by Holly Hall
I understand partly why he keeps such a close circle. We live in a society where everything is temporary, disposable. Nothing is permanent these days, not even tattoos. Laser technology has gotten so good I’m surprised it can’t be used to beam away our sins. So, I have no expectations for anyone. People are rarely good without some ulterior motive. They’re like chameleons, adjusting themselves to every situation and person they meet so they can achieve some predetermined goal. It’s all an illusion. And I’m sick of that—the constant need for approval, the backstabbing to get ahead. The only person I can count on is myself, and I damn sure won’t let myself down. I won’t let myself slip up. And I won’t fall for the first man who can read me like a book and practically see down to my soul. Jenson’s got demons, and I don’t have faith in myself to fight them. I don’t have faith in myself to be a Blake.
What seemed significant before now feels drastically inconsequential following that reality check in the storage room. My mom wouldn’t let me stay in Denver to help her out with her business and the things she can no longer do. Not that she could’ve really stopped me, but she practically begged me to come out here and live my own life. And if I’m not there, being the doting daughter she deserves, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure I don’t disappoint her here.
So I keep my eyes forward, always trained on my goal. Or else why would I have risked moving a thousand miles away from a portion of my heart? I can’t fail my mom like her husband did.
I laze awake on my only day off for the week and scroll past the usual message from Creeper Craig. Instead, I click on the voicemail notification. It’s from Jenson.
The first word out of his mouth is spoken on a stiff exhale, as if he was smoking a cigarette while waiting for me to pick up.
“Hey, lovely. The band’s meeting up to rehearse today. Just wanted to let you know in case you were interested in getting some photos. It might be good material for your page. Give me a call back. Bye.”
Anika’s already gone to work, but still I hide my smile. I hide any sign of his innate ability to elicit these responses from me. It’s just hormones. They’re to blame for almost everything shitty in life. I open up my social media pages to see if I’ve gotten any recent correspondence. I posted a sneak peek the other day of Jenson’s profile in the dying sun, silhouetted against bare tree branches. It’s raw and stoic and completely awesome, and you can’t tell it’s him. That was the point. I don’t want to get cheap likes because of who the subject is, I want people to notice the artistry. There’s an influx of new notifications, and I trace the activity to a photography page that featured the photo. Every little bit counts. All it takes is one person, the right person, to notice my work and recognize my potential.
Which is partially why I call Jenson. These photos will give people a glimpse of what I see, of what happens without all the outfit changes and performance bravado and clamoring fans. Take all that away and you only have the music and the passion. The layer of need residing beneath the mask they put on for their fans—the smoke and mirrors. That’s what I want to capture.
Jenson greets me warmly, seemingly glad to hear from me. He rattles off the address to the studio and the easiest route to get there. There’s a smile in his voice when I tell him I’ll see him in an hour. I wind my hair into a messy knot atop my head, then pull on some cutoff shorts, my Chucks, and a Nirvana tank top, grabbing my leather jacket at the last minute because it’s fall and everyone who’s sane has already transitioned to wearing pants and long-sleeves.
After tucking my camera, lenses, and extra memory cards into my bag, I bustle out of my bedroom, only remembering a critical detail when I go to grab my keys. I don’t have a car. I sold mine for new equipment before I left Denver, and because I made sure to only apply to jobs I could walk to, I’ve had no need for one. Until now.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Who’s home?
I knock on doors, disgruntled to push them open and see that today, of all days, most of the beds are empty. Until Isaac’s.
“I need your car,” I say, but the statement doesn’t come out as authoritative as it could have while I’m choking on pot smoke.
“I have to work today,” he responds, looking up from his phone. He’s lying across his bed, completely immune to my sense of urgency.
“What time?”
“Two.”
I blow out a sigh. “It’s eleven. Can you give me a ride?” I’ll worry about being stranded at the studio later. I just need to get there. Isaac closes his eyes, pretends to be exasperated. So, I seal the deal. “I can give you gas money.”
He runs a hand through his straw-colored hair. “Fine. May I remind you that you’re really cutting into my pre-work meditation routine, and that you’ll be getting the next pizza for American Horror Story night?”
“Deal,” I say, forgoing the argument that staring at a screen isn’t equivalent to meditation. I grab his keys off his bedside table while Isaac steps into his shoes. He has the grace to only look partially annoyed as I hurry him out the door, then we cram inside his Honda Civic, and I repeat Jenson’s directions as we head east, across the river.
“Where are you in such a hurry to get to so early on your off day?” Isaac fakes being casual, but it doesn’t work on me. I know he’s fishing for information.
“Photographing a rehearsal,” I say, emulating his indifference.
“Ahh. One of your indie bands, or someone else?”
I shrug and look out the window, pretending something’s caught my eye. But he senses my avoidance.
“Your Jenson, eh?”
“He’s not my Jenson, Isaac. For the record. Make a note of it in your spy book.”
Isaac doesn’t say anything else, but he chuckles in a way that lets me know he’s won this round. I was never a good liar.
