by W E DeVore
“Why do you think?” she asked rhetorically, not wanting to tell him about Tori’s confession.
“You don’t think I can keep my promise?” He glanced at her sideways to confirm his suspicion.
“No, Sanger. It’s not that. You were so upset the other night, when you found out she was married. And then last night, with Avi…” She bit her lip and hesitated, wondering how much she should tell him about her concerns. She finally decided that the truth, even if it hurt, was the only path forward and said, “Ben and I are worried about you, Aaron. I’ve been around cops my whole life. You’re going to burn out or get killed in the line of duty if you don’t start taking care of yourself.” She held up her hand when he started to argue. “I don’t mean physically, cowboy.”
“You think I’m depressed,” he stated.
“No, I think you’re lonely. And that’s a bad thing for a cop to be.”
He set his jaw and replied, “Your godfather lived alone and it didn’t hurt him.”
“Ernst wasn’t alone, Aaron. He had us. He spent his days off playing with me in the garden, playing Canasta with Daddy and Bubbe, flirting with Mavis. When he had a bad day, he knew there’d always be an extra plate waiting for him at our house.” She turned and regarded Sanger’s profile as he drove them towards her home. “Ernst never had a family of his own, but he always had us.”
“I like to think that I have you, too,” he said, and Q could physically feel the hurt behind his statement.
“Of course, you do. You have me and Ben. Ernst and Bubbe, too. But I just don’t think we’re enough. Don’t get me wrong, Ben’s going to do his level best to make you the second brother in the Bordelon clan… and if Yvie has anything to say about it, you have six months, max, before she gets you down the aisle….”
He laughed out loud. “Don’t you think we should have a date first?”
She held up her hands defensively. “Don’t look at me, cowboy. I’m with you.”
Q considered her words, trying to find a way to explain without revealing the fact that Tori Gerard was still very much in love with Sanger.
“Look,” she finally said. “All I’m saying is that you picking back up with a married woman doesn’t seem like a good idea to me. It just doesn’t seem like something that would sit well with you and you have enough on your shoulders without adding a healthy dose of guilt on top. I’m sorry if I overreached, but you’re my friend and I want you to be happy. And for what it’s worth, Tori wants that, too. I thought if she knew you’d met someone, it would help you both.”
“I don’t need you to protect me. I can handle it,” he said firmly. “You’re not my moral compass, Clementine.”
“You keep your promise to me, Aaron Sanger. Stanley needs his wife right now,” she replied, just as firm.
He pulled into her driveway and put the truck in park before turning to look at her. “I promise not to do anything to interfere with Stanley’s marriage, but you have to make me a promise, too.”
“What’s that?”
“That you stay out of it. This is between me and Tori. I’m not going to sleep with her again. I promise you. But I want you to drop it.” He looked at her intently until she broke eye contact.
She reluctantly conceded defeat. “Fine. I’ll put my yenta back in its box.”
Sanger’s eyes widened and a broad grin spread across his face. “Wait. Did I just win an argument with you?”
“Maybe.” She folded her arms and pouted.
Sanger unfastened his seatbelt and turned to face her, still grinning. “No. Not maybe. I won. Say it. Say ‘Aaron Sanger you win and I lose.’”
“You’re an asshole.”
She opened the door and got out of the truck, slamming the door behind her.
He rolled down his window and leaned out of it.
“Say it…” he prodded as she walked around the truck towards her house. She stopped halfway up the walkway and turned back to him.
“You win. Happy?” she said.
“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to come closer and repeat that. I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
She walked all the way back to him. “Aaron Sanger, you win and I lose. Happy?”
He fired up the engine and put the truck in gear before flashing a wild smile. “What do you think?”
Chapter 5
I’m on Fire
The next two weeks were a blur of studio work, corporate gigs, and boredom in between with barely any time with Ben. Savion was still in a coma and, without any leads, Sanger had set aside the case as an accident, but it didn’t sit well with either of them. Q, because she couldn’t imagine Savion doing something so self-destructive; and Sanger, because he trusted her instincts.
She rested back into the bath, sipping a rum to quiet her angry throat. After knowing Stanley for so many years, she’d finally solved the mystery as to why QT and the Beasts rarely did a straight cover of one of his songs: Stanley loved to sing in every key Q hated.
Her phone rang and she reluctantly got up out of the water. Wrapping a towel around herself, she dripped bubbles onto the floor as she left a trail to the bedroom that would probably get her into trouble with Ben later. She picked up her phone where it lay on the nightstand and looked at the caller ID. When she saw ‘Son of Perdition’ displayed on the screen, Q rolled her eyes and set the phone back down without answering it to return to her bath.
After she’d finished up in the studio with Stanley a few hours earlier, she’d discovered five missed calls from Derek Sharp, none of which were followed by a text or a voice mail. He’d used this tactic before. Call her repeatedly until she finally picked up, only to tell her something insignificant like, “I think we should add one more layer to the third chorus. Thoughts, angel?”
