by Max Henry
I draw a deep breath and stoop to retrieve my pile of washing. Em has his mom to do this shit for him when he’s home since he lives over their garage. Me? I like to take care of my own stuff. There’s a kind of solace to be found in the ritual of housework, in the mundane everyday tasks.
Wash, dry, fold. I don’t rush the task, and as a consequence, my goddamn house would pass a military inspection.
I bought my home with the first six-figures I earned and immediately buried it under a web of trusts and unrelated titles. If a person were dedicated enough, they could find where I live. But music fans have limited access to the documents that show the way. They’d need to be an insider, and if my assumptions are correct, there isn’t a single person at my chosen lawyer’s office who’d suffer through a single minute of our music, let alone be curious enough to dig around on me.
I set the washer going and cross the wood-paneled floor to the bi-fold doors that lead into the private courtyard. I don’t need grand gardens, wasted land that sits idle under the hands of paid gardeners while I’m away; twelve-by-twelve is enough. A lone Japanese maple stands tall in the center of the courtyard, planted in an enormous pot that needed to be lifted in from the far side of the wall by a crane truck. The only other plantings are evergreen vines that spread across the cinder block wall, providing contrast to the maple’s red leaves.
I’ve never been able to find total peace anywhere else than here.
Face tipped to the sky, I close my eyes and relish the light misty rain that peppers my skin. Rick bitches that this is our life, and it is. But we’re entitled to our privacy regardless. That goddamn reporter had balls on her to call my fucking number. The crazy bitch left a voicemail straight after that I haven’t bothered to check yet—why give her the time?
I draw a deep breath and shake the water from my face, loose mohawk sending droplets every which way. The rain gains density, the droplets larger while I reach up and pluck a leaf from the tree.
It worries me that this might be the beginning of the end. Bands who last the stand of time through until they can’t physically play anymore are rare commodities. The industry is a cruel taskmaster, the fans unwillingly demanding more than their idols can do without sacrificing themselves.
It might take a person three minutes to listen to one of our tracks, an hour to devour the entire album, or a month to grow weary of the same songs on repeat. But it takes us three times that long to come up with the content they so readily demand from us. And that’s before we begin to play the damn songs over and over until the riffs and refrains embed themselves in the fabric of who we are.
More. Faster. Better.
A person can live by that mantra for only so long before the engine wears down, the parts need time and care, and we find ourselves overheated and spewing fluids on the side of some desert road.
My thumb traces the veins of the leaf, the doors open behind me to welcome the smell of fresh rain on sun-warmed stone. I set the leaf down on the side table and retrieve my duffle to carry what’s left through to my bedroom.
Months on the road and one bag is all I have. I like it that way. Unlike the others, my kit stays with the concert gear, locked away in a storage facility until we tour again.
I keep a separate drum kit for while I’m on break, one that’s set up in a studio space off the internal garage. Separation. Not only does my work not come into my home, but I get that physical dissonance from touring by sitting down at a kit that I only use between tours.
It reminds me that this is my time to create. My space to explore and expand things that I wouldn’t touch while on tour. There’s no visual tie to the band, the albums, or anyone in particular. It’s just me, sticks and skin, and a sound-proofed room to hammer out my frustration until I stumble across fresh sounds unlocked from my subconscious.
Structured, organized, and in control—how the world sees Toby Thomas, drummer for Dark Tide.
Take a step inside my mind, and they’d know the truth is anything but.
SIX
Jeanie
“Hold That Thought” – Local H
“Didn’t expect to see you here.” I bundle my shopping to my left arm and dig out the apartment key.
“Chucky said you might need a short-term loan.” My little sister nods toward the woolen beanie tugged over my auburn hair. “You cold? Or hiding from the world?”
She knows me too well. “Both.” I twist the key and shove the door open. “What else did that traitor have to say?” I step inside, not bothering to wait for her.
She shuts the door behind her as I guessed she would. My place is her place, and vice versa. We don’t faff around with pleasantries and convention.
“Not much.” She drops onto my two-seater while I ditch my shopping in the small kitchen. “He’s not a traitor, anyway. He worries you spend too much on pipedream leads.”
I freeze with my arm still looped through the plastic handles. “It’s not a pipedream.” I leave the dry goods to unpack later and head back through. “It paid off; I got what I was after.”
“And?” Her questioning doesn’t hold malice. She loves me.
She also worries far too much.
“And what?” I settle beside Kelly; knee tucked up so I can face her.
“Have you got a story out of it?” She loops her arm over my leg.
“Not yet.” The corner of my mouth draws down. “I’m working on it.”
I phoned Toby two days ago and left that message. Since then, I’ve checked my phone incessantly to the point I drain the battery before lunch—I itch to do it now.
“Dad asked how you are.”
I meet Kelly’s soft gaze. “Did he now?”
“You haven’t phoned him in months.”
With reason. “You know what he’ll say if I do.” My father, the Pulitzer prize-winning war correspondent. “Music is a hobby, Jeanie,” I mimic.
