by B. B. Miller
Our drinks are delivered and Jack takes a sip of his scotch. “Well, I hope it’s about to become even more interesting. Cassidy—can I speak frankly?” I nod, trying not to sag in relief. Finally. “I suppose it’s no secret how interested our parents are in our personal lives.” He leans a little closer. “And who we’re dating.”
I almost choke on my martini. Well, he said he wanted to speak frankly. “No, it’s not,” I manage, dabbing at the side of my mouth with a napkin. “I think I had three texts from my mother asking how our dinner went last night.”
“My father sent me two.” He chuckles, running his finger along the rim of his glass. Then he leans forward with a sheepish smile. “But, Cassidy, I’ve got to be honest—you’re not my type.”
A laugh bubbles up as a wave of relief washes over me. “Oh, thank God.” I sigh, slumping back against the blue velvet banquette with a smile. “I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how to let you off the hook, too.”
He winks. “I had a feeling we were on the same page. But we can still be friends, I hope?” He raises his glass to me, which I clink with mine. We grin, reveling in our joint reprieve.
“I love my dad, but he’s determined to marry me off before he retires and makes me CEO,” Jack continues. “Something about securing a legacy, I think. Doesn’t seem to care about my thoughts on the matter.” He rolls his eyes, and I chuckle.
“I take it that you’re not in as much of a hurry as he is?”
He draws a fingertip idly across his cocktail napkin and shakes his head. “I can’t tell you how many women he’s tried to set me up with over the last year. He’s afraid I’m going to become a lonely workaholic when I take over and have a heart attack before I’m forty.”
Giving him an understanding smile, I swirl the skewered olives in my glass. “Well, at least he cares.”
“And I care about him. I’m worried; his health hasn’t been good lately and his physician is trying to get him to slow down. But he just won’t do it. For me.” He frowns down at his drink.
“My parents aren’t concerned with legacy as much as they are with my father’s career. And politics are all about making connections—the right connections.” I pop an olive in my mouth and eye him, wondering how much I should explain. “I owe my father a debt that I will never be able to repay.” He frowns, but he doesn’t press, so I continue, “Although I don’t agree with his politics, I love and respect him. He has an honest desire to help the citizens of Wyoming. I also understand the role the whole family plays in a politician’s success. So, when I find myself unexpectedly seated next to a key donor’s son at a fundraiser…” I shrug.
He laughs. “I get it. How many unexpected dinner partners have you found yourself with?”
“Recently?” I tap my chin. “Well, in the last year, there’s been a pharmaceutical lobbyist, the son of the Intelligence Committee chairwoman, a spokesman for the national committee—God, there’s not enough alcohol in the world to get over that one—and the charming son of a big oil donor from my home state.” I raise my glass to him and take a sip as he chuckles. “It’s just politics.”
“At least I’m the charming one.” He grins. “Have your parents ever suggested a more permanent partner for you?”
Sean’s face appears in my mind, and I shake my head to dispel the image. “Usually they’re happy with a few dates—until whatever deal my dad’s team is working on goes through.”
He taps a long finger on the table. “Just dates?”
My gaze snaps to his. “They’re my parents, not my pimps.” I glare at him until he holds his hands up in apology. “Yes, I’m ‘encouraged’ to go out with some of these guys a couple of times, but that’s it. As I said before, politics is about connections. They get to be seen with a powerful senator’s daughter and enjoy the illusion of influence that infers, and my dad’s team uses them to either push or block the legislation of the day. Everyone wins.”
“Everyone?” His stare is penetrating, making me shift nervously. In truth, I hate being a part of my father’s political ploys, but I can’t say no. I owe him too much.
Jack clears his throat. “I have a proposition that I think could serve us both immensely.” He leans forward. “What if I offered you a path to stop the revolving door of setups and still make your parents happy?”
“How?” I pop my last olive in my mouth and take a sip.
“Marry me.”
