Beg (God of Rock Book 2)

by Eden Butler

  “You lay it down yet?” Winston asked, and I scrambled, peeking into the bedroom to see Wills still passed out before I jogged down the back stairs and into the shop.

  “No, man, but I can remedy that.”

  There was no studio here. The closest one I knew of was in Indy and I wasn’t exactly popular in the city.

  “Come up here and we’ll get you some studio time.”

  “It’s one song, man.”

  Winston cleared his throat, and the background noise of him dismissing his assistant sounded against the movement he made. My guess was he had something to say and either needed quiet or needed to be comfortable. Or, both.

  “One song will satisfy them. Tide them over. Listen, man, I gotta be real here. That shit with the video is good for the persona and will hype ticket sales, but you gotta come correct with this next album. You tussling with nobodies and bailing out on your dying father makes you look like an asshole, not a badass. There are whispers…”

  I didn’t need him telling me about those whispers. I’d heard them nearly a month before, when Wills had invaded my life. Sometimes biting your tongue hurt like hell, but sometimes, you had to suck down the pain and take it. I did just then.

  “Let me take care of a few things here, and I’ll be there Sunday morning. That cool?”

  “Perfect. I’ll book you after noon on Sunday. Looking forward to it, man. Later.”

  I was glad someone was.

  My mother had wanted to see Wills before she left for a halfway house out in Madison, and so I brought my father back to the hospital, leaving them alone while I did the thing I knew I had to but really had no stomach for. I had to ask Mrs. Daine for a favor.

  The early February weather was still cold, but the small cottage on Macon Street looked neat. I’d like to claim responsibility for how neat and well-kept the place looked, but Iris’s mother had taken care of her yard, and, from what I noticed as I drove past two days before, both she and Iris were doing their part to keep the sidewalk and drive to the cottage clear.

  It had been a couple of weeks, and Iris hadn’t left, telling Wills that she had an idea for a book and wanted his help with it. My father hadn’t given me any other details, and I didn’t ask. Instead I went to Mrs. Daine’s house and worked on clearing the dead leaves and grass from her beds and restocking the salt bags in her shed. There always seemed like a task was needed, and I did it, without asking, because I liked the distraction.

  I hadn’t lied to Winston. One song was down, but it wasn’t “the” song—the one that would give me an idea, an elemental necessity. I still needed that muse song, and I hadn’t found it yet. But as I walked up the drive to Mrs. Daine’s house and knocked on the door, I took in the streets around this small place. Simple. Real. Honest. All things I’d learned to be growing up here. All things I hadn’t been in a long time. Months back, I’d told Iris that I wanted to write about Willow Heights. She hadn’t understood that. But then, Iris was always too New York for our small town. Maybe she always would be.

  “Jamie?” I heard, jerking a glance over my shoulder when the door opened, and Iris stood on the other side.

  “Oh,” I said, pushing up my shades to avoid her seeing how wide my eyes had gotten. “Um…is your mom here?”

  Iris frowned, moving her head in a slow shake. “No. She’s in Chicago for the weekend.”

  “Coño.” I’d have to reschedule, that’s all there was to it, and because Iris hadn’t spoken much to me, I didn’t expect her to stick around or wait for me to tell her what business I had with her mother. “All right. Thanks, florecita…I’ll…” She coughed, interrupting me, and I tilted my head, hurrying to think about what cardinal sin I committed to put that look on her face. Oh…damn. “I’m sorry.” I smoothed a hand through my hair, head shaking at her hard expression. “Old habits…”

  “What did you need with my mom?” she asked, leaning against the doorjamb.

  Wills liked Iris a lot. Probably more than he liked me. Who wouldn’t? But could she handle him for an entire day and night? There was a lot to do, and though he wasn’t helpless, he was weak. Would it be rude to ask her?

  “Jamie?”

  “I…ah…my label. Wills told me a while back they’re talking about dropping me.” Iris stepped beyond the threshold and frowned, staring up at me, giving me the same look I’d seen from her a hundred times. It was there when one of my mother’s boyfriends nearly caught the house on fire. It was there when Nathan Black called me a dirty spic, and I got suspended for punching him out cold. That look was etched in worry, concern and just for me.