A few minutes later, we turn into the parking lot of a gray warehouse-style building just on the outskirts of town that matches the description Jenson gave me. Isaac drops me at the door and wastes no time pulling away, and I realize as I’m pushing through the tinted glass door that I don’t really know where to go from here.
The desk in the cavernous reception area is empty, and, glancing around, I see that I’m alone. Noise resounds from the hall straight ahead, but I know better than to go wandering. If I’m paying Isaac to use his car, the last thing I want to do is get kicked out as soon as I arrive.
I bide my time roaming the reception area, scanning the framed photos of artists and music awards displayed on the walls. Then a door bursts open behind the desk, emitting a tattooed girl with violet braids.
“What’s up?” she asks in a clipped tone that makes it clear she’s not here to bullshit.
“Hi. I’m, uh, a guest of Jenson King’s. I’m here to photograph the band.” I shift my bag in front of me before realizing she doesn’t have X-ray vision and can’t see my equipment.
She drums her claw-like nails on the metal desk distractingly while looking at something in front of her. Possibly the list that determines who’s in and who’s out. Just as she raises an eyebrow and opens her mouth to say something, Jenson emerges from another door along the hallway. His hair is mussed, and he’s wearing a holey T-shirt and slim, gray jeans. The look is all him.
“Hey, lovely,” he says with a cocky grin. “Letty, she’s with me.”
“She needs to be on the list,” Letty, my new biggest fan, quips, but she doesn’t argue as I edge around the desk. Jenson puts an arm around me and steers me down the hallway, dismissing Letty’s concerns with a lazy grin.
“Sorry. New policy. They usually aren’t such sticklers for rules. How are you?” he asks, looking down at me. There’s a fondness in his eyes that sends both warmth and worry through me. He feels familiar. Comfortable.
I resist conforming to his body, keeping my hands on my bag. “Good. Excited. This is my first time here.”
“Well, it’s going to be a pretty casual rehearsal, but we have everyone here. It’s a good time to
get some shots.” We pass through another door into one of the studios, and I spot a familiar face. Carter is perched on the armrest of a couch along the back wall, and a few other guys I’m not familiar with are standing in various places around the room, fiddling with the knobs on their guitars or speaking amongst themselves. Carter looks over and, seeing me, gives the head nod, confirmation that he recognizes me.
“Guys, this is Lindsey, she’s a photographer. She’ll be taking a few photos today. Lindsey, that’s Carter—as you know—Travis, James, and Nick.” Jenson points to each member in turn, and they answer with small smiles or halfhearted waves.
“Photographer, huh?” Carter japes, giving Jenson a knowing look. My cheeks burn. I’m not sure what the guys in this room know, or think they know, about Jenson and me, but I pull my camera from my bag and wave it at him to convey my purpose.
“Jenson, you set?” At Jenson’s nod, the man seated next to the sound technician waves toward a low stage centered on the back wall. “Let’s start with ‘Rise’,” he says before introducing himself as the producer.
There’s a lot of pressure involved when you don’t know what to expect, but so far, it seems everyone is all business. I guess they have some ground to make up after their hiatus.
Jenson’s already stepping onto the stage when I remember what I’m here for. “Is it okay if I go up there for the close-ups?” I ask, dumping my bag in an empty corner.
The producer shrugs, and I grab my camera, glad to slip into a routine of familiarity. I’d wonder more about the underlying tension in the room if I wasn’t here to do a job. My sole reason for being here.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Chapter 14
Lindsey
It took hardly any effort to get the photos I needed. The way these guys play, it’s like they have something to prove. You can see it written all over their faces, in the strumming of strings, the power behind Carter’s drumsticks. I caught it all. After that, I’m content to watch. I’m consumed. From the outside, it looks like they haven’t missed a beat.
Watching Jenson perform is like watching a man possessed. The music takes over him. His voice, jagged edges coated in honey, wraps around each word and delivers them with a force that lingers. It saws at the heart and draws out emotions, even those long buried. It’s difficult to see how a man could ever lose his way, with passion like that. From what little I know, I’m beginning to understand how distancing himself from the music is almost as much punishment as losing the things that drove him there.
Before I know it, it’s three hours later and the guys are packing up their things. Jenson’s wiping the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, striding over to me, his expression indiscernible. I still feel the aftershocks of the music, but he seems . . . vacant. Like he’s leaving the stage with less of himself than he took up there.
“That was incredible,” I breathe. It’s a poor way to express how his songs moved me, but it’s the only sentence I can come up with.
“Did you get what you needed?” he asks. A quirk of a smile, no more than a reflex.
I look down at my camera and nod. If I wasn’t so intrigued by the music, my focus would’ve been glued to the photos. “More than enough. These are great.” I go to pull them up, but his focus is elsewhere. He slings his backpack over his shoulder, and when I stand from the couch to walk out with him, he gestures for me to wait outside the room while he proceeds toward the man he introduced earlier as his manager. I find a spot in the hallway to lean against the wall, absentmindedly watching some of the staff part ways.