This time I do choke. My eyes water as the vodka burns, and I try to suck in a lungful of air. Jack discreetly thumps me on the back. “Jesus, Cassidy,” he blurts, as I accept a glass of water from the ever-helpful server. “That wasn’t exactly the response I was looking for. Are you all right?”
“What the hell were you expecting, Jack?” I choke, my hand pressed to my chest, as I struggle to breathe normally. The few people who noticed have gone back to their conversations, since I’m apparently not dying. I glare at him and he leans back, hands held up.
“Hear me out.” He pauses as I signal for another drink. God knows I need it. “I said I had a business proposition for you and I meant it. Consider it business.”
I blink. “What are you talking about?”
“Look, I know how important your business is to you. You’re damned talented. And my company is important to me. If we were to marry, we’d possibly save my father from a stroke, secure reelection for your father, and continue to do what we love without further meddling in our lives.”
He crosses his legs and stretches his arm out along the back of the banquette, looking for all the world like he’s talking about the weather instead of a life-altering event. “Are you crazy?” I shake my head. “Look, I get that my willingness to go along with my parents’ political schemes doesn’t make me a poster child for self-respect, but I do have some standards. I don’t love you, Jack.”
“And I don’t love you.” The server brings me my new martini, and I eagerly take a sip. “But I like you, Cass. What’s more, I respect you. Our relationship would be purely platonic. Think about it; we could stay together for a few years, long enough for my father to retire and your father to be reelected for another term, and then we could part amicably. It’s more than a lot of people have. I’d even invest in your business, maybe help you expand and hire more people, if that’s what you’d like.”
Running a hand through my hair, I stare at him. This is ridiculous. On one level, I suppose he’s right; it would solve a lot of problems…but… Ignoring the sudden memory of a pair of teasing green eyes, I blurt, “I can’t leave New York. It’s one of the fashion capitals of the world. My business would shrivel up and die if I moved to Cheyenne. No one would want me except the wives and mistresses of oil barons and televangelists.”
He snorts out a laugh, his scotch sloshing in his glass. “Who says you have to move back to Cheyenne?” He licks a drop of liquor off his finger. “You could stay here and we could live separately, or I could move my headquarters to New York to be with you. There’s nothing that says I have to run the business from Wyoming. I spend half my time here, anyway.”
“You’d do that?” I grip the glass of water tighter. He can’t be serious about all this. Can he?
“New York has a special place in my heart,” he says simply. My heart starts pounding and I feel a rising sense of panic. He makes it sound so simple, but it’s anything but.
“Jack, this is nuts.” I wave my hand at him. This is not the way this evening was supposed to go. “I came tonight because I wanted to talk business, but I was also going to tell you I can’t see you again because…” I set my glass down and fold my hands in my lap, trying to force myself to focus. “Because I’m seeing somebody. At least, I think I am. It’s new, but he’s… I mean, he makes me feel…” I flounder, not sure how to describe this chaotic pull I have toward the crazy Englishman. I wish for the hundredth time tonight that I’d gone to see him play instead of sitting here listening to this.
“I’m glad. You’re much too special
to be alone,” he replies, surprisingly unruffled by my revelation.
I just stare in confusion. “But—”
“Cass, when I said New York had a special place in my heart, I meant it.” He runs a hand through his dark hair, and then takes a deep breath. “My father’s worries about me becoming some kind of workaholic are unfounded. I know the importance of balance in my life. Except the balance—the person—I have in mind isn’t the type of partner my father would accept.”
My breath catches as the light dawns. “You’re gay?” At his wary nod, I lean back in relief, so many things clicking in place. “Wow. Okay, I see your point.” Then a light laugh escapes. “I’m really not your type at all, am I?” A smile ghosts over his lips as he shrugs. “How many people know?”
“Just a few close friends, and now you. No one in the business knows. And definitely not our board of directors or my dad.” He shakes his head, looking at his glass.
I touch the back of his hand. “That’s why you’re in New York so often?”
“My partner lives here. I could introduce you if you’d like. If you take me up on my offer, the two of you will be seeing a lot of each other,” he says with a small smile.
