After the first hour we’d gotten a little sidetracked by a trip down memory lane that had us jamming out to songs from our favorite bands that we’d listened to in high school. It was reminiscent of the days we spent playing in O’Shea’s garage. Of course, that had been back before we’d had access to studios and rehearsal rooms, hoards of screaming fans and what we jokingly referred to as “our people.” (Chase overuses the phrase ‘We’ll have our people call your people’, but the fact that we’d gone from a loser garage band to having “people” was pretty sweet.)
Four hours after we started playing, our manager Wes stopped in to check on us. Wes came bearing gifts in the form of pizza and excessively caffeinated drinks. (He knows us too well.) After eating, I went back into the rehearsal room and strapped on Liza, my green Fender Strat. I could feel the pressure of O’Shea’s expectant gaze before I met his eyes.
“You got anything for us tonight?” O’Shea pushed some of his black hair out of his eyes.
It was almost painful to hear the hope in his voice, knowing that I was about to shatter it. My palms were growing hot and wiped them on my back pockets before grabbing a pick. “I … uh … I’ve written a few things but nothing to be too excited about. I’m working on a new song right now but …well … it’s not really ready yet.” I mentally kicked myself for the uneven quality to my voice.
“Awe … c’mon.” O’Shea stuck his lower lip out in a pout.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the pathetic look on his face. “Dork. Does that ever actually work on anyone?” He threw his pick at me and it bounced off of my chest, landing with a ‘tink’ on the wooden floor. “Ouch.” I said in an exaggerated tone, making him chuckle.
“He’ll bring us the song when he’s ready,” Chase piped in once the laughter died. “That’s just how Trey works, you know that,” he said simply.
“Whatever.” O’Shea slugged my shoulder halfheartedly. “It’s no big deal. I’ve got a few ideas I want to bounce off of you anyway.”
I tried not to let them see me sigh in relief as O’Shea grabbed a new pick from his mic stand and went into a catchy riff he’d been working on. I was off the hook for now, but I knew that my little white lie wouldn’t buy me much time. I could already see the hours I’d be spending in my studio at home trying to come up with something to pitch to them.
O’Shea’s riffs were good, but unfortunately it wasn’t enough to trigger my own streak of genius like I’d hoped it might. The studio was almost empty now as I sat on a stool playing Liza. I saw someone approaching from the corner of my eye and looked up to see Chase. He stopped when he reached me, a curious look on his face. (Or maybe it was just a confused look. It’s sometimes hard to tell with him.)
“Hey man,” I said. “I thought you’d left already.”
“I’m not in a hurry to get anywhere.”
“No plans with Tatiana?” I was referring to his current flavor of the week.
“With who?” He laughed at his own joke.
I chuckled and nodded to the couch nearby, putting my guitar down. He took a seat without hesitation and pulled off his hat, running a hand over his messy short blond hair. Chase is my height but he’s he spends more time in the gym than any of us. I swear he’s packed on more muscle since I saw him just last week. He doesn’t have a problem meeting girls, but never can seem to date the same one for long. He’s also never been particularly observant, which is why his next question surprised me.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
I heard the sincerity in his voice and looked up to meet his gaze. A big part of me wanted to confess that I was struggling with the writing, but the rest of me was screaming that I shouldn’t give him a reason to panic. I bit my bottom lip for a second while I debated. Chase probably wouldn’t remember this conversation by tomorrow so where was the damage in sharing with him?
I sighed, wondering how much to say and where to begin. “I’m okay,” I said. “The thought of going into the studio again is just catching me off guard a bit. I’m sure its just writer’s block or something, but I feel like there’s this empty void where the music should be.” (Okay, did I seriously just use the word void?) I wondered briefly if Chase was following but he gave me an understanding nod so I continued. “And I’ve been having these dreams….” I was suddenly reminded of a movie scene involving a comfortable couch and a shrink. I definitely didn’t want to try and explain my mystery woman to Chase. He’d either laugh at me or have me committed. “I don’t know what to do. I’m sure it will pass.”
“Well that’s easy,” Chase said simply.
I blinked a few times and raised an eyebrow at him. “It is?”
“You need a girl. That’s all.”
“You think that would solve my problems?” I asked, grinning, but Aurora’s 7-Up bottle-green eyes came to mind.
“You never really got any closure with Nikki,” he continued. “Look, what she did to you wasn’t cool by any standard, but it’s time to move on.” He studied me for a moment and said, “Have you ever thought that just maybe you’re trying too hard. You know, forcing it. Lots of bands don’t do any writing until they hit the studio. It’s not that big of a deal. You’ll work it out.”
His faith in me was both reassuring and overwhelming at the same time. I took a deep breath, considering his words, when the sound of Chase’s cell phone ringing broke through the silence. Chase answered the phone and his face beamed immediately. I knew it was a girl on the line, but I didn’t recognize the name he called her. Apparently things with Tatiana had indeed not worked out. Chase gave me an apologetic smile and I waved a dismissive hand at him. I put my guitar in the closet for safekeeping and on my way home I fought the urge to drive past Aurora’s.
Chapter 7
“Trey….”