  Unless, of course, she was just bored, and that look meant “hurry it along, asshole.”

  “Why would they drop you?” she finally asked, eyebrows pushed together as she watched me. “Are they crazy?”

  “Them? I dunno. Maybe. Everyone in the music business is crazy, but, well, as you know, chica, I’ve been a pendejo and amping up my rep is one thing…” I couldn’t look at her, knowing that I had glossed over mentioning how that video had boosted up my rep. “But being a dick and fighting with people, staying drunk for months at a time, producing nothing at all but trouble… well, they aren’t impressed. I’ve got to bring my “A” game, and Winston, my A&R guy, wants me in the studio in New York on Sunday.” Iris nodded, stepping back to stand in the doorway. I figured she was ready to slam the door in my face.

  But Iris didn’t shut the door. She did what she’d always done. She listened.

  “Anyway,” I said, leaning my back against the side of the house. “I was going to ask your mom if she would mind looking after Wills on Sunday while I’m in the city, but I’ll reschedule. They’ll have to understand.” I waved to her, sure she wouldn’t stop me, but turned, nodded at her when she called my name.

  “Why didn’t you just call and ask me?”

  I wanted to laugh. I wanted to remind Iris that I’d been doing that for months now. I wanted to remind her that I’d chased and apologized and made a damn fool out of myself, wanting her forgiveness. Begging for it with flowers and cards and messages she likely never heard. But there was something soft and sweet in her features then, something that reminded me of the girl I sat next to at that general assembly freshman year. The same girl who believed in me when no one else did. The girl who kept me lifted when life dragged me down.

  “Well chica,” I started, swallowing to clear away the lump in my throat. “You, ah, haven’t answered my calls in seven months.”

  “Oh.” Iris bit back a smile, but couldn’t hide the low blush that colored her cheeks. “Well, it’s Wills. That’s…well, that’s different. Of course I’ll stay with Wills.”

  Iris looked over my head, shrugging one shoulder and keeping her expression blank. I knew that look, knew what it meant when she tried to play like she was indifferent. That small glimpse of her pretending not to be bothered meant more than I guessed she wanted to show me. If she didn’t care about me at all, I’d get a full glance, right in my face, and maybe a smile. There’d be no pretending because I wouldn’t even register.

  “You sure?”

  Another shrug and this time Iris rubbed the tip of her boot against the welcome mat, still not looking at me. “Yeah, it’s no big deal.”

  I climbed up the step, moving closer to her, but still kept my distance, thinking of the things my father had never let anyone but me or Jimmy see. “He can get real cranky after his dialysis.”

  “Okay.” Iris moved her hair behind her ear, holding my gaze for just a second before she straightened.

  “And if you can’t pick him up or help him if he falls, call 911.”

  “Jamie, it’s fine.” She waved at me, brushing off my worry. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  Iris was strong. She was smart, smarter than I’d ever be. The worry was there, but misplaced, and I decided to calm down. They’d be okay together, and I told myself that worry would only distract me.

  I took her quick nod as a dismissal, but c
ouldn’t bring myself to leave. Instead, I took another step, my moth pulled inextricably closer to her flame, damn the burning. She didn’t tense or turn her back on me. In fact, Iris didn’t do anything at all but watch me bend my head, a lame attempt to seem somewhere close to my old self. “Thank you. Really.”

  There was a new freckle on her left cheek and the whiff of honeysuckle in her hair. I closed my eyes, grateful she couldn’t see that long blink behind my shades, and then I turned away from her, taking the steps two at a time.

  “Jamie?” Those two syllables stopped me, had me turning toward her with something that felt like misplaced hope in my chest. “Don’t you dare let them treat you like shit. You’ve got more talent than anyone on their roster. You remind them of that.”

  That hope blossomed just a bit, and I didn’t bother hiding my smile from her. “Yeah, okay, mami. I will.”

