by Megan Walker
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Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Acknowledgments
One
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
BEAUTY AND THE BASSIST
Copyright © 2020 The Real Sockwives of Utah Valley
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, printing, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, except for use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Melissa Williams Design
Guitar by migfoto Adobe Stock
Trophy by martialred Adobe Stock
Crown by lukpedclub Acobe Stock
Column by Alfmaler Adobe Stock
Rose by pandavector Adobe Stock
Lights by beaubelle Adobe Stock
Published by Garden Ninja Books
ExtraSeriesBooks.com
First Edition: February 2020
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Dantzel Cherry,
a true beauty in every way
One
Shane
When I get out of my car at the UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica, I lock the car doors, then unlock them again before walking away. I used to yell at our lead singer, JT, for not locking the doors to the van, and he used to yell at me for locking them so obsessively when I knew he had a tendency to leave his keys inside.
God speed, buddy, I think as I walk through the automatic glass doors.
From behind me, I hear JT laughing. “Dude,” he says. “I can walk through car doors now. I’m dead.”
I don’t look behind me, but I know he’s there, wearing his ratty Sex Pistols t-shirt and the Converse shoes that fell apart back in high school. I know better than to react to him in public. No one else can see him. Instead, I smile at the cute nurse behind the reception desk and walk back to the rehabilitation center.
I’ve been on our lead guitarist, Kevin, for weeks to tell me how his physical therapy is coming. When the pickup truck crashed into our van two months ago, Kevin was driving. He was wearing his seatbelt, but that didn’t stop the frame from crushing his left arm, metal and glass fully severing his tendons in three different places.
“Dude,” JT says. “At least it wasn’t his skull.”
I put on my sunglasses as I walk beneath the fluorescent lights. They hurt my eyes these days; plus, I don’t want to be recognized. Used to be I’d have girls hanging on my arm, whispering low in my ear, asking me to sign their arms and breasts and thighs. The only thing I’m going to be asked about if I’m recognized here is the accident.
I don’t want to talk about it.
Kevin told the people in reception to expect me, and they clearly recognize me even with my glasses, because they wave me back to a room where Kevin is sitting on a long padded bench. His hands are held out in front of him, a hot girl with dark braids, a skin-tight shirt, and yoga pants sitting next to him.
“You think Kevin is banging his therapist?” JT asks. “I sure as hell would be.”
He’s not sleeping with her, unless he and Maya have eased up on their hardcore monogamy.
Kevin looks up at me as his therapist walks him through opening his left hand, then folding his fingers and thumb down and clenching them into a fist. Kevin’s fingers don’t straighten all the way, and his face contorts in pain as he goes through the motions.
“Okay, last rep,” his therapist says. “Good! That’s getting much better. Take a break, and then we’ll work on range of motion.”
Kevin groans and leans his head back against the wall. “Do we have to?”
“Oh, come on,” JT says. “I could have turned that range of motion thing into a hundred different pick-up lines. I guess he’s serious about hanging up his schlong. More for you, I guess.”
Ha. Not that I’ve been taking advantage of it. Not since—
The therapist looks over at me. “Hey, I’m Tori. You must be Shane. Kevin told me you were coming. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Hey, today could be the day. I turn on my best charming smile, hoping Kevin has done me a solid and told her the good stuff, but then I notice that Kevin is wincing and shaking his hand. His fingers curl naturally, like he’s got hardcore arthritis.
“Dude,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“How does it look like it’s going? I’ve lost fifty percent of the feeling in my fingers, and that may never come back. My range of motion sucks, and I can barely straighten my fingers.”
Tori looks between the two of us and stands. “I’ll give you guys a couple minutes. Do a few more reps while I check the rest of my schedule, all right?”
She bounces out of the room, and JT takes a good look at her ass while she goes. “Dude. Tight.”
JT was a lot of things, but not subtle.
Kevin takes a deep breath and does another rep of his exercise. “So, there you go. You’ve seen how it’s going. Happy now?”
I stare at him. He obviously can’t play like this. “Hell, no, I’m not happy. How long is it going to take for you to—”
Kevin glares at me. “I’ve told you, Shane. I’m not coming back. It’s over. The band is done.”
My palms start to sweat, and I cross my arms and wipe them on my shirt. “Come on, man” I say. “I know you’re frustrated, but you can’t give up. Do you think JT would have wanted—”
Kevin swears at me. “Who cares what JT would have wanted? JT is dead, okay?”
“Ha,” JT says. “He’s right. Who cares about me?”
Kevin, of course, doesn’t hear him. “And Lando found another band already. He was halfway out the door before all this. I can’t play, and I may never play again. Maya and I are thinking of moving out to Denver, you know? Going back to school.”
