Blood and Guitars

by Heather Jensen

  “I was thirsty,” I admitted. It was true, after all. Trey eyed my bottled water curiously so I added, “Someone left a flyer on my door. I decided to see what it was all about.” He didn’t need to know that I never did things like this.

  “And?”

  “And what?” I asked.

  “What do you think? It’s great, isn’t it?” He gestured with a sweeping hand around the club and to the stage up front.

  I shrugged and smiled at him. “Not bad,” I said. “In fact, the night has been more interesting than I would have guessed.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he said as his bottled water was set down in front of him. He thanked the girl and opened it up, taking a swig.

  “The crowd seemed pretty into you,” I said. “You must be a regular on stage or something. Why’d you do open mic night if that’s the case?”

  He chewed his lip for a second and then said, “Let’s just say that I used to do a lot of gigs here. I haven’t been around for a while, but the owner’s an old friend. He did me a favor tonight by sneaking me in.”

  “Really? Because I would have guessed that you were the one doing a favor. You drew more of a crowd in here than anyone else has since you got off that stage.” I gestured to the guy who was currently singing on stage. The teens had only done one song and then taken off. The present entertainment was around forty with silver specks in his hair and although he wasn’t a bad singer, most of the crowd were talking amongst themselves and not paying attention to his set.

  Trey took another sip of his water. “Like I said, I played here before I was old enough to legally get in. Most of the people around here know me. That’s all.”

  “You mentioned you haven’t been around for a while. Where have you been?” I asked.

  “I went on the road with my band.” He wasn’t bragging, but he didn’t seem embarrassed by it either. I don’t know why that surprised me.

  “Any success?”

  He gave me that killer half-smile again and said, “You could say that.”

  I nodded, impressed. “Those songs you sang tonight, were they songs you do with your band?”

  “They might be,” he stated. “I wrote them while we were on the road. I haven’t shared them with the other guys yet. We’ll just have to see.”

  “Is this where you test the waters? Try out new material? ”

  “Sure. At least, that’s what I used to do.” He gazed at me, and if I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought he was trying to penetrate my thoughts. I recognized the familiar and faint hum of power in the back of my mind, and knew the moon had appeared in the early night sky. I considered reaching into his mind, but found that I was having much more fun trying to get information out of him the old fashioned way, so I pushed the urge aside. “What kind of music do you listen to?” he asked.

  It was my turn to shrug. “I’ll listen to just about anything that can inspire me,” I admitted. “Although I do have a soft spot for moody stuff.” I couldn’t go into the fact that I didn’t like the Euro-techno dance music that most vamps like to listen to, and honestly, ever since my change, I’d pretty much given up on trying to relate to human music anymore.

  He grinned at me and asked, “Are there any newer bands out there you like?”

  I sighed. “I can’t keep track of all of the new bands.” That was a lie. I could easily have stayed on top of the current top groups without much effort, but I’d gone out of my way to avoid doing that. In my human years, I’d really enjoyed music. My brother Aden and I had spent most of our money growing up on music and concert tickets. Since my transformation I’d lost interest in most things that had captivated me as a human. I’d attended a concert not long after I’d made the change, but I’d been so distracted by every flaw I could now hear in the singer’s voice, and each note that wasn’t played perfectly, that I hadn’t enjoyed the show at all. I’d since given up on trying. It was easier to accept the fact that most human pastimes no longer suited me. Painting was the only hobby I had held onto with iron fingers.

  Trey was still looking at me expectantly, so I added, “There are songs on the radio on occasion that are good.” He nodded, still smiling at me. “What?” I asked, finding myself wanting to know what he was thinking, but still unwilling to pry it from his mind.

  He glanced behind him in the direction of the group of women who were still eyeing us from a distance. Then he met my eyes again. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asked. “Maybe take a walk or something?”

  The invitation caught me off guard. Kacie was the only human I ever associated with, and as much as I liked her, we would never get together outside of work to hang out or anything. Looking around the club, I scanned the potential donors, my mouth watering a little. I’d been enjoying the conversation, with a human for that matter, and that alone was enough to make me consider his offer. As I bit my bottom lip and studied Trey, musing over his intentions, I realized I wasn’t ready for our conversation to end. “I live nearby. You can walk me home if you like.”

  He smiled and stood up, pulling some cash from his wallet and dropping it on the table.

  “You know it’s on the house,” the girl who had been serving our table called out to him with a smile.

  “And you know I’m going to pay anyway,” he said, returning the smile. She shrugged and waved. “I’ll just grab my guitar,” he said to me. “Meet you at the door.”

  I nodded and watched him go. I was suddenly grateful that Mark had been forced to work tonight. I might have asked him to join me when he’d texted me earlier if he hadn’t had anything better to do. I decided not to think too hard about exactly what I was doing by agreeing to leave with this human that I’d just met, but he seemed harmless. I justified my decision by reminding myself that, if nothing more, I could invite him inside and get my fill of blood for the week out of him. I got to my feet and found him waiting for me at the door, guitar in a gig bag slung on his back.

