by Lane Hayes
“Let’s just say it didn’t work out.” I gestured meaningfully, then added, “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Charlie shook his head vigorously and spread his arms wide. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you did. You must have done something or said something. You owe me an explanation. By the way, your car is filthy. I’m sending you the dry-cleaning bill for this shirt.”
I snorted in disbelief. For a little guy, he had big balls and a lot of nerve. “I don’t owe you shit. You, however, owe me the last hour of my life back. Let’s make that two hours. I’m charging you for gas money and the beauty rest you interrupted.”
Charlie gasped in outrage. “You needed a job. Alphabetizing records has to be the cushiest deal ever. How could you possibly blow it?”
“Look, thanks for thinking of me, Charlie, but I don’t need your so-called help and I don’t want your charity. You aren’t my friend. You aren’t my fairy gay guy either. Now if you’ll excuse me.” I picked him up like a toy doll and set him a few feet away before opening the car door.
“Fairy gaymother,” he corrected.
“Whatever. Stay out of my life. Stay out of my business. I know something else is going on here, but I’m not participating in this BS. Don’t call me, don’t email me, and don’t talk to me in the club. Try me and I’ll have you banned for harassment. Got it?”
I didn’t wait for his reply. I put my sunglasses on my nose, James Dean-style, and then climbed behind the wheel of the battered yellow Corolla like a badass. The engine sputtered a couple of times before it revved to life, ruining the vibe. But I pretended it was part of my mystique as I rolled down the window, flashed a peace sign, and drove away.
4
GRAY
I waited in the entryway, with my arms crossed. I had to nab Charlie before he escaped, and I knew from experience he was a slippery one.
“What the hell just happened here?”
Charlie closed the front door with a start. He widened his eyes and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You do know,” I corrected. “Your dad obviously brought you into this. Explain.”
“Come on, Gray. I’m sure you can guess. He’s in Toronto and he’s freaking out about that publicity angle for the Baxter movie. You know how he gets. He can’t let anything go.”
“So he asked you to interfere.”
“He asked me to help.” Charlie copied my pose and cocked his head in a gesture that instantly reminded me of the little boy who’d followed me around when he was two years old. “He wanted me to talk to Justin at Vibes, but I have zero time for clubbing. I’m stressed out of my mind with the project I’m working on for my Creative Management Course and—”
“Charlie…” I tapped my foot and gave him my best “Quit the BS” look.
“I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. Get Justin here to meet you so you could ask him about the song yourself. I thought once he saw the studio and heard my spiel about representing his band, which you’ll be thrilled to know ties in with my master’s course…he’d realize his cup runneth over. You can’t sign up for this much good luck at once!”
I let out a deep sigh. “Char, you can’t force people to do what you want them to do.”
“You’re telling me. You and Dad are the most uncooperative duo ever. I’m going to have gray hair before I’m thirty at this rate,” he huffed theatrically. “And before you say anything, I’m not having a Parent Trap moment. I’m trying to fulfill my father’s request, work on my master’s project, and help a struggling artist all at once. I’m working harder than the button on my skinny jeans, and it wouldn’t hurt for someone somewhere to give me a little slack!”
“Don’t get dramatic on me,” I warned, pointing a parental finger at his chest.
“I am not dramatic. I’m at my wit’s end! I’ve been commissioned to save the world, and it is not easy. What could possibly be so hard about asking Justin to—gasp!” Charlie put his hand over his mouth. “You like him.”
He stepped backward, then sank theatrically onto the uncomfortable bench in the entry.
“It’s not like that,” I lied.
Charlie ignored me. “This is…different, but good. I think. I mean, he’s only a little older than me, but that’s okay. Dad isn’t going to like this. He’s all about having fun, but you’re the one he loves.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ve officially gone off the deep end. I met Justin once. I’m not in love with him. I like him. That’s all.”
He patted the space beside him. When I sat down, he looped his right arm around my shoulder. “What are we going to do about him? We have to get him back. Dad wants to talk to him about that song and I—”
“He isn’t business to me, Char. He’s personal.”