She finished her bath and decided that she’d been neglecting her patient husband long enough. She sat on the edge of the bed and sent him a text:
Am coming to the Cove to seduce you. Pick your target.
It was one of Ben’s favorite games; having his wife show up at the Cove and act like a regular, waiting until some poor woman made a play for her husband, then make a better play herself that ended with him kissing Q.
When they’d first started dating, the female attention that Ben attracted had never really bothered her, but it had bothered him. When one particularly aggressive woman would not let it drop, Q had stepped in to rescue him from losing a regular patron.
She’d been playing a solo gig, watching the antics with amusement all night, laughing at Ben’s polite refusals and the woman’s overt solicitations. Q had waited until Ben retreated into his office for safety and the woman went back to her encouraging friends, who had been camped out near the end of the bar and as close to Ben’s office door as possible.
Q had stepped off the stage, swaggering through the bar with confidence and determination, making sure she’d bumped into the woman on the way to the office, so that she had her full attention, before knocking on the office door. While waiting for him to answer, she’d eyed the woman over her shoulder as if to say, let me show you how it’s done, sister.
When he’d opened the door, she’d glanced at the woman one more time and said, “I hear you’re finally dating someone, Bordelon. That’s a shame.”
He’d instantly caught on and said, “And why is that?”
“Because I’d like to take you home with me tonight. I’ve seen you staring at me, don’t even try to lie.” Q had looked around the bar dramatically. “Your woman here tonight?”
“No.” Ben had looked her up and down, licking his lips.
“Then let me take you to my bed after my last set and show you what you’re missing,” she’d replied, leaning her hand against the door frame to make her body as long as possible.
Then he’d leaned down and said, “Show me now.”
After they’d kissed for a solid three minutes, he’d gone back to his desk and Q had squeezed in next to the woman at the bar to order a drink,
trying not to crack up with Josh who’d been laughing silently. The woman had just stared at her, mouth agape.
Q had looked at her sideways and said, “Looks like you brought a knife to a gun fight, sister.”
For a while, it had even helped business. The rumors that a woman at the Cove had actually managed to get Ben to take her home with him, encouraged more women to make the attempt. Q was quite sure that most of the sex the male employees at the Cove had enjoyed during the first year that Ben and she lived together could be credited to their boss’s new favorite game.
Q was still deciding which skimpy gig shirt to wear when the doorbell rang. She quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and a fresh In Flames t-shirt and went downstairs to answer it. When she saw a very jittery Derek Sharp on her front porch, she was deeply annoyed.
She put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here, Cincinnati?”
He mirrored her posture. “Why aren’t you answering your phone, angel? I called you six times.”
“Yes, I know. I was in the studio, recording. Try leaving a message and telling me what you want if you expect me to call you back.”
“You were in the studio doing what?” he asked.
“None of your business. There’s no exclusivity clause in our contract.” She folded her arms and leaned against the doorjamb, making it clear he wasn’t welcome in her house. “Look, I’m about to leave for the Cove. What do you want? You look like shit.”
“I need you to come to the studio and record one more song for me.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Handing it to her, he said, “Here are the lyrics. You can listen to the bed track on the way. Get your shoes on, angel.”
“Right now? What’s the rush?” She read the piece of paper in her hand. “‘I’m On Fire’? Didn’t Bruce Springsteen write this already, like thirty years ago?”
“It’s not a cover. Go get your shoes on.”
When she didn’t move, Derek glanced away and seemed much smaller than he had been a moment earlier. She studied his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. His black hair was wilder than normal, which was saying something, and he had dark purple bruises under each red-rimmed eye. His normal shock and awe persona was awash in a tense skittishness she’d never seen and his pale blue eyes were more piercing than normal. She scanned his rail thin body for other telltale signs of drug abuse. Unfortunately, the most obvious would be hidden by the long sleeved black t-shirt and jeans he wore seemingly every day.
“You’re using, aren’t you. What are you on, Derek?” she asked finally.
He straightened his spine and shoved his hands into his back pockets, slacking back into an exhausted posture.
“Nothing, Q. I don’t even like to drink that much. I’m just exhausted. Please. I have to finish this tonight. I can’t listen to it anymore, but I can’t get the vocal right. I need you on harmony. I can’t do this alone. I thought I could, but I can’t. I need your help.” He started to rub his forehead and paced her porch like a caged animal, scratching at his head with both hands. “Please, angel, I can’t sleep. This album is getting to me. I just need to record this last song, then I can let Drake take over to mix while I take a break. I’m going to lose my mind if I work on it one more day. I’ll do anything you want, just please come with me right now and help me.”
Having experienced countless sleepless nights herself over the years, as she tried to finish a song or learn just the right solo for a new cover, she immediately took sympathy on him. Knowing how obsessively he’d been working on the disturbing concept of this album for the last seven months, she believed him when he said he couldn’t sleep. She’d had one or two nightmares of her own after recording the title track.