  Chapter 5

  It’s really not like me to meet women at music lounges. Okay, it’s really not like me to meet women at all unless they happen to be in the front row at one of my shows. But there was something fascinating about this girl. I couldn’t put my finger on it, exactly. She was beautiful, but it wasn’t just that. I felt drawn to her in a way I couldn’t explain.

  It was a warm August night. A breeze off the coast made the temperature next to perfect as Aurora and I walked down the sidewalk, the music from the lounge dying down a little more with every step we took. Aurora’s silky black hair moved in the breeze and I found myself stealing glances at her. There was something exotic about her features. Maybe it was the striking green eyes. They were the color of old fashioned 7-Up bottles. More than once tonight I’d wondered if the color was the result of contacts, but they looked genuine from every angle. Either way, I’d never seen anyone like Aurora in my entire life. Even her walk was mesmerizing. It was like she was almost gliding along the sidewalk in her heels. The closest thing I could compare it to is the way a model floats across a runway, but even that description doesn’t do it justice.

  Aurora was mysterious, and that was definitely part of the attraction. (The last girl I’d dated had been the typical superficial Hollywood type.) And the best part? Aurora honestly didn’t seem to have a clue who I was. She apparently wasn’t familiar with the band at all and that was refreshing for a change. It was nice to have a real conversation with a woman who didn’t have ulterior motives involving my fame or my wallet.

  “What do you do for a living?” I asked casually, hoping to strike up conversation. Mostly I just wanted to keep her talking, to enjoy the melodic quality in the timbre of her voice.

  “I’m an artist.” She looked over at me as we walked.

  “Really? What kind of artist?”

  “I do oil paintings mostly, but whatever pays the bills.”

  “You any good?”

  “You could say that,” she said with a smile.

  “I can see it now,�
� I stated. “You wearing a little white apron, paint smeared on your cheek, and rocking out to Pink Floyd while you create a masterpiece.” She let out a laugh that can only be described as musical, and my heart did a flip at the sound of it.

  “You’ve got me pinned.”

  I chuckled and stuffed my hands into my jeans pockets, shuffling my feet as we walked. “You from around here, then?”

  Aurora shook her head. “I grew up in Chicago.”

  “So the windy city just blew you right on over to the sunburn state?”

  “There are some vicious winds.” She smiled at my lame joke.

  My phone buzzed and I pulled it from my pocket to see that I had a text from my manager, Wes.

  Studio 2morrow.

  I smiled and quickly responded. I’m there.

  “Girlfriend wondering where you are?” Aurora asked.

  “Not even close.” I laughed. “No girlfriend to wonder.” I shoved my phone back into my pocket. “Just a message that we’ve booked the studio for tomorrow. Looks like I’ll be working.”

  “Studio?” She looked up at me. “So, is this garage band makes a demo or something?”

  “Or something.”

  She gave me an impressed nod and then turned down a walkway. I regretted that she lived so close. I could have kept walking with her all night. She must have noticed that I wasn’t behind her because she turned to look at me.

  “Would you like to come in for a while?”

  My eyes grew wide as I looked up at her, surprised by the gesture. She wouldn’t have invited me in if she didn’t find me at least somewhat interesting, yet I was pretty certain that if I refused her offer and left now, she wouldn’t waste another second thinking about me. I don’t know why that impressed me. “Sure.”

  I followed her to the front door of a modest sized house. It was chocolate brown stucco with black shutters and a glossy black front door. I watched as she pulled out her keys and unlocked the door. I walked inside behind her and glanced around quickly, curious to see what the house would tell me about her. Dark wooden floors ran throughout the spacious living room, where a deep red shag rug was positioned between two black leather sofas. A flat screen TV was mounted on a crimson painted wall above the fireplace. I could see part of the dining room beyond that, and assumed that the kitchen was right around the corner.

  “Make yourself at home.” She dropped her keys on the small side table near the door.

  “Thanks,” I slid my gig bag off of my back and set it down. I followed her into the living room and was about to sit down on the one of the sofas when a large painting on the opposite wall caught my eye. I walked toward it instead, admiring the simple beauty of the image. The painting was of a park at night. What surprised me the most was how vivid the colors and imagery were, considering that it was night scene. A half moon hung in the upper left corner, its light cascading on the trees and nearby pond below. On the right side about half way down, a lone park bench sat empty, worn from years of use. I didn’t recognize the landscape, but the city in the background could have been Chicago. My gaze automatically fell to the signature at the bottom right corner.

  “You painted this?”

  “I did.”

  “It’s amazing. Is this Chicago?”

  She nodded, standing next to me now. “I used to visit this park a lot when I was younger. When my dad bought me my first easel and canvas, I hauled them down there and created my first real work of art.”

  “And this is it?” I asked.

  She laughed softly. “Definitely not. It was horrible. But I like to think I’ve gotten better over the years. I painted this to help me remember all of that.”

  “Are your parents still in Chicago?” I asked.

  I saw her hesitate briefly before she shook her head. “My parents and younger brother were killed by a drunk driver just after I graduated high school.” My heart sank. She seemed as though she’d surprised herself by divulging this to me. I desperately wished I could take the question back as I gazed into her green eyes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Her smile was forced. “It was a long time ago.” I nodded, still mentally kicking myself and wondering if that was why she hadn’t been drinking tonight. “What about you? Do your parents live around here?”