Kelly snorts. She takes after our mother in so many ways, right down to the midnight-black locks that defy any attempts to tame them. I envy how effortlessly she can style her full hair; I got stuck with Dad’s fair auburn lengths.
“Do you think he has a point?” She swivels to mirror my position, her legs tucked beneath mine and feet at my hip.
“No.” Music journalism isn’t a hobby. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have grown up counting down the days until my favorite magazines hit the stands. “Plenty of people make a living following the touring scene,” I state.
“Maybe that’s the issue.” She frowns. “You need to get out of the office.”
“Don’t you think I’ve wondered that already?” I rub a smudge of dirt off her heeled boots. “Devon won’t let me. Until I give him something worthy of the home page, he won’t foot the expenses of me going on the road.”
“So, do it yourself,” Kelly says. “Go independent.”
I stare at her. She forgets what it’s like to need to budget day-to-day. Unlike me, my baby sister opted to chase a secure profession as a pharmacist. She earns more in a year than I listed on my past three tax returns combined.
But she’s bored, which is why she visits to hear my misery every week.
“Surely, you didn’t come over solely to grill me about my investments?” I smack her calf. “What’s up?”
She groans, head lolling back onto the arm of the sofa. “Ugh. You remember that guy I told you about last week?”
“The barista?”
She makes a disgusted moan in her throat. “Yeah. Him.”
I sit up a little straighter. “What about him?” I’d never admit it out loud, but I crave her dating stories as badly as she needs my musical missions.
“He’s married.”
“What the fuck?” I squeal. “What an asshole.”
She exhales heavily, eyelids droopy with frustration. “They separated three months ago—”
“That’s not so bad.”
“—but he has a kid with her.”
“So?”
Kelly press
es her lips into a firm line. “They still live together.”
“Oooh.” I draw the sound out, one eyebrow cocked.
Perhaps the single life isn’t so bad after all? The only men I have to contend with are moody creatives who usually lack common decency.
My gaze drifts to where my satchel sits on the side table, thoughts on a six-foot blond rock god. Fuck. I’m goddamn obsessed with the need for his story.
It’s disgusting.
“Are you going to tell me what was worth Chucky giving you the Benjamins?”
I twist my head back to find Kelly watching me, eyes narrowed. “Dark Tide’s singer is in a psych facility.”
“I heard that.”
Of course, she fucking did. Goddamn Mole. “I have a connection to Toby, his brother.”
“He’s the bassist, right?”
“Drummer.”
She snaps her fingers. “The blond one. Yeah.” Her gaze grows critical. “What do you mean a connection?”
“I got a link to his personal Facebook account.” I pause for dramatic effect. “And his phone number.”
“Jesus,” she drawls. “No wonder you wanted the dough.”
“Right?”
“So?” She wriggles her head. “What did he say? Why aren’t you glued to your laptop already?”
I give in to the urge and slide off the sofa to retrieve my phone. “Nothing yet.” I dig around in my satchel and pull the neglected device out. Still nothing. “He hung up on me.”
Kelly laughs.
“And I left him a voicemail.”
The damn bitch snorts. “You get extra credit for persistence, sis.”
“What?” I lean over the back of the sofa, elbows holding my weight. “It’s my job.”
“To harass people?” She lifts an eyebrow.
I narrow my gaze. “To go where other people are too polite to.”
“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”
I drop the phone at her feet. “Have you eaten?”
“Nope. What you offering?” She twists to watch me over the back of the sofa.
I pull a bag of Doritos out of the shopping. “Comfort food?”
She tips her head to one side, long hair cascading in effortless waves. “Got any real food?”
“Salad.” Twisting my lips, I tug open the refrigerator door. “Some salami and a carton of eggs.” Leaning back, I meet her gaze. “You want those thrown together?”
“Sounds good.”
I pull the eggs out and set them on the counter, moving then to fill a small pot with water and place it on the burner. The TV’s chatter drifts through from the living space, the stunted sounds telling me Kelly flips for something to watch while we eat.
She might laugh about it, but the fact she settles in for the evening tells me her heart breaks over her barista’s revelation. For a stunning girl, Kelly has the worst luck with men. Ironically, it’s our older sister who found Mr. Right first. Our older, super-fussy sister who put dating last on her list of college priorities.
“Did you talk to Mom when you spoke with Dad?” I call out.
“She was out at a presentation,” Kelly hollers back. “Have you talked with her lately?”
“Nope.” Our mom is amazing, but her ability to set time aside for family was never a strong point. She provided for us growing up, though, while Dad spent random lengths of time overseas on assignments. For that reason alone, I can’t fault her workaholic personality.
I take the hard-boiled eggs off the heat and place them under running cold water. I could have settled for cheese-dusted corn chips, but now that I’ve started making this salad for Kelly, I have to cede it smells good.
Bowls set out on the counter, and the rest of the ingredients prepped, I reach for the cooled eggs when my phone pierces the low hum of the TV.
“Unknown number,” Kelly calls out. “You want me to reject it?”
I trip over my feet while getting to the towel to dry my hands. “No!” The phone repeats it’s third sound. “Answer it before I lose it!”
“No,” she protests. “I don’t know who it is.”