“Oh.”
“What’s in it for you anyway? Did your dad promise you a cut in commission?”
Charlie scoffed as if offended by the idea, then nodded yes. “Of course, he did. You know how he operates. No story is exciting unless you sensationalize it. Xena was more than excited to cooperate, but I saw them play live. Justin was the best thing about Gypsy Coma. I think he’s got it.”
“I do too,” I said softly.
Charlie laid his head on my shoulder. “You know, I worry about you. It’s not healthy to spend so much time alone.”
“Don’t worry about me, Char. I’m fine.”
“Sometimes I wonder.” He sighed; then he kissed my cheek and hugged me before hopping off the bench. “I’ve got to go. I have class in twenty minutes.”
“What about the records? I thought you came by today to work on them.”
“No. I said I’d come by to help you. And I did. Now you just need to help yourself. Love you, Gray.”
He spun gracefully, pausing to lift his man bag over his shoulder and set his giant sunglasses on his nose. Then he opened the door and waved one last time before closing it behind him.
The silence was deafening. It always felt this way after Charlie or Oliver or Seb left, but Justin was new. And very unexpected. When he didn’t call, I assumed he was adamant about keeping that night a one-time-only deal. I’d thought about him constantly. If Seb hadn’t come up with his grand publicity ploy, I might have sought him out on my own. But I wasn’t going to play a game where the only winner was a record label or a studio box office. I’d been there, done that too many times. But maybe Charlie was right. I had nothing to gain, but if I could help, that might be enough.
Justin
DESPERATE TIMES CALLED for desperate measures…and research. I spent the rest of the afternoon doing a little homework of the Google variety on Gray Robertson. I was prepared for almost anything. He could have been a burned-out musician from the eighties or a tech genius who retired too young and had nothing better to do than sit on his roof all day playing guitar. I typed his name, pushed Enter, and gaped at the results.
Gray Robertson was a musician-slash-songwriter virtuoso originally from St. Paul, Minnesota. He attended NYU before moving to Los Angeles to write commercial jingles for children’s shampoo ads when he was twenty-one. By the time he was twenty-five, he’d written his first top ten hit. A year later, he had his first number one song and a Grammy nomination. At thirty, he’d made his mark as a highly acclaimed songwriter credited with writing some of the biggest songs for a few major recording artists. And according to Wikipedia, he turned forty-four last November. I did the math in my head and realized I was twelve when he turned thirty. I think I’d still been into my Pokémon phase when he was just hitting his stride. His most recent credits included writing musical scores for big-budget Hollywood movies like The Baxter Chronicles.
The man was music royalty. So what the fuck was this all about?
“If you’d stuck around and asked a few questions, you’d know,” Tegan snarked around a mouthful of pasta.
“It doesn’t make sense that Charlie would insert himself in my life out of nowhere. And who the fuck is Charlie anyway? H
e said he knows me from Vibes, but I’ve never seen the guy before in my life. Do you know him? He’s short with curly blond hair and he’s cute…but nuts.”
Tegan set his bowl on the coffee table and furrowed his brow like he was deep in thought. “Did he put his hands on his hips a lot?”
“Yeah.”
“Mmm. I know him. He’s at Vibes a couple of times a week. Not lately, though. I heard he went back to school. Maybe he met someone or just doesn’t have as much time.”
“Then why wouldn’t I recognize him?”
“You’re behind the bar, dude. Other than bathroom breaks and occasional trips to get supplies from storage, you don’t see anyone unless they come to you. I’m a bouncer. I see ’em comin’ and goin’.”
“He did say he didn’t come to the bar much,” I said before taking a bite of my burger.
“He doesn’t have to. Sean lets him in for free ’cause he’s well-connected and travels with an exclusive entourage. And he’s colorful. He dresses up in funky clothes and dances the entire time.”
I set my burger on the battered coffee table, then twisted to give Tegan a sideways “What the fuck?” look. “Exclusive entourage?”
