, take it easy, hot shot,” Q said. “You can lay back for one fucking tour. It won’t kill you. Maybe you’ll finally figure out where the pocket is.”
Every member of Dark Harm stood back as the air got sucked out of the room. Kyle smirked. “You’re an asshole. I like
that in a woman.”
Q giggled and he punched her congenially on her shoulder. The only other woman in the room stood up and walked around the table to greet Q. Her long blonde- and black-striped dreadlocks were tied up high on her head and she wrapped Q into a sisterly hug. “Hey Q, good to see you.”
“Fiona, how’s the tour?”
“Stinking, so far. Europe was a disaster. My kit got destroyed on the way through France and I had to fire my fucking drum tech.”
“You shouldn’t have hired that kid,” Derek said.
“He was fine until that lighting chick fucked with his head.”
A doughy, balding man a little older and looking a lot more his age than Derek stood up behind Fiona and reached around to introduce himself. “Don’t blame Samantha. It wasn’t her fault he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” He looked at Q. “I’m Paul, the tour manager.”
Derek scanned the room. “Where’s Dave?”
“Where do you think?” Fiona asked, sitting back down. “He’s outside on the phone with Hannah.”
“His wife,” Paul explained.
Derek led Q to a free pair of chairs. “I thought she was coming down.”
Paul shook his head. “Can’t get her on a damned plane. Apparently, she’s now afraid of planes.
Derek sighed and explained, “Dave’s wife, Hannah, has a new phobia every other week. Usually, it’s whatever conveniently makes him the most miserable while on tour. Not all spouses are as patient as your husband.”
Q grinned. “He’s not as patient as you think. I lost a bet and now I owe him a week of cancelled touring of his choice.”
Derek scowled, and she held up her hand. “Don’t worry. I already told him that I was contractually obligated to these weeks with you.”
He said, “I’m surprised he didn’t try to knock you up just to get you out of them.”
Q gave him a quick smile and tried to think of something, anything, to change the subject. “So, how does one get a drink around here. I hate being the only sober one in the room.”
Fiona handed her a martini glass. “Ordered you one already. You need to catch up.”
Derek shook his head slightly and leaned over, saying in a low voice, “You don’t, if you don’t want to. They’re all on tour time, right now.”
Q took a sip of her drink and asked, “What about you?”
He poured himself a glass of wine and settled back into his seat. “You and I have something in common, angel.”
“What’s that?”
“We both like to stay in control.”
Q studied his face for several minutes while he discussed some tour arrangements with Paul and Fiona. Derek usually had a playful quality that made it difficult to guess his real age, but the weeks on the road and the seriousness with which he approached his business made it obvious this evening that he was just a few years on the youthful side of fifty.
As he reached his arm forward, she caught sight of the edge of a symbol tattooed on the inside of his wrist and wondered how she’d never noticed it before. When he turned back to her, she pointed to the exposed skin and asked, “That new?”
He pulled his sleeve down and gave her a noncommittal smile. “Nothing’s new, angel.”
Before she could ask him what he meant, a bald man with a long beard that had been braided down to the middle of his chest stormed into the room, cursing to himself. He flopped down into the chair next to Nick and said, “I’m sorry, you guys. Hannah won’t get on a god damned plane and she’s threatening another divorce if I don’t come home.”
“Another divorce?” Q asked Fiona.
Fiona leaned over and whispered, “They’re on round three. Don’t ask.”
Derek let out a loud sigh. “Damnit, Dave. Just hire a fucking car. How expensive could it be to drive her down from Chicago?”
“Expensive,” Dave said. “And she’s worried the driver would try something.”
“Train?” Q asked.
“Already tried. I’m Dave, and by the way, fuck you,” he replied.
Q pulled back in shock. “Fuck me? What did I do?”
“You’re Q, right? What the fuck were you thinking with that fucking keyboard part on ‘Contagion’? Didn’t you know someone would have to play that live?”
“Well, I played it live. It only took a couple of takes,” she said defensively. The room went silent and she asked, “What?”
Fiona grinned and said, “Pay up, Dave. I told you it wasn’t sequenced.”
“Fuck.” Dave reached into his wallet and pulled out some cash, handing it to Fiona. “We had a bet. I thought Derek was lying to me when he said you played the thing in three passes. That timing is whack.”
Q took a sip of her martini and muttered, “I don’t see what the big deal is. Just drop the four every third bar.”
Dave scrunched up his face and counted silently in his head for a few minutes. His eyes widened.
“That works,” he said under his breath, playing the table like a piano with the tips of his fingers. “Like, that really works. Ok, Derek. She’s got my vote.”
“Already had mine,” said Fiona.
Nick shrugged and took a swig of his beer. “She had my vote months ago, she’s way hotter than Fi.”
“Fuck you, lush,” Fiona interjected.
Derek looked at Kyle who was sitting quietly, and more interested in his phone than the people staring at him. Kyle glanced up and around the room. “Oh, we’re actually doing this? Sure, whatever. Just sing on key and don’t have sex with Derek, like ever. Or I’m out five hundred bucks.”
Q’s eyes travelled from Derek to the others and asked, “Does somebody want to explain to me what the hell is going on?”
Fiona said, “We want you to replace Crystal as the Archangel for the rest of the tour. She’s a total diva and her timing is for shit.”
Q glared at Derek. “No.”
“Don’t say, ‘no,’ yet. I’m auditioning new Archangels while we’re rehearsing. But think about it, will you?” He knocked three times on her forehead and a sudden memory of her friend and mentor, Stanley Gerard, doing just that, flashed through her mind. He’d told her more than once to consider making her arrangement with Derek more permanent and she’d dismissed the idea out of hand. Now she wondered if he might have been right. She wanted to argue, but she couldn’t find the words to do it.
So, she said, “Alright. I’ll think about it. When do you need an answer?”
Derek stared at her wide-eyed. “Are you fucking with me? You’ll actually consider it.”
“Yep. I’ll think about it. For real.”
He cringed slightly and said, “I don’t want to push my luck, but there’s something else.”
“If the word ‘bed’ comes out of your mouth in the next thirty seconds, I am stabbing you with a steak knife,” she said, glowering at him.
“No. Nothing like that.” He glanced around at the table. Fiona, Nick, and Dave were playing ‘Contagion’ with silverware and nonsense sounds while Kyle had resumed the text conversation that had been consuming him when Q and Derek had entered the room. Derek leaned closer to Q and said, “I need a break. From Dark Harm. Just for an album or two. I don’t know where to take it from here, and I don’t know if I even want to. I want to do an album. With you. It’d be yours, well, ours. You sing. I play. We could work on the songs while we’re on tour and record it when we get back. I want a break from being the center of attention. I just want to play.”
Q tried to form words, but her mouth and brain had decided to suddenly stop communicating with one another. It was an opportunity he’d mentioned before, but never so candidly. Despite her misgivings, she’d enjoyed her time with Derek while they’d recorded the last album together. And, if she was honest with herself, a break from the normal routine and rhythm of her life was enticing in a way she hadn’t noticed before.
“Just think about it,” he said. “You don’t have to answer now, or soon even. Would you do that?�
�
She nodded. “Ok. I’ll consider that, too.”
“God damn, I like you, angel.”
“So, you’ve said, Cincinnati. So, you’ve said.”
Chapter 10
Scarification
For the next week and a half, Q spent most of her days locked in the live room at Son of Perdition, Derek’s recording studio and the headquarters for his label, relearning the parts she had helped to compose and would have to perform live. Over the course of the European tour with her stand-in, Derek had done some serious reinvention to much of the music, and Q was expected to learn it all in short order before they started dress rehearsals.
