by T L Dasha
“Each week, we’re going to give our bands a theme, and they’re going to write songs that tell us a little bit more about their lives and their personalities.” The announcer made an exaggerated motion toward a large monitor perched high above the stage. It played a kaleidoscope animation that formed the words: “A song about your childhood.”
Once the theatrics were finished, they cut the recording, and the audience made their exit. We all were pulled into a back room where we looked over rules and were allowed to ask questions about the challenge before they sent us on our way. We’d get three days to work on our own before they’d begin filming our preparations in the studio. I guess they weren’t terribly interested in a montage of a bunch of song writers tapping their pens on their desks.
I had managed to get a brief leave from Meli’s Diner for the show, but Logan still had to work weekends at the jewelry shop, so I was on my own for finding inspiration. I knew more than enough about both our childhoods, having grown up together, so it wasn’t an issue.
Or it shouldn’t have been. What was I going to write about? Getting my shoes stolen on the playground? My parent’s divorce? Did it have to be a sad memory? What about when I used to go “yard-sailing” with my mom so we could afford clothes? Feeding ducks at the park with Grandpa? That time Logan scared off a bear for me on our group camping trips? How do you turn any of that into an alt-rock anthem?
My brain was stuck. Maybe I needed some lubrication.
Chapter 5
Jay McClintock
I took a long drag off my cigarette, as I leaned against the brick wall in the alleyway. Is this what my life has come to? Hanging out beside a dumpster to get some goddamn peace for half a minute? My eyes rolled on reflex as I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket. The name Jonathan Chandler flashed across the screen.
“This is Jay. Speak.”
“Jay! How’s it going?”
“Do you have a question? Or are you just calling to waste more of my time?”
“So touchy.” Jonathan’s frown could be heard through his phone. “I figured you’d be in a much better mood than this. Your candidate made the first round! And now you get to flex those creative muscles.”
“Yes. Thrilled. Anything else?”
“Well, since you asked…” Here we go. “Cory just sent over the full list of challenges for the season. They’ve come up with some really thoughtful themes for the bands this year. I think you’ll enjoy this one.”
“You have my email. Send it over.” I hung up the phone and shoved it back in the pocket of my slacks. Jonathan’s enthusiasm had been more grating than usual lately, and hearing from Cory was hardly a point of excitement. How did I get roped into this again?
###
“I want this year’s season of Battle of the Bands to be sensational!” Cory Dane hit his hands on the end of the oblong table, the thud filling the SINapse Network meeting room. Though my eyes were still fixated on the way his power point presentation reflected in his bald head. “I don’t want to sign another generic pop country singer who goes on to sell a couple thousand records- I want a talent that will be Rock and Roll Hall of Fame worthy. A voice for the next generation.”
“What does that have to do with me?” I leaned over the table, propping up my cheek on a closed fist. “I thought the whole point of this ‘competition’ was giving the unknowns a chance to be noticed. I write for professionals. Not amateurs.”
“Yes, but amateurs become professionals in your hands.” Cory rubbed his sweaty mitts together. My internal groans were so overwhelming, I’d be amazed if he couldn’t hear them.
“So what are you suggesting, exactly?” Not that it wasn’t obvious, but watching his face contort as he justified his awful decisions was almost mesmerizing.
“Saxon Gold.”
“The oil company? Am I writing them a jingle?”
“No. Dayton Gold, the cofounder and CEO, happens to have a son who happens to have a band of his own, who also happens to have already signed up for the audition.” And let me guess, they’re also the show’s biggest sponsor.
“Fascinating. And you want me to…”
“Coach him. Write him a song. Help him with his image. Make him into something this country will love. Like you did with Brad Garza. Brad couldn’t even sing without auto-tune before you got to him, and now he’s the highest grossing singer of the century, all because of your lyrics and coaching.”
It was a fair point, but personalities like Brad Garza are once in a lifetime. His struggles with prose and stage freight were minor compared to his natural talent and drive. I thought I was the lucky one to have him passed off on me as my first project. But Brad was worth every ounce of my skill. What made this kid worth my time? The chance to make SINapse Network a fortune? Please.
“Have you run this by Jonathan? I head ALIVE’s creative department, but he has the final say on collaborations. Unless he signs off on it, I have other projects that take precedence.”
Cory’s face lit up. In that moment, I realized that was exactly what he was hoping I might ask. Shit.
“He’s the one who recommended you!”
Goddammit, Jonathan. This is not proportional retaliation for taking the last maple bar. I didn’t try to hide my deep and dejected sigh. “Fine. I’ll talk to the kid.”
“I knew you would be as excited as I am!”
###
As I returned to the studio, I was still not as excited as he was.
“I got the makeup artist’s number before we left.” Lance Gold smirked as he addressed his bandmates. He ran his hand through his newly trimmed hair. “I didn’t even have to talk her into it. They’re eating out of our hands already. Not that there was ever any doubt.”
“There would have been plenty of doubt if you had showed up with your nineties grunge costumes.” I leaned against the table and crossed my arms over my chest.
Lance jumped before turning to me with a sheepish expression on his face. “Oh, Mr. McClintock, I didn’t know you were back from your smoke break.”