“You know…Instagram influencers, wannabee actors, and models. Some of them are idiots, but there are a few super-brainy types too. Sean says they’re good for business. They post the club on social media in exchange for complimentary drinks and free entry. Every time Sean places a special order at the bar, it’s usually for one of Charlie’s posse. He loves Charlie.”
“Oh.” As in “Oh, fuck.”
“I don’t really get the appeal, but people eat that crap up,” Tegan huffed. “They want to see pictures of boys kissing boys and video clips of them dirty dancing with their buddies. It’s all staged. They get paid to wear designer jeans and hang out with a bunch of guys they barely know. Then they post their photos on Instagram and everyone goes crazy over them. Including Sean.”
“So he’s a big social media guy and he helps club owners like Sean by hyping his brand online?”
“Nice way to make a living, huh?” Tegan leaned back on the sofa and rested his hands behind his head before continuing, “We should ask Charlie to help us. You know, we gotta up our social media game too. We have to hash out some details and put a plan into action. We’ve got some good new material. Email him. You have his contact info, right?”
“Uh, yeah, but we don’t know it’s the same Charlie for sure.”
Tegan sat up and fixed me with a shrewd once-over. “What did you do?”
“What makes you think I did anything?”
“ ’Cause you’re acting shifty. The way you do when you’ve fucked something up,” he deadpanned.
“Who me?”
“Uh huh. You know, his dad’s a big-time producer. He—” Tegan bolted upright and pointed at my laptop. “Holy fuck. His dad is Sebastian Rourke. He does those spy thrillers. So that’s why he was at Gray Robertson’s house. That’s awesome! If he was at the show at Carmine’s and then contacted you through Charlie, he’s gotta be interested. Maybe he wanted Charlie to feel you out before he offered assistance.”
“Nah, I don’t think so,” I bluffed.
“It fits. They saw you play, they liked you. You disappeared after your set like an asshole, but they tracked you down and asked Charlie to help. I know you’re suspicious, but it makes sense now. Call him back. This could be great for JTJ!”
“Our name is not JTJ,” I huffed. “We need to get away from the Gypsy Coma drama and focus on our own music with a new name, a new direction. Oh, yeah. And we need to line up some new shows.”
“I bet Charlie can help us.”
I puffed my cheeks out and slowly let out a rush of air followed by a weak chuckle. “I told him to fuck off.”
“Then un-tell him to fuck off. Apologize. Tell him you were surprised or that you weren’t feeling well or that your goldfish fucking died. He’s our ticket to real exposure. To guys like Gray. To—”
“I told him to fuck off too.”
Tegan deflated like a sad balloon. He slumped forward and braced his forearms on his knees. “Of course you did.”
As far as Tegan knew, the email-slash-job offer was an odd stroke of luck. He didn’t know about my evening with Gray, and I wanted to keep it that way. By mutual unspoken agreement, we didn’t talk about our sex lives. I knew he was with Sean. He knew I wasn’t exactly a monk.
We were mostly back to normal, and neither of us wanted to dredge up something we couldn’t fix overnight. Our short-term side trip into “more than friends” territory was a good example of what happened when I let my brain go on vacation and put my dick in charge of major decision-making. I was grateful we’d emerged with our friendship intact.
I set my laptop on the sofa cushion and paced the short distance to the big-screen TV. “We don’t need Charlie or anyone else.”
“We can’t do it all on our own, Jus. We’re going to have to ask for help once in a while, and we’re going to have to trust that not everyone is like Dec or Xena. It’s the only way to get ahead in this business. We gotta stop bracing ourselves for the next blow and start making our mark. It’s time to move forward and start to—”
“Zero,” I blurted.
“Huh?”
“Our name! Zero. Starting over. Like a new beginning.”
Tegan scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Zero to Hero? Zero to Sixty?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, asshole. Just Zero.”
Tegan smacked my hand and then held it briefly. “I like it.”