“It’s not going back if you’ve never been,” I say.
“But I can still go,” he says. “Maya’s got her associate degree. We’ll live on student loans and my royalties for a while until we figure it out.” He points his good hand at me. “You, on the other hand, need to stop wasting time waiting on me and get your head back in the game. You always talked about building a solo career.” He holds his arms out wide. “Now’s your chance.”
I drop my arms to my sides and try to look casual. I still have my sunglasses on, which I hope are hiding some of my frustration. “It’s okay. I’ll wait for—”
Kevin shakes his head. “No, man. I’m not coming back. We’ve been friends freaking forever, so I don’t want to tell you to get lost, but if you can’t stop trying to revive the band, just do me a favor and quit calling, okay?”
We stare at each other for a moment, and I want to punch Kevin in the face. Yeah, this is a setback, but it doesn’t have to be the end. “We were going to be like Anthony Kiedis and Flea, remember? We were going to play together our whole lives.”
“That was you and JT,” Kevin says, “and I hadn’t heard you talk like that since we were in high school. Come on, man. You’re the one of us who walked away from this with hardly a scratch. You’re Shane Beckstrom. Since we put out ‘I’ll Take You Back,’ you’re the one who gets all the press. There are a thousand guitar players who would jump at the chance to play in your band. Hell, you can keep the name, if you want, but as it was, Accidental Erotica is over.”
The lights seem like they’re getting brighter in here, even through my glasses.
“Keep it together,” JT says.
“I don’t want you to give up,” I say. But I can already feel myself breaking out in a cold sweat. I can’t stay here much longer.
“I’m not giving up,” Kevin says. “I’m moving on, and so should you. You got a gift, man. And I don’t mean your music.”
I nod. I know what he means. JT is dead, Mikey washed up from drinking, Kevin can’t play. Out of the four of us who started the band in high school, I’m the only one who made it to twenty-eight and still has a shot.
“Fine,” I say. “But you know if you ever change your mind—”
“I’ll call.” Kevin winces, and I don’t know if it’s because of his hand, or because he feels bad. “And dude, don’t be a stranger. Just shut up about the band already, okay?”
“Okay.” I back up toward the door, and give him a cursory “later,” as I beat it out of there, blowing past Tori in the hallway. The lights are getting brighter and the cold sweat is starting to bead on my forehead and I’m starting to feel like I’m going to pass out.
I stumble out of the hospital by the nearest door and sit down on a bench outside the emergency area. I put my hands on my knees and try to breathe. I haven’t smoked since high school, but these last two months, all I want is a damn cigarette. I also want to put my fist through the brick wall of the emergency room, though I know both ideas are bad for my health.
Instead I grit my teeth and muscle through. I don’t know if this all has something to do with the whiplash or the concussion and the resulting headaches—the only injury I suffered in the crash—or if I’m just freaking out over the loss of my buddies and my band, but I damn well can’t wait for this to stop fucking happening to me.
I wait until my head clears—it always does eventually—and find JT leaning against the brick wall with his arms crossed, staring at me with a crooked smile. “Dude,” he says. “You’re a mess. I mean, not like I was. Remember how my br—”
“Shut up,” I say, and JT disappears.
I bury my face in my hands and wipe away sweat, then pull out my phone. I can’t drive home like this. Last week a semi honked its horn next to me, and I swerved three lanes over. It was only dumb luck that no one was there. I’m about to pull up Lyft and come back for my car later—something I’ve been doing an embarrassing amount, but haven’t been caught at yet—when I notice a missed call from Parker, our agent.
My agent.
I dial him back. “Park!” I say, with far more gusto than I feel. “What’s up?”
“Shane,” Parker says with equal enthusiasm. “How’d it go with Kevin?”
I take another deep breath. I do not want to go all soft in front of Parker. He’s the only one left who’s still on my team, and if he knew I was losing it under the pressure, he might decide I’ve peaked and find himself another bassist. One who isn’t losing his goddamn mind.
“He says he’s out,” I say.
“Okay. You believe him this time?”
I lower my head into one hand, holding the phone with the other. “Yeah. Sounds like he and Maya have other plans.”
“Right,” Parker says. “So I heard. How about you and me get together for dinner, and we can plan a strategy. I know it’s been rough since you lost JT, but—”
“Yeah,” I say, before he can slip into platitudes about how it’s time to move on and this is what JT would have wanted. It pisses me off, what I said to Kevin. He’s right. What JT would have wanted is to headline our band with his kickass voice and our combined music and lyrics until he was as withered and wrinkled as friggin Mick Jagger.