She sighed heavily, making it clear that she was annoyed with him. “Ok, just make it fast. Ben’s waiting on me and I don’t want to be in the studio until sunup like when we did Archangel a hundred and eighty-three times. And I’ll need a ride to the Cove after. And you will owe me one giant favor.”
◆◆◆
When they arrived at the studio, Derek was only slightly calmer. His engineer, Drake, greeted them. Derek immediately went into the live room and Drake held Q back.
“Thank you, for coming,” he said. “I’ve never seen him like this before. I thought he was going to have a nervous breakdown this afternoon when he couldn’t get a hold of you to come in.”
She looked through the glass into the live room. Derek’s personal assistant, Jesse, was speaking to him, and he seemed angry, snapping at her as she tried to reason with him.
Jesse finally screamed something at him and came into the control room. She gave Drake a worried shake of her head. “We have to finish tonight. He’s insisting on it. I can’t even get him to eat some dinner or drink a cup of his tea to calm down.”
They both looked expectantly at Q.
“I’ll do my best,” she said and walked into the live room.
Two stools were set in front of a large condenser microphone. Derek was already sitting on the one closest to the mic. She picked up the headphones off her stool and moved it to sit closer to him.
“You sure you want to do this?” she asked. “Share a mic, I mean? If one of us fucks up, we’ll lose the whole take.”
This shared mic concept had been part of the problem they’d had while recording ‘Archangel.’ After dozens of takes and retakes, they’d finally given up on the idea and retreated to separate vocal booths, but not before having a shouting match that had ended with Q threatening to quit while holding her middle finger two centimeters in front of Derek’s nose.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said. “It won’t be more than one or two takes. I’ve been singing it all day, but it doesn’t sound right. All you need to do is harmonize. Drake says this is the best way to get the sound I want. Just improvise the harmony whenever you like, I trust you.” He looked at her, his pale blue eyes staring through her. “Please try to get this right the first time, though. I’m done. I need to be done.”
“Why don’t you start fresh in the morning, Derek?” she asked, finally understanding the concern his studio team had radiated when she walked in. “Go home, eat some dinner, get some sleep. I’ll cancel my session tomorrow and work all day with you if we have to. We’ll finish it then.”
All traces of weakness vanished and he glowered at her, his jaw set.
“I already told you. I can’t fucking sleep. Goddamn it!” he screamed. “Will all of you stop arguing with me and just do what I’m asking? What the fuck do I pay you people for, anyway?”
“You want to be a little more specific with what you want, then?” she asked, frustrated that he expected her to read his mind, knowing already that she would probably fail.
“No, I do not. Just make something up. Anything. I don’t fucking care, as long as you’re in tune. For fuck’s sake, you’re the jazz musician. I thought improvisation was your thing.”
He put on his headphones, indicating that the discussion was over and Q did the same.
She spoke into the microphone to make sure she could hear herself. “I’d like to go on record as saying that you have finally gone and lost your damned mind, Cincinnati.”
Drake snickered into the talkback mic. “Noted, Q. Let’s hit it. You have a four-bar count-in.”
Derek didn’t acknowledge either of them. Instead, he nodded to his personal assistant in the control room and she pulled out her iPhone, to film them through the glass. A lilting arpeggio on an acoustic guitar accompanied by a soft synthesizer pad began to play through her headphones, before Q could ask why he was having this videotaped for posterity, or why he was acting so strange, even for him.
He closed his eyes and sang without all the rough edges that normally came with a Dark Harm vocal. Q was stunned at how pure his voice actually was.
Look out the window
Look at the walls
Hide in the attic
Listen for the siren’s call<
br />
Derek let out a wail that startled Q as the drums started a steady tribal heartbeat palpitation below the bassline pulse that began at the same time. She watched him in growing concern as he opened his mouth wide and backed off the mic, eyes closed, crying out in sorrow, until his voice nearly broke, sending a chill down her spine.
She was mesmerized by him, but something in the way he was singing disturbed her to her core, bringing up every frightening memory she had to quell every day of her life. As more and more dark thoughts rose to the surface, she struggled to push them back down. Humming softly, to distract herself from flashes of visions she’d rather forget, she began playing with a harmony as quietly as she could, not wanting to distract from his performance.
Look at the sun
Look for the one
Leave everything that you were
You’re not him, you’re not her
As his voice rose, Q took a low harmony, carefully balancing her voice to keep it below his. She read the lyrics while he sang them, attempting to make sense of how this fit into the overall structure of the album, being both sonically and lyrically so different from everything else they’d recorded.
Listen to a new song
Scratch at the scabs and the blood
Bleeding out all the wrongs
A torrent, a burning flood
You’re the reason I’m still here
You’re the reason I still breathe
You’re the reason I still fear
You’re the reason I still weep
He tapped Q’s knee and nodded to her, making a looping signal for her to continue. He pointed his finger up and she sang the bridge melody with him, doubling the vocal before moving to a higher harmony than she’d sung before and it took over her body. Her conscious mind turned itself off and she drifted outside of herself, merging with the other half of whatever dark dream had control over Derek’s psyche.