“How does he feel about this plan of yours?” My mind spins. From what I know of his father’s conservative views, I suddenly understand the importance of Jack’s proposal. It’s awful to feel you have to hide who you are from the world, from your family.
“He understands. He came out to his parents a few years ago, and his relationship with them has been rocky ever since.” Jack leans forward and signals for the check before placing a reassuring hand on mine. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in, and I know how it sounds. But it would be only for a few years. Take your time and think about it. Think about how it could benefit us both.” He cocks his head. “You said you just started seeing someone; have you introduced him to your parents yet?”
“God, no!” I take a hasty sip of my drink. The thought of Sean meeting my parents is both alarming and strangely satisfying. “It’s not like that. At least not yet. I just… I mean, he’s not…”
Our server brings the check, thankfully interrupting my stammering. Jack pays before I can offer and gives me a charming smile. “It’s the least I can do after dropping such a bomb on you. Let’s walk and get a little air.”
Our steps on the pavement are drowned out by the usual noises of the city that never sleeps. The rain has stayed away, so the sidewalks are full of people heading to their evening diversions. I’m emotionally and mentally worn out, but the fresh air helps. I have no idea what to think about any of this, except I can’t believe any of it is happening to me.
There’s a group milling around the entrance of the Gramercy Theater and the pounding rhythms of a live band filter out to us. Jack takes my elbow to help me navigate through the swirling bodies.
“Hey, Jack!”
A short man in a blazer with slicked-back hair jogs over to us, a wide grin on his face. “Peter,” Jack greets him in surprise. “Good to see you, man. What’s up?”
“I’m hosting a group of out-of-town businessmen for a couple days. They’re inside acting like frat boys on a bender.” He rolls his eyes. “I just stepped out for a smoke. Hey—why don’t you come in for a while? It’s sold out, but I can get you backstage to listen. They’re really good.”
Jack looks at me in question, and I shrug. As tired as I am, loud rock music sounds like just what I need to drown out the confusion in my head. There’s a blast of noise as Jack’s friend opens the doors and ushers us inside, waving at the doorman, much to the consternation of those waiting outside. We weave through the people in the lobby and through a door leading to a dim hallway. Jack takes my hand as we maneuver in the near darkness, the music making conversation impossible. We emerge backstage and stand in front of the fly rail, behind a handful of people who are swaying with the beat in the wings. The audience is packed with enthusiastic fans. I can only see two guitarists on stage, but I can hear drums and a keyboard. Peter is right—they’re good.
Then the crowd of groupies shifts and my eyes pop open in shock when I get a clear view of the violet-haired drummer, banging on his kit as if his life depends on it.
Sweet crispy Christ!
Murphy’s Law No.94: Let yourself become complacent, and before you know it, you’re swimming in a sea of mediocrity.
Sean
“I DON’T LIKE IT.” THIS from Blair Campbell, the bass player of Grant’s band, Bishops to Kings. Blair has been grumbling since we met at the Gramercy, and it’s carried on for the entire sound check. Pain in the ass bass players. So damn moody all the time. Although Blair is talented in his own right, he’ll never hold a candle to our own Matt Logan. I could use some of Matty’s melodic bass lines at the moment.
Matty and I have been playing together for so long now, when we’re on stage, we can read each other minds. I’m in his head and he’s in mine. He knows instinctively where I want to go, and that organic ebb and flow is pure magic.
“You’d rather play it exactly how you recorded it?” I ask from behind my kit. We’ve been at it for over an hour now. Sweat drips down my back, and my arms are starting to burn.
“That’s what they’re coming to hear,” Nick replies, adjusting his guitar. Punk kid. He doesn’t really get it yet.
I point a drumstick at him. “No. They’re coming for an experience. They’re coming to have their minds blown. So, give them something they’re not expecting. If they wanted to hear it the way you recorded it, they could just hit repeat on their phones.”