“Just do it, for fuck’s sake.” I careen into the living area.
Kelly smacks the screen and utters a nervous, “Hello?”
I realize she has it on damn speaker when Toby’s irate tenor fills my tiny apartment. “What the fuck do you think you were doing calling Rey’s clinic? It’s bad enough you goddamn vultures sit around waiting for him to trip up, but you can’t give him the respect of space when he needs it?”
Kelly’s wide eyes meet mine.
“Got your attention, though, didn’t it?” I say, sounding a hell of a lot braver than I feel.
“You think this is a game?” he positively hollers down the line. “Do you have a heart, Jeanie, or is there a fucking black hole where it should be?”
I don’t have a retort—I’m caught on how it sounded to hear a man I’ve been quietly fascinated with say my name. Even if it is with disgust.
“Tell his story,” I blurt, leaning on the back of the sofa for support. “I understand you want privacy for Rey, but all that does is lead the press to make assumptions about his state of mind, about what placed him where he is.”
“Nobody forces them to,” he growls. “They choose to make our lives a fucking show of its own. You choose to do that.”
“Then tell the real story. For the sake of others like him.”
Kelly frowns, still wide-eyed, as though to ask, “What the fuck are you saying?”
The phone falls quiet. I tap the screen to check he’s still connected. Yep.
“It’s not my story to sell.” It’s the calmest I’ve heard Toby speak since he first answered two days ago. “If Rey wants to share for the sake of others, he’ll decide when.”
“Then tell me your story,” I urge. “For the sake of others like you. The supporters. The loved ones.”
He falls quiet again. My heart swells; a smile spreads across Kelly’s lips. She can feel the promise in this too.
“No.”
Fuck. “Then I’ll have to feed on your brother’s carcass and tell the story my way.”
Kelly slaps a hand to her mouth.
“Fucking try it,” Toby grinds out, “and see what happens, bitch.”
He disconnects.
I realize how hard my goddamn heart thuds; the rush of blood to my head makes me dizzy. “Holy shit.”
“That was fucking harsh, sis.” Kelly looks positively horrified.
I straighten and draw a deep breath. “That’s entertainment.”
SEVEN
Toby
“Bomb Through the Breeze” – Hannah Wicklund
“Have you got any updates on the fucking rat in your sewer?” I jam the phone against my shoulder and rip a cart from its stack.
I hate shopping. With a fucking passion that matches the fires of hell. But it beat sitting around my goddamn apartment and daydreaming ways to make this little shit pay when Rick finds him. Or her. My mind grazes past the possibility of Kris’s new woman—Henley. Last on, first off, right? Stop it, you jerk.
“Nothing yet.” Rick yawns. “You heard from Kris? The guy is harder to find than a virgin in a whorehouse.”
I chuckle. The new Rick has started to grow on me. He’s always been wet behind the ears, way too eager to please his tyrant of a father, but after our latest on-tour meltdown, he grew a pair.
It suits him.
“Nothing. But I don’t expect him to get in touch.” I push the cart with one hand, phone in the other. “He’s found a pussy he likes after years on the hunt. Would you want to interrupt that?”
A grandma with a perfect perm gives me the side-eye as I pass. I flash her a smile and head straight for the greens. I probably look hella out of place as it is, but my height doesn’t do me any favors; a six-foot-one guy pushing a cart with a handle optimally placed in front of my crotch.
I look like a goddamn kid playing pretend.
I feel like it, too.
“She better give him some inspiration,” Rick bitches. “You guys have lacked any drive lately.”
“Can you blame us?” My brother hit his lowest point to date, and Emery decided to pretend our band wasn’t in the middle of imminent implosion by drowning himself in alcohol. That’s without touching on Kris and his panic-induced meltdowns that left him hiding out in the darkest, quietest corners he could find.
Yeah—we’re a regular family unit while on tour: dysfunctional and imbalanced.
“I’ve sent a sound bite to Emery to work on,” I say while pondering over mixed green salad or crunchy. “We’re focused.”
“Good.” Rick sighs. “Dad is on my ass after this last tour. If you guys don’t sprinkle some fucking unicorn dust over your new material, you’ll stay in his sights.”
“We will anyway.” I toss both in the cart and then head around the corner for meat. “Your old man had it in for us the day he signed the contract. For a guy who makes a career out of music, he sure doesn’t like tattooed, musical punks.”
“He hates rock music,” Rick levels. “He loves the business of it.”
“Thought so.”
We could have signed with a label that lived and breathed our music but taking a chance with Bauer Media was purely strategic. Wallace knows his shit, and he has the money to back it. Passion can only take you so far, and then you’ll need finance to take it further. Too many good bands get railroaded when they learn that too late.
“You spoken with Jericho?” I ask. “He’d know where to start with your rat.”
“Done. He has a few suspicions.”
“And?” Tell me what he’ll do about it, for fuck’s sake.
“He said he’d call tomorrow with an update.”
I make my way along the cooler cabinet, pitching one of everything red into the cart. When money isn’t an issue, I can afford to worry about preference later. I have a big freezer for a reason.