I heard the soft whisper of my name, and I turned to look over my shoulder just in time to catch a glimpse of a woman. Even from a distance I could tell that she was staring at me, but she backed away into the shadows after I looked up. I stood up slowly and realized that the cool, smooth feel against my bare feet was actually several layers of silk material in red hues spread across a hard floor. I glanced around quickly, trying to take in my surroundings. I didn’t recognize this place, at least not in real life. I was aware that this was a dream though, because I had visited this same spot every night in my sleep for the last three weeks. I took a few steps forward until I felt the cool stone of the floor against my feet. Another sheet of silk was hanging down in front of me, obscuring my view. I thought I caught another glimpse of the woman as I reached out to brush it out of my way. I rounded the corner I’d seen her disappear into and found myself standing at one end of a hallway. I stepped onto the threadbare rug that ran the length of the hall and made my way to the front door. Just before I reached it, I remembered that it wasn’t really a door at all, but an archway with more silk material hanging down from the ceiling to block my view of what or who might be inside. I slid the curtain aside and saw that the room was empty save for a few flickering candles and a flowering plant in the corner.
Disappointed, I let the curtain of silk fall back into place and glanced down the hallway again. I realized that I had known the room was empty before I’d checked, because I’d seen it before in this same dream. I looked at the other curtained archways in the hall and tried to pull from my subconscious any prior knowledge I may have tucked away to avoid retracing my steps. My brow furrowed as I focused my train of thought, but nothing came to me. I decided my best shot at finding her, whoever she was, was to just keep going and hope that I caught up with her before I awoke.
The second room was not unlike the first and I disregarded it quickly once I realized that my mystery woman wasn’t in it. I moved on to the third archway but as I reached to pull the silken curtain aside, I heard another whisper coming from behind me. It was her. She was calling to me again. Her voice echoed off the stone on the walls and floor and carried to the very core of me, sending a chill up my spi
ne. I recognized that voice … and not just because I’d been hearing it in my dreams every night. I spun on my heels and cast my eyes about, hoping to glimpse her nearby, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Where are you?” I asked, realizing that I sounded as desperate as I felt. She didn’t answer right away, and I was suddenly aware that this part of my dream was new. Up until now I had only been remembering things as I did them again, but I was distinctly aware of the fact that I had never called out to her. Eager to see if my new attempts might bring about a change I called out again. “How can I find you?” I asked, scanning the hallway carefully with my eyes as I walked back toward the end where I had come from. “Is something keeping you from me?” I urged, praying for a response. I heard a whisper of something I couldn’t understand, like a breeze that passed by too quickly to enjoy. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to clear my head, but when I opened them again I was staring at the empty can of an energy drink that was still sitting on my nightstand from two nights ago.
I groaned and rolled over, burying my head under my pillow and wishing I could go back to sleep. I had been close this time. At least, it seemed I had been closer than I ever had to finding her. True, she hadn’t answered me when I’d called out, but I could definitely feel that something was coming. And her voice … it was Aurora’s voice. It had always been Aurora’s voice. At least, it seemed that way now. My mind was racing at the thought of it, but unfortunately so was my heart, which meant that I probably wasn’t going to be sleeping again anytime soon. I sat up reluctantly and ran a hand through my messy hair. A glance at the clock on the wall told me it was already one o’clock. It had been a late night last night, but I hadn’t expected to sleep so long. A scratch on the other side of my bedroom door let me know that Cowboy, my miniature pinscher, had been patiently waiting for me wake up. I sauntered to the door and opened it, bending over to let him jump into my arms.
“Hey boy.” I laughed as I tried to keep my face as far away from his tongue as possible. “Have you been good?”
My stomach led me to the kitchen and I saw that he’d done minimal damage while I’d been in my coma-like state. He was still a pup, and although he was getting better at not destroying my belongings, we still struggled at times. I saw the remains of a Rolling Stone magazine on the living room floor and rolled my eyes at him. “If you’re going to eat a magazine,” I said in the best authoritative voice I could conjure, “at least pick the Sports Illustrated that keeps coming in the mail even though I didn’t subscribe, okay?”
He cocked his ears back and looked at me expectantly, letting his tongue hang out. I took that as a mutual agreement and set him down. I checked to make sure his food bowl was full and then made myself a sandwich which I chased with a bottle of water I had in the refrigerator. I’d been craving a tall glass of cold milk, but now that we were hitting the studio again, it was time to take care of my voice and milk was out of the question.
I showered and threw on some jeans and a tee-shirt. Cowboy followed me down to my in-home studio. The scent of guitar polish I’d used in here yesterday still lingered. The smell was oddly comforting as I walked toward my Ibanez acoustic guitar. It was nestled comfortably in its stand, waiting to be played. Not only was it my first guitar, but it was pretty much the only thing I had from my dad. He’d given it to me just before the divorce, but it was months before I could bring myself to pick it up and teach myself how to play. I’d viewed the instrument as a useless object at first because all I’d really wanted was for my dad to be around. It hadn’t taken long to realize that the old guitar wasn’t the enemy, but rather a way to channel my frustration into something productive. Although this guitar was now my favorite, it was only one of the many guitars I had stashed in this room. The closet (because this was actually intended to be a spare bedroom) was full of guitars. I’d remodeled the inside to include a mahogany rack to keep them safe and organized. A little overindulgent, perhaps, but collecting guitars had become a hobby of mine ever since I’d made enough money to afford it.