Blair eyes me skeptically before glancing at Grant. Grant simply holds his hands up in surrender from behind the piano. “I’m kind of with Sean on this one. Might be nice to mix it up.”
Grant looks over at Andrew Foster, their rhythm guitarist. “I’m up for whatever, man. I just can’t believe we get to play with you.” Andrew is a bit starstruck, I think. He and Blair are young: twenty-two or twenty-three. Grant, who’s thirty-nine, definitely has his hands full with these two. Andrew kind of had a moment when I arrived. It was like he couldn’t believe I actually showed up. He’s been gushing ever since. It’s getting kind of creepy, to be honest.
I wave him off. “It’s not a big deal. Besides, I’m fairly certain I owe Grant here a favor.”
Grant coughs. “Or thirty.” I’ve known Grant a long time. We bailed each other out of a number of questionable circumstances back in the day when both of us were young and stupid and thought we were invincible. “‘Mistress Nine’ is meant to shake the roof off,” Blair all but whines. “I mean, aren’t you all about slamming the drums?”
I try to ignore that jab. “Not always. This song, to me, is about seduction. You want to entrance them, invite them in for a bit. Let them get drunk off the rhythm.” Blair’s eyes widen. Yeah, kid. I did my homework. I’ve studied every single song on the set list Grant gave me.
Kennedy, Redfall’s taskmaster, drilled it into us to be prepared, and I never want to let him or anyone else I’m playing with down. I also watched a few of Grant’s concert videos, and every gig seems the same. He’s gotten into a bit of a rut. That’s always a danger when you’re in a band. Familiarity is easy, but it’s also stifling, and before you know it, you’re swimming in a sea of mediocrity.
One of the things I’m most proud of with Redfall is we don’t follow a formula. The four of us are naturally curious. We want to explore new territory, and we take the audience with us on the journey each and every time. Which is why I know the audience is going to eat up a stripped back version of “Mistress Nine.”
“Just trust me. Try it again; dial it back on the bridge. If you don’t like it, I’m happy to go back to ‘slam on the drums’ as you so eloquently put it.”
That gets a grin out of Blair, and he shakes his head. “Sorry, man. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You can say whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t be afraid. If you’re not willing to take a chance, t
o get stoked about pushing the boundaries, what the hell are you doing this for?”
Andrew chimes in with a faraway voice. “Murphy, man, you need to put that on a T-shirt.”
Grant tries to hide his amusement, adjusting his microphone. “Watch it, Drew. Your fangirl is showing.”
“Right then. Off we go.” I count them in, quickly getting lost in a new sound, a new vibe, chasing the burn before it gets away from me.
No matter if I’m playing for a crowd of ten or ten thousand, warming up backstage brings the usual shot of adrenaline. My skin prickles with anticipation, and my heart rate pounds out a steady rhythm. The demanding crowd grows restless while I go through my warm-up for my wrists and fingers, and the cracking of my neck Cameron hates. It’s a ritual, one that’s second nature to me now. It clears my head, loosens me up, and I need that when I’m going to be playing for three solid hours.
Long gone are the shots of Jack Daniels I used to inhale like water back in the day. It’s not to say I don’t enjoy a pint or a good single malt whiskey after a show now and again, but I know firsthand what a temptress alcohol is, and so I leave the hard stuff that sits on the table in the green room to Blair and Andrew. I know it goes against convention. I know nearly every program out there tells you one drink is too many. I don’t see it that way. I don’t feel the need to adhere to what society dictates is acceptable. Everyone’s addiction and recovery story is different. What works for some may not for others. I know from the brutality of experience what my triggers are, and there’s not a white line of it in sight.
Grant used to have a bit of a love affair with coke ten years ago. In a strange turn of events, he developed an even bigger love for his substance abuse counselor who’s now his wife, Caroline. The two of them are cozied up on a sofa beside me, their heads inclined, whispering to each other. Bishops to Kings is getting ready to embark on a grueling US summer tour, and despite the lure of the road, Grant hates to leave Caroline.