“What’d you think?” Carter asks when he emerges from the room. He lifts his dreads and wipes his glistening neck with a towel.
“Amazing. I’m disappointed I haven’t spent more time listening to you guys. No offense.”
He tilts his head, glancing back at the room. “It’s been quite a year. Look after my boy, will you?”
I would’ve missed the question if he hadn’t been intently waiting for my response. “Um, yeah. I’ll do my best.”
He gives me one last appraising look, waves two fingers, and makes for the exit. Jenson emerges from Room A, arranging his slackened features into something resembling his usual smile when he sees me resting against the wall. “I’ll walk you out.”
I feel his moroseness as much as I can see it in his down-turned eyes, the lines around his mouth. After a session like that, one I felt went extremely well considering the amount of time they’ve taken off, I can’t understand why it exists. But it’s not my place to pry into his feelings and the reasoning behind them. Instead, I silently keep pace with him, pushing outside. The sun has mostly descended, casting the sky above in sienna and melon, and most of the cars have vacated the lot.
I wait as Jenson places his bag in his truck, and, after scanning the lot, his eyes settle back on me. “Did you drive?”
I lift the strap off my shoulder again. This bag clearly wasn’t made for hauling equipment around, but I roll with it. “No, I got a ride. Mind giving me a lift back?”
“Of course not.” Jenson takes my bag from me and opens the passenger door, storing it behind the seat. After I climb in, he shuts the door behind me. A gentleman, even when distracted.
Once he’s behind the wheel, he pulls out his phone and frowns at whatever he sees on the screen. “Give me one sec,” he says absently, clicking something and putting the phone to his ear.
“Hey mom. Yeah, we were just rehearsing some new stuff. No, my stuff. I’ve been doing some writing. I know. I don’t know, I’ve gotta give someone a ride back into town. A friend, yeah.” When he looks curiously over at me, I chew my lip and try to pretend I’m not listening. “I’ll see. Okay. Be there in a few.”
He drops his phone in the cup-holder and runs his fingers through his hair. “That was my mom.”
“I heard.”
“She’s upset I haven’t been to her place in a while. The move and all.” He waves nonchalantly as he turns the key and the Bronco roars to life. “She made dinner and asked me to bring my friend along. Probably assuming it’s someone from the studio. Anyway, I know that’s kind of intense, so—”
“I’ll go,” I say before I can think of all the logical reasons I shouldn’t. Earlier this week, there would’ve been a thousand protests running on a loop through my mind, but a few hours of satisfying work and good music have quieted all that.
“My mom. You’ll be meeting my mom,” he reiterates.
“Yeah, fine. I was photographing your rehearsal, it’s not a big deal. Not unless you think it is,” I amend. I don’t know any better, but I assume the last woman his mom met from his private life was Raven, and I don’t know enough to tell how emotionally weighted this could be. For Jenson and his mom. Losing Raven after the divorce couldn’t have been easy for her either.
“Do you think she’ll hate me? You know. . .”
Jenson pulls out onto the street, his brows pulled together. “No. She doesn’t have a hateful bone in her body. She likes caring for people. If anything, she’ll mother you too much. And just so you know, she won’t be offended if you turn down a third helping.” I grin to myself, the image in my mind one of a typical Southern mother.
Jenson’s mom lives on a picturesque street on the outskirts of Franklin, just south of Nashville. Flower beds overflowing with color border a yellow bungalow. While muted in shade, it’s the most flamboyant home on the street, though obviously well-tended. We pull into the driveway, parking behind a modest SUV, and Jenson’s whole body seems to sigh before he gets out. Not in preparation, that wouldn’t be right. To release something, maybe.
Before closing the door, he reaches over his head and pulls his shirt off, switching it with a button-down from his backpack. It’s wrinkled in places, but I’m not sure his mom, from what she sounds like, will care. It’s sweet that he thought to change. I get out before he can come around and make a display of opening my car door, suddenly conscious of my band
tee, leather, and torn denim. As the mother of a musician, I assume she’s no stranger to unique characters, but I still feel the unexpected desire to impress her.
I don’t know why I worried. The middle-aged woman who greets us at the porch, front door propped against her hip, wears the relief of seeing her son along with an easy, worldly grace. I can see where Jenson gets it from. He shows no qualms against enveloping his mom in a big hug and kissing the top of her head. Then he stands back and introduces me before I have the chance to. I’m glad. After all, what even am I?
“This is my friend, Lindsey. She’s a photographer.”
“Lindsey the Photographer” must suffice because Jenson’s mom extends an arm and pulls me to her. She smells of spices and meat and love.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Lindsey. I’m Darla.”
“You too. Thank you for having me on short notice,” I say, following them inside.
“Oh, it’s nothing, darlin’. I always make enough in case of guests.”
A tidy but warm living area filled with overstuffed, cushioned furniture, receives us, but we pass straight through and into the kitchen.
“Still inviting your Bunco ladies over every other night, huh?” Jenson asks, raiding a candy dish of M&Ms on the kitchen counter.