Marcus and… the other one stood at attention.
“Great work so far.” I kept my tone professional to hide my irritation. “But let’s get down to business. If you’re going to break into the hearts and souls of America, you need a good story. The people love an underdog. Search deep. What have you struggled with the most throughout your life? What makes your childhood interesting?”
“My struggles?” Lance paused. “My classmates can rarely keep up with me, and it can be isolating. Like those kinds of struggles?”
For chrissakes.
“Pretend the whole crowd is made up of those classmates. Do you have anything more… relatable?”
“I…” His expression dropped. I’m not sure if it was for lack of a better answer, or if he simply wouldn’t let himself outwardly admit he wasn’t perfect.
“My parents were almost never home, since they had to work so much. I only got to see them a few times a year when we’d go on our vacations. Something like that?” Marcus chimed in to save his tongue tied companion. “I think every one of us can relate to that in one capacity or another.”
Lance and what’s-his-name nodded.
“I can work with that.” I might have to leave out the vacation part, but that’s better than nothing. I let out a slow exhale then glanced at my watch. “I’m going to wrap this up for today. Go out and have fun tonight. At this stage, I just need you to try to keep your stress levels low. I’ll see you all same time tomorrow.”
“You’re not going to hang out with us?” That third one pleaded.
“My dad owns the Rumbling Bee on Sunset, if you want to stop in for a drink. They’ve always got great cocktails and easy women.” Marcus grinned. “Our treat, if you’re down.”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to be seen together in public.” Lance interjected. “If people think Dread Theory is getting professional help, it’ll undermine our talent.”
“Right.” I no
dded. “Plus, I’ve got work to do. But I appreciate the invite.”
As the band packed their equipment, I left the studio and walked through the park on the way back to the parking garage. Those kids all needed to check their egos. Lance’s voice was strong enough to go the distance, but his attitude left a lot to be desired. The public can smell fake and entitled from a mile away.
I shook my head, and let my focus slip to the sound of my steps on the cobblestone. Bees circled the wild flowers and a butterfly slowly flapped its wings, perched delicately on a wooden bench. It really was a nice park. These were the kind of places I used to gravitate to when I needed inspiration.
I took a seat on the bench, and relaxed into the slats. The butterfly scattered, then it repositioned itself on my nose. I watched it rest for a few more flaps before I shushed it away to grab another cigarette. What am I doing? I quit smoking years ago. And now I’m grabbing a light every chance I get?
This project is going to be the death of me.
I motioned to toss the half empty pack in the waste bin, but I stopped myself short, shoving it back in my pocket instead. It would be silly to waste it. I traded the smokes for my cell phone and read the first challenge again.
“To introduce and build sympathy for each contestant, bands will create a song based on a childhood memory.”
The image of the inside of that car, moonlight pushing through the windshield just enough to illuminate the blood on the dash, flashed through my mind. I shook my head to break my mental paint brush. The tragedy of absent parents. Right.
I laughed in spite of myself, while the call of a mocking bird harmonized with my chuckles. I glanced between branches until I located my duet partner. The same pesky bird who decided to share Roland’s notebook with me that day. I’m not sure if I should hate the thing for subjecting me to that drivel, or…
My lips involuntarily pulled into a smile.
“Jay?” A voice from down the path ripped me out of my peace again. Speak of the devil.
I looked up to see Roland standing a few yards away, holding his notebook to his chest. A fitted white t-shirt and dark jeans hugged the lean muscles of his body, while his shaky confidence somehow made his natural charisma that much more endearing. His fauxhawk was stylish in a way that required little fuss, and his piercing gave him a little bit of edge, while his soft features took him back to being completely unintimidating. I enjoyed the contrast.
“Fancy meeting you here.” I held my voice deadpan. “Don’t you have work to be doing?”
His eyes shot to the side. “Y-yeah, the show just started filming yesterday. I’ve got the weekend to come up with my first draft before we’re back in the studio.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Somehow, staring at the wall of my dorm room isn’t quite as inspiring as…” He hesitated, and I leaned back into the bench, enjoying his discomfort. “… The park.”
“So you came to ‘the park’ for help, did you?” I patted the seat beside me on the bench, then returned my arm to the back rest. He listened, sitting rigidly in front of my draped arm, keeping his eyes fixed in front of him. Cute. “What happened to all that confidence you had on the patio?”
“I uh… That was…” Roland’s face flushed so bright it was impossible to not notice. He was terrible at hiding his emotions, be it in his face or in his words. Maybe that’s why I didn’t mind him. He was missing the arrogance of a vocalist, but he had… something else. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was refreshing, now more than ever.
Plus, he was fun to mess with.
“Relax a little.” I moved my hand from the bench to his shoulder and pulled him backwards, causing him to fall against the backrest and comfortably against my arm. He didn’t fight me on it. “You’ve already put your tongue in my mouth. You can’t possibly be afraid to sit next to me.”
“I’m not. I just don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand?”
“Why you’re here. Why you were waiting for me.”
“Waiting for you? Tch.” Okay, maybe he did have some of that vocalist arrogance. I bet he would cry if I told him why I was really here.