  It was the wrong time to call her that. Too soon to remind her of the endearment, but I was too happy just then to get offended when she frowned, mumbling something rude under her breath before she turned around and slammed the door behind her.

  It didn’t matter. My first fan, my first love, had just told me there was still something to believe in: myself.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kenny Redman founded Riptide Records when he was twenty-five with fifty grand he got after taking out a second mortgage on his suburban New Jersey home. It had been passed down to him by his mother, a woman who’d used her dead husband’s pension to buy the place back in the fifties when not many women could afford to do something scandalous like buy their own property. Kenny’s mother, so he claimed, had been a good woman, hardworking, no nonsense, who didn’t believe in gambling, but he took that fifty grand, rented a nine hundred square foot space in the Bronx, and built a studio. The gamble paid off, and he gave his mother’s home to his kid sister and moved himself and his label to Manhattan when his first artist’s debut album went gold.

  Kenny hadn’t signed me. He’d given that task to his kid, Ralphie Redman, but it was Kenny who sat across a massive mahogany desk nodding his head as he listened to the single I’d laid down the night before.

  When the bridge started, and my voice sang out the chorus, repeating the first line of lyric with only a small alternation, Kenny nodded, signaling his assistant to cut the track.

  Next to me, Winston leaned forward, elbows on his thighs as he looked up, watching his boss’s reaction. His brown gaze moved to me, and then the man shrugged. It seemed Kenny Redman, no matter how old, still hadn’t lost that poker face. He was still a fucking gambler.

  “Lydia, I want a smoke” he said, moving his chair back as the woman leaned over to lift the lock from the old pre-war window behind her boss’s desk. They moved like they were dancing, him resting back against the plush cushion of his chair, her slipping a hand-rolled cigarette from the filigreed gold case, him inhaling deep as she lit it and dusted an ash from his jacket.

  Despite the stench of smoke and the wrinkles covering his face, Kenny was still professional, still someone who could command attention and hold it. And if he didn’t like you, he could be one intimidating fucker. I got that’s what he was trying to do now: ignoring me, cutting off the track before it was finished in favor of sitting there, smoking, a huge plume of smoke half going around the office, half leaving through the open window.

  I didn’t have time to cater to label bosses. My plane was leaving in an hour, and I needed to get back to Willow Heights.

  “That magazine,” Kenny started, gaze unblinking as he drew in another drag from his smoke. “Which is it?” He moved his head toward Lydia, not bothering to shift his attention.

  “Stage Dive,” the woman answered, deftly moving the ashtray closer to her boss’s flaking cigarette.

  “That’s it.” He turned, snuffing out the smoke in the tray as he finally looked at me, returning to his desk. “That chick, the one in the video, she wrote that piece on you. Got it from a girl in Stage Dive’s office.” Kenny held out his hand when Lydia opened a manila folder, handing him a mockup of the issue in question.

  This was the same mockup I’d read, but it wouldn’t be the final version of the article. Wills had told me as much before I left Willow Heights. The entire thing had been held back, just as soon as the hall of fame announcement was made. Iris never mentioned anything about updating the article, but when the editors heard the gossip that I was looking after my father as his health failed him, that I’d been asked to sing at the induction, they saw a chance to make the article even bigger. Unmasking Dash Justice to see the son, or whatever bullshit they were planning. I had no idea, since Iris still wasn’t saying much to me.

  Kenny waved it in my direction, and I just caught the cover: my face, white, chipping stage paint and a half-smoked blunt in the corner of my mouth. Iris had taken that one after the Nashville show, but I’d been too blitzed to ask to see the proof. I looked like a real rock star—haggard, rough, like I didn’t care what anyone thought of me. Mainly, I looked like an asshole.

  “I read it,” Kenny said, pushing the magazine toward me. “She’s a good writer, this girl you’ve been fucking with.”

  Winston nudged my foot when some deep, unrestrained sound left my throat, and I took his warning. Kenny wasn’t exaggerating. I’d been fucking with Iris for years, until all that mierda came back on me. “That’s over now,” I told the man, moving back to rest against the chair. “I’m not interested in fucking with anyone.”