I snatched up a pick from the pile of them on my computer desk and sat down on the stool in the middle of the room. It took several moments of listening for the beat of the strings on the guitar before I had adjusted them so the instrument was in tune with itself. Then I began strumming chords. I played for about fifteen minutes before I fell into the familiar magic of a hook forming. I was humming along, but realized I needed to give life to the song if it was going to grow. I reached for a notepad, something else I always keep handy on the computer desk. Once I’d found a pen I put the notepad on a music stand and pulled it toward me where I could lean over and write comfortably. With the dream still vivid in my mind, words started pouring out of me and onto the paper.
I spend my days
Waiting for the night
The hours pass with fading light
She’s a poison; I’m addicted
To the sweet and secret darkness….
I paused often to strum the chords in succession and check the timing of the lyrics I was writing. When I looked up at the clock on the computer, I realized I’d been in the room for over an hour. As far as songwriting goes, it was the most productive hour I’d spent in months. All of a sudden I couldn’t wait to get to the studio that night, but that was hours away. I chewed on my bottom lip for a second and then put the Ibanez down, pulling my cell phone from my pocket. O’Shea answered on the fourth ring.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I was wondering if we could go to the studio sooner than eight.”
“Why? What’s up? Did you finally finish that song?”
“Uh, yeah,” I agreed. It wasn’t a lie. The song was as finished as it was going to be until I had the band together. He didn’t really need to know that I hadn’t started it until an hour ago. “I’ve done all I can with it by myself,” I added.
“I’m game,” he said slowly. “But I don’t know where Chase and Jonas are. If you can get them there we’ll do it.”
“Meet me there in half an hour,” I said. He started to speak again but I interrupted, not wanting to give him a chance to change his mind. “Just be there. I’ll worry about the guys.”
“Whatever you say, man. I’ll call the studio and let them know we’re coming.”
“Thanks O’Shea. Later.” I hung up the phone, feeling more hopeful than I had in a long time. Aurora, both in real life and in my dream, had given me what I needed to get the creative juices flowing again: a muse.
I sent a text to Chase and Jonas at the same time. New song finished. Studio in half hour?
Chase’s reply came only seconds later. Texting was his preferred method of communication and he always had his phone nearby. What about 2night?
Why wait? I typed back.
Got it. C u there.
I sat back down at the computer and quickly typed up the lyrics I’d handwritten with the basic chord structure and printed out enough copies for each of us and a few extras. When Jonas still hadn’t texted me back, I sighed and punched number five on my speed dial, listening to the Paramore song he had set as a ringback tone while I waited. It was common knowledge that Jonas had a huge crush on Hayley Williams. We’d toured with them during Warped Tour, and being around her so much had only added fuel to the fire. He was a lost cause.
Still no answer.
When his voicemail picked up I hung up the phone. He wouldn’t be checking that if he wasn’t checking his texts. I put my Ibanez in a gig bag and carried it down the hall toward the kitchen. I found my keys on the countertop and hollered for Cowboy who came running around the corner so fast that he slid across the tile for a good foot and a half. I laughed and patted my leg to show him where I was as I opened the door into the garage.
“C’mon boy. We’ve got some work to do.”
With Cowboy sitting happily on the center console, I put my Mazda in reverse and backed out onto the road. Jonas’s house wasn’t far, and I was soon pulling up alongsi
de the curb in his front yard. I couldn’t tell if his vehicle was there or not, because he had a two car garage. But there was a light on in the house. I grabbed Cowboy and carried him with me to Jonas’s front door where I raised a fist and banged loudly. The doorbell had never worked, at least not while Jonas had owned the place. The door opened to reveal a young woman in her early twenties.
I greeted her with my best smile. “Hey Tara. Is your brother by chance hiding in here somewhere?”
She held out her arms to take Cowboy and invited me inside. “He’s in the theater,” she said as I walked past her.
A few strides into the house and I realized I could have located Jonas on my own. I could hear the sound of a familiar Eric Johnson song playing loudly. Tara followed me, carrying Cowboy, as I made my way around the corner and down the three steps into the home theater where Jonas was playing ‘Cliffs of Dover’ on Guitar Hero.
“You really are a dork,” I yelled over the music, shaking my head at the wireless guitar he was playing, complete with star power guitar pedal.
“Takes one to know one,” he shot back lightly without missing a beat. Great, we’d already reverted back to being ten year olds and we hadn’t even made it to the studio yet.
I waited for him to finish the song out since it was almost over and then he turned to me, a smug smile on his face. He’d beaten his record.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“You don’t answer your phone.”
“I’m good, but even I can’t manage Guitar Hero and cell phones at the same time,” he said with a grin.
“Come on, grab your stuff. We’re going to the studio.”
“Now?”
Blood and Guitars Page 5