“It’s fucking perfect!” I nodded like a puppet on a string. “This is it. Let’s call Johnny. The three of us have to be sure we’re on the same page. You call Ky and—”
“And you’ll call Charlie,” he intercepted.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Don’t let your pride get in the way, Jus,” he warned. “Short-term satisfaction isn’t gonna pay the bills. If we’re in this for the long haul, we have to be in it one hundred percent. And occasionally, we have to be willing to make sacrifices.”
A WELL-TIMED PEP talk can work wonders. I called Johnny and invited him over for an impromptu jam session and a last-minute power meeting. We opened a bottle of Jack and the three of us brainstormed all night. We muddled over mundane but important details like leasing sound equipment and pulling our resources to come up with more studio time.
Johnny leaned his guitar against the sofa, then fell into the plush beanbag chair near the window. “We have some great songs and a lot of dysfunction. Both are probably key ingredients, but it takes more than occasional practice sessions and coffee shop gigs to become something special.”
I liked Johnny the first time I met him at Aromatique. We’d bonded over music and commiserated about how damned hard it seemed to catch a break in the business. He had an expressive face. Big brown eyes, full lips, a pointed nose, and a lot of hair. His wild curly mane, black jeans and T-shirt chic, and the hint of eyeliner were his trademark. Johnny was roughly my height but even leaner. He was good-looking, personable, and perpetually upbeat and friendly. He offset the dysfunction he mentioned between Tegan and me very well. In fact, it disappeared when we played.
“We need to be diligent about practice, and we have to get a couple of real gigs. Let’s ask Carmine if we can play his club. I know he was a little pissed I left after my set, but—”
“He was a lot pissed,” Tegan corrected.
“And he’s invitation only,” Johnny added. “He invited you because of Xena. I heard he was hoping to stir up some commotion, but you walked out and killed his fun. The only way he’d be marginally interested in your new band is if you came with a new scandal. Oh, and speaking of scandal…Declan told me Xena signed a movie contract. I think he’s pissed because they don’t want him too. Do you guys know anything about that?”
“When did you talk to him?” I asked.
“He came by the coffee shop. I think he was looking for you. He seem
s like he’s mellowed out. You know he plays bass, right? Maybe we should ask—”
“No fucking way,” Tegan growled. “I’m calling Ky. I think he’s interested in trying something new.”
I nodded in agreement. “Dec stirs up trouble just for fun. I want Zero to be about real music. No hype, no drama. I’ve been in bands since I was a teenager. I was happy to play covers in the beginning, and I didn’t mind hopping around stage doing a mediocre Dave Grohl impression while Xena pretended to be Exene Cervenka with Gypsy Coma. But I don’t want to be a retro bullshit cover band or a fucking poser, hiding behind people who’re braver than me. I’m done with that. I want a do-over and I want to do it the right way this time…in my own voice. My words, you on lead guitar, T on drums, and Ky or someone who’s not Dec on bass. And I know it’s not gonna happen overnight, but it will happen. We’re gonna be big someday.”
“I like that attitude.” Johnny’s cautious smile morphed into an ear-to-ear grin. He slapped high fives with us, then snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “Shoot, I forgot to tell you…someone else came by looking for you today. A sexy older guy. His name was…um…fuck, it’s a color.”
“Gray?” I asked, furrowing my brow in surprise.
“That’s it! Hot-as-fuck daddy, if you know what I mean.”
I let out an amused huff at his over-the-top lecherous expression. I’d gone months thinking Johnny was straight. He wasn’t. It cracked me up when he went gaga over a sexy man. “Right. Thanks.”
“He said you have his number…text him or call him.”
Tegan gave me a sharp look. “That’s perfect. Text him.”
“I will. Later.”
Johnny cast a wary glance between us before suggesting that we outline a schedule and made a list of LA clubs we wanted to play.
Tegan set his hand on his chin thoughtfully. “Moonlight, The Hole, Porcelain Doll—”
“No. Those places are dives, dude,” Johnny said, shaking his head. “We need a goal. Something to shoot for, so we know we aren’t just spinning our wheels.”