  “Clearly.” When I tilted my head, lifting it off the back of the chair to look at Kenny, the man frowned, like I was some amateur. Like I hadn’t done anything to make him a fuck-ton of money

  “Your meaning?”

  “Look, I get that shit hasn’t gone the way you wanted with the girl.” He nodded to Winston, and the man grinned back at him. “This whole shock rock thing, it’s good. It’s what your fans expect, and it’s what made you a lot of money. But I think this thing with the girl and your pop…” at the mention of Wills, Kenny frowned, moving his hand as though the small wave was some sign of respect, “well, I get that things have changed for you, but you writing love songs about your hometown and some woman…” Kenny pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh, “I gotta be honest, man. I’m not impressed, and I don’t think your fans will be either.”

  “And if I don’t care?” I asked him, because it was the only honest thing I could think of at the time.

  Another nudge from Winston and I shook my head. “Look, I get that things are different. I get that you expect me to be a certain way, but I can only give you what I have. I create when I’m inspired, and this,” I waved toward the speaker next to Kenny’s laptop, meaning my single, “is what I was inspired to write.”

  “Maybe,” Winston said, holding up his finger, in some attempt to ask his boss for permission. “And this is something Kenny’s been talking to me about, but maybe, Dash, if you got around some of your old crew, maybe did a few shows for a specific audience…”

  “What audience?” I said, looking between Winston and Kenny.

  “Savage Freaks,” the older man said, looking at me through his clasped fingers as he rested his elbows on his chair’s armrests. “Gunnar wants you on the tour, and I think it would do you some good. Get you out of this funk. They’re doing shows in Chicago at the beginning of May. With you performing at the induction ceremony, would be a nice boon for the tour, and with the article,” he nodded at the magazine on his desk, “that would set you up for some nice PR.”

  I hadn’t done a Savage Freaks tour in five years and for good reason. There weren’t many real musicians on the tour, and the fans, well… They frequented the shows to party and break shit, something Gunnar, the headliner, encouraged. The guy was disgusting, and coming from Dash Justice, that was saying something.

  “Isn’t he doing time for assault?” I looked between Kenny and Winston, then to Lydia when I got no answer. “Well?”

  “He’ll be out in two wee
ks,” Lydia supplied, handing over a sheet of paper to her boss.

  “This is the line-up and dates. Tell me what you think, if you can get your band ready by then, and we’ll set everything up.”

  Gunnar Bloody had attacked one of the kids at his shows two summers ago. For the fourth time. He’d been accused of assault on nearly every tour he did and liked to set up a guillotine on his stage when he performed, finding it hilarious to threaten fans by bringing them on stage, putting them in the contraption and then jerking them out of the way just as the fake blade came down. He drank too much, had too many baby mamas, plus four ex-wives, and had been banned from at least five venues on the east coast alone. All that on top of what he’d done to Iris’s old editor.

  Wills was still sick and likely to only get sicker. And Iris. Well, I didn’t know what would happen with Iris, but I did know I wouldn’t be winning any brownie points by using the release of the article to help promote a tour with Gunnar and the other freak shock rock bands on the tour.

  “I’m not ready to tour, not with Lager living with me.” I pushed back the sheet, covering the magazine with it. “Besides, I’m working on music and don’t have enough to record. I need to write the new album.”

  Kenny watched me, then shifted his gaze to Winston, moving back in his chair to rest his folded hands over his stomach.

  “The thing is,” Winston started, patting my shoulder like I was a kid being told I was being held behind in third grade. “Kenny isn’t asking you to do the tour. He’s— well, Dash, he’s telling you need to get in line.”

  I hadn’t noticed, but Lydia had closed the window and left the office with a soft click of the door. Kenny watched me, eyes moving into a squint as though he couldn’t quite see me but needed to examine my reaction. He was probably expecting me to yell or lash out. I thought Winston did as well, with how his hold on my shoulder tightened.

  But I was past anger or disappointment. Too much had happened for those things to weigh me down. “Are you saying that if I don’t do the tour…”