  “My mom raised me, but she lives in up-state New York now with her second husband. I haven’t seen much of my dad since they divorced when I was three.”

  She gave me an understanding nod and met my gaze. “What keeps you here in Florida, your band?”

  I shrugged and told her the truth. “You know … the band, the beach, the feeling of being at home.”

  “Yeah,” she said half-heartedly. But I saw questions in her eyes that I wasn’t expecting before she turned away. I wondered how long it had been since she’d felt truly at home anywhere.

  Chapter 6

  The rhythmic tapping of hickory drumsticks echoed throughout the lobby of the recording studio. Near the door, my best friend O’Shea took another sip from his Starbucks cup and let out an impatient sigh. This was the first time our band, Catalyst, had gotten together on official business since we finished touring four months ago. We’re all good friends, so we’d been hanging out on and off during the summer, but we hadn’t gotten together with the intent of working on new material until tonight. It’s sort of a ritual to play all night and get the creative juices flowing. We’d been on a much needed break, but now it was time to work again and we needed new material for the next record. The rep from our record label, Celebrity Dent, thought we were wasting time. Luckily our manager, Wes, insisted on our behalf that this rehearsal was a necessary part of the process. Jonas, our bass player, had never been what one might consider punctual, but his tardiness wasn’t helping us in the wasting time area.

  Chase, our drummer, was rambling on about the bullet bike he’d just bought and O’Shea was at least pretending to listen. My mind was preoccupied with the fact that I didn’t have any new songs to show the guys tonight.

  As a musician, it’s rare for me to let a day go by without playing my favorite guitar at home, but lately nothing seemed to come together. It seemed like an eternity had passed since we had started the recording of our last record, Recycled Coma. I had been ready then. I’d come to the studio with sheets of hand written lyrics and melodies and a CD I’d recorded at home with my ideas. Maybe I’d still been riding the high that our first tour had given me. Being part of a newly discovered band had given me a lot of material. We’d been all around the world in a short period of time and, vain as it may seem, we’d had a lot to say about it.

  I’d left Aurora’s house last night feeling more upbeat than I had in weeks. After retrieving my car at the lounge, I had driven around town for almost an hour just listening to the radio and sorting out the jumble of thoughts and emotions in my head. Meeting Aurora had made a small part of me feel like a teenager again, and the prospect of getting to know her better was at the forefront of my mind. Unfortunately, I had other things I needed to be worrying about at the present, such as the fact that I was back in the studio again and expected to write some brilliant songs.

  I’d written a few songs during our break which led to the impromptu performance at the lounge last night to test them out on a crowd. The response had been good, but I wasn’t convinced that the material was completely deserving of the cheers. The songs weren’t bad, but they weren’t incredible either, and that wasn’t something I could live with.

  I ran a hand through my hair, fighting back the slight wave of panic that was rising within me. I wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. I didn’t have anything to offer this time around. That’s probably not unusual for some bands, but I don’t normally function this way. Was it possible for a musician to have writer’s block? I was just so used to having lyrics pop into my head and occupying my dreams at night that my present lack of inspiration was freaking me out.

  The guys were counting on me, especially O’Shea (ou
r lead guitarist and my best friend since middle school). He was always telling the press that it was my innate ability to write with raw emotion that enabled Catalyst to forge our way to the top of the Billboard charts so quickly. I knew that was just his way of teasing me for always wearing my heart on my sleeve, but now, a secure recording contract and two number one albums later, I was afraid that the little creative block I was experiencing might throw the other members of the band into a panic … with good reason.

  As if all of that wasn’t enough, something else was on my mind. All week I’d been dreaming of a beautiful woman with long black hair. (Okay, so I was only assuming she was beautiful because I hadn’t actually gotten to see her face. But judging by the rest of her, I was pretty confident in my assumption that she was drop-dead gorgeous.) The dreams were actually quite pleasant with her drifting around vaguely in my subconscious, almost like she was teasing me. Both times I’d woken abruptly, feeling as if I’d been right on the brink of identifying her. As much as I tried to brush the dreams from the forefront of my mind, I couldn’t completely shake my curiosity about who my mystery woman might be. I could already see myself searching the crowds for her, which was a little premature considering we hadn’t even started to record the album yet, let alone release it and organize a tour.

  “Sorry guys.”

  The familiar voice brought me out of my thoughts and I looked up to see Jonas, our tall, lanky, bass player saunter into the room. I rose to my feet, wanting to get things started.

  “What do you say we get in there and jam until our fingers bleed?” I smiled, glad that I sounded more confident than I felt, and my mood seemed to be infectious.

  “It’s about time,” Chase said in agreement, jumping to his feet a little too quickly.

  Twenty minutes later we were all set up in a room at the end of the hall. Guitars and drum heads tuned, we were geared up for our all-nighter.

  Okay, so maybe my creativity had taken a vacation lately, but being with the guys and playing again was seriously good for my soul. If this couldn’t jumpstart my songwriting then nothing would. (I didn’t want to think about that last part too hard. I needed some new material and fast, or I was … well … screwed.)