“Don’t deny it. Not just here, but the other day at Meli’s. “
“I just really like their pistachio ice cream.” I shrugged, watching his expression grow more and more flustered.
“You didn’t even order ice cream!”
“Hmmm, that is curious then, isn’t it?” Before I knew it, my mouth was stuck in a grin. His had shifted to a flat line.
I ruffled his hair, knocking his faux hawk out of alignment. As he opened his mouth to complain, I dug in my fingers, and took him. First, I only brushed my lips over his. He seemed curious when I was gentle, but his body begged me when I was rough. I dug in deeper, and bit down on his lip. His trade from lip rings to studs gave me easy access. I increased pressure until he let out a yelp, then moved back to his tongue, pinning it down with mine. The lightest pressure got him to suck on me. I wonder what else I can make him do.
My hand slipped down Roland’s neck to his back, pulling him against my chest. His fingers clawed at my shoulders, then he used his strength to leverage himself up and reposition, straddling me on the bench. He ran his fingers through my hair, pulling my head back just a touch, taking a moment to catch his breath.
I don’t recall giving him permission to catch his breath.
I grabbed him by the waist, and held his hips against my stomach, while my mouth moved on to his neck. I fluttered kisses down to his collarbone, then teased the contours of his Adam’s apple with my tongue. His body wasn’t shy. It was communicating exactly what he wanted. He made a half-hearted effort to push back on my shoulders, provoking me into a tug of war that I wasn’t going to lose. I pressed my fingers into his hips, dragging them down his thighs with an animalistic need, coaxing him to get harder and tighter against me. Roland gave in, wrapping his arms around me, pulling my lips back up to his.
Fuck. I could take him right here. Can I?
No. Fuck. In broad daylight in the middle of the park? Not this park. Too close to work.
I slid my tongue out of his mouth and released his hips, repositioning my arms atop the backrest.
He looked down at me, still straddling my waist, his hands on my shoulders, his lips swollen with need, his cock hard and throbbing. He was a beautiful mess.
I smirked up at him, knocking the glaze out of his eyes. “It really is great ice cream.”
Roland got off of me with a start, backing up several steps, breathing frantically with sweat on his brow and embarrassment on his face. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cigarette.
“Maybe next time I’ll let you lick the spoon.” I lit up and cocked my head to the side, just waiting for him to speak. But he was oh so flustered.
“I prefer milkshakes.” He straightened himself out, and averted his gaze as he slowly started to collect himself.
“Oh?”
“They last longer.” He looked back at me, locking in eye contact, drawing back in that confidence. There was a glint of deviousness in his eyes that I couldn’t seem to look away from. “And I don’t miss a single drop when I can suck it up through a straw.”
I heard myself laugh without my consent. This fucking guy. “I’ve never seen someone get every drop. You’ll have to show me.”
“If you’re lucky.” Roland broke face and gave me a laugh. His expression was soft. Defenseless. “I uh… I might know a way you can increase your odds though.” He picked up his notepad, which had fallen on the floor by the bench, and scrawled something on the page. He tore out the paper and handed it to me. Ten digits were scratched across the lines in barely legible hand writing.
I held up the paper at eye level, then crushed it in my palm. His eyes sunk. He motioned to bite his lower lip, then caught himself when his rings weren’t there to play with. Nothing to protect him. Too harsh? Heh.
“I don’t need luck.”
I assured him with a smile. “And neither do you. Go put that mouth to better use, and I’ll see you when you pass the next round.”
He swallowed back his hurt and gave me a nod. “Right!”
Roland was off to his dorms, and I settled back into the bench, letting my own heartrate return to normal. Despite the earlier theatrics, I shoved his number in my pocket, though I’m not sure what I was going to do with it. Was this becoming a real thing? Me and this kid? He must have been eight, maybe nine years younger than me. And he was a mess.
Yet it was so satisfying to watch him squirm. And even more satisfying when he started to figure things out.
Maybe this competition has me more stressed out than I thought.
I opened my notepad app and started typing a chorus. No matter what the reason was, I needed to stay focused. I couldn’t have some kid clouding my judgement. Whether I wrote for myself, for Brad Garza, or for Dread Theory, to write a good song, the words had to come from the heart.
I wonder if your heart can beat mine, Roland Finley.
Chapter 6
Roland Finley
“My father was harsh, but I never questioned whether he loved me.” I kept my eyes trained on the camera. “When my parents split up, there really wasn’t any animosity between them. I still saw them both just as much.”
“It helps that they were still neighbors. It was just a direct trade.” Logan laughed, sitting beside me in the interview room. “Our families were way closer than my six-year-old self ever realized, and before I knew it ‘Roland’s mom’ was my step mom, and my mom was ‘Roland’s mom.’”
“He was the WORST step brother ever though. It was great when he was just the neighbor kid, but the second he was legally related to me, all he did was cause trouble for me and my parents.” I pursed my lips and gave him a well-deserved side eye.
“Oh come on- I wasn’t that bad. At least I never had to have the fire department called because I got stuck in the tree with the cat.”