God only knows what he wants with me now.
“Sounds good,” I say. “Let’s plan on it.”
“One more thing.” Parker’s always got an agenda for these phone calls, which I’m grateful for, because unlike a lot of other people, he’s not trying to pry about my feelings. “I think I mentioned this before, but JT was booked to emcee a competition next week.”
“Oh, yeah!” JT says from over my shoulder. “I forgot about that.” He may disappear, but he’s never far away.
I snort. “The beauty pageant, you mean.”
“Miss California Poppy,” Parker says. “It’s like a week’s work. Shouldn’t be a big deal. They’re not going to hold him to it, god knows, but it might be good for PR if you’d do it. Plus, you know, you’d get to look at hot ladies, so I feel like it wouldn’t be too big a sacrifice.”
“That’s why JT was doing it. I remember him going on and on about how serious he was going to take the swimsuit competition.”
“Hell yes, I was,” JT says.
“Can I tell them you’re in?” Parker asks.
JT sits down next to me on the bench. I refuse to look directly at him, but I stare down at his shoes. “Dude, you have to do it. I want to stare at all the honeys.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
Parker sighs. “Look, man, I’m going to level with you. You’ve turned into kind of a hermit, which people understood for a while. And you’ve got a bit of time left before the rumors start, but your window is limited. It’s time to come out with your Dark Side of The Moon, you know? Your Wish You Were Here. You’ve always been good at capitalizing on what’s going on in your life, and I know this will be no exception. But you’ve got to appear occasionally in public between now and then, or people are going to forget about you.”
I ball my fists. The bright lights and cold sweats are fading now, and instead of the brick wall, now I want to punch Parker right in the face. He’s right. I’ve always capitalized. JT was the singer, but I’ve always been the charismatic force pushing us forward. I’ve thrown everyone under the bus—girlfriends, groupies, other musicians.
But if Parker thinks I’m going to do that to my dead friend—
JT laughs. “Hey, man. I’m right here. You could ask me what I think about it.”
“I’m working on the album,” I say, in my best disarming tone. “It’s one thing to churn out angry spurned boyfriend crap, but if you want Pink Floyd, you’re going to have to give me time.”
JT scoffs. “And you’re going to have to remember how to play.”
I give him a sideways look. He’s the only one who knows it, but I haven’t written a thing. I haven’t touched my guitar since—
“I know, man,” Parker says. “You got it. So you’re in for the pageant?”
I’ve said no such thing, but he does have a point. I’ve been hermiting, and I don’t have a single note to show for it, let alone this solo-sad-song album I’m supposed to be writing.
Plus, my dead friend appears to be glued to me, and far be it for me to deny him a little voyeurism.
“Fine,” I say, and we hang up.
“Thanks, man,” JT says. “You’re doing me a solid.”
“If you’re a ghost, you could go by yourself.”
JT shrugs. “You know what I am.”
I turn away from him, thinking about what Parker said. I know I need to play. I need to write new material, give people the insight about what I’m feeling—or the fake-crap version that people want to identify with, anyway.
“Dude,” JT says, “you can write fake crap in your sleep. Get on it already.”
I shake myself and refuse to respond. It’s only been a couple months. I’ll get back on that horse. In the meantime, JT is right.
Beautiful women ought to make for a damn good distraction.
Two
Shane
I show up at the auditorium where the pageant is taking place and have a hell of a time trying to drive the last couple of blocks. There’s a carnival setting up down the street that’s blocking off half the side roads so that all the cars coming in and out of the area have to take this one path, which in Orange County pretty much turns the neighborhood into a parking lot. I’m wearing dark reflective sunglasses, which will hopefully help me not be recognized, but I still don’t want to hike in from blocks away.
I finally manage to make it to the theater parking lot. It’s relatively empty, given that there’s no audience today.
JT perks up in the back seat. “About time, man. Ready to scope out the honeys?”
“First, no one says ‘honeys’ like that anymore. And second, what we’re going to find here is a bunch of desperate, scantily-clad girls and the pageant staff who are ready to parade them around to be judged on the size of their boobs.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Or so different from our concert after-parties.”
He has a point. I have been known to bang one or more desperate, scantily-clad groupies with low self-esteem on an after-concert high. I never used to think anything of it, and I probably shouldn’t now.
I change my mind immediately when I walk into the auditorium. I’m about forty-five minutes late, only partly because of traffic. The auditorium seats are covered in dresses and swimsuits and enormous suitcases full of salon products. I’m not exactly shocked by that—I wear my share of makeup on stage, and I’ve performed with women who obviously wear even more.
