by L. Philips
I’m betting that “whatever it is they do” has something to do with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Travis Blake, for all his skill, isn’t exactly known for being a sober, take-home-to-mama type.
As soon as I think it, a door to my right swings open and a voice fills the huge room. The voice is unmistakably smoky, husky, rough, with just enough of a depth to it to make it carry some authority as well. Another voice responds, this one high and sweet and dripping with honey.
“Travis, I’m telling you. A violin, maybe a cello. That’s how we get ‘Moon Gazer’ to where it needs to be.”
“As long as it doesn’t sound like shitty bluegrass.”
“You like bluegrass.”
“I like good bluegrass, Brendon. Note the difference.”
Then Travis Blake is standing right in front of me, in all his glory.
Besides in guitar magazines and Rolling Stone, I’ve seen him once in person, when Liquid played a few songs at a festival in the desert a year ago. Even five hundred feet away he was stunning. Up close, the full potency of him is enough to knock you out.
He’s not tall, but he’s tall enough, and he’s really lean. Skinny, even, except that you get the sense that he could win any fight he started. He’s in a charcoal- gray V-neck, his skin pale in contrast, his full sleeves of tattoos menacing but gorgeous, swirling around as his muscles move. He isn’t wearing eyeliner yet, as he does when he’s onstage, but there are some dark smudges remaining from the night before. He’s got a piercing in his lower lip and several working their way up each earlobe. His hair is shaved short on both sides of his head, leaving a strip in the middle that’s long enough to flop over to one side and hang down to his chin. It’s darker than I’ve seen it in the past, more like a dirty blond than his usual peroxide platinum. It fits him. Makes him look more Brad Pitt in World War Z instead of Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire. The sexiest thing, by far, about Travis Blake’s face is that he’s damn pretty underneath all the classic Rebel Yell toughness. Full, bowed lips, high cheekbones, delicate nose, manicured eyebrows.
Then he turns his whiskey-colored eyes on me. “Who’s this?”
Martin steps up to the plate. “These are the guys I told you about, Trav. Victor Amati, my cousin, and Nate Grisheimer.”
Travis doesn’t shake our hands, but Brendon does. Brendon is, for all intents and purposes, the star of the band. He’s got a voice that’s just otherworldly. It makes me picture things like angels ice-skating, or Pan’s hypnotic flute. Only he uses it with an attitude befitting a band with a dark, heavily electronic sound. Brendon’s golden dark skin and intense eyes make all the girls swoon. But he doesn’t play guitar, so when Liquid’s songs break into a guitar solo, Travis gets all the attention.
Travis is still staring at me. He rubs at his mouth, toying with the ring in his lip. “Grisheimer. Related to Mick?”
“Mick’s my dad. Was my dad,” I correct myself quickly.
Travis nods. “Thought so. You look like him. I used to watch some bootleg videos of his gigs and try to mimic how his hands moved. He’s most of the reason why I play like I do. Did he teach you?”
“A little,” I say. “I was pretty young when he died. It was—”
“Nine years ago,” Travis finishes for me. “Didn’t even get to finish an album, did he? I’m sorry, man. I can’t imagine. I mean, it’s kind of like 9/11 or JFK’s assassination for us guitarists. Where were you when you heard Mick was gone?” Travis pauses. “Played ‘Blue and Black’ once at a gig. The first and only time I’ll ever attempt one of his songs. Can’t do it justice.”
“I doubt that. I’ve seen you play.”
Travis doesn’t thank me for the compliment, but he accepts it with a blink and a meaningful look. Then he turns to Martin. “As long as we’ve got a guitarist for the next few weeks, let him tune me up before I hit the stage. I don’t want Rob touching my shit again. Jesus.” He turns back to me. “I went on last night and was playing in practically a different key from everyone else. Totally flat. He tells me later, ‘Sorry, man, forgot that guitar.’ Dude, you have one job.”
I fight a gasp, dumbstruck at the horror of it. “What did you do?”
Travis shrugs. It’s with so much James Dean swagger, I can barely handle it. “I played the first song a half step higher.”
Naturally. Naturally a guitarist like Travis Blake would just roll with it instead of pausing the performance to tune. And of course he would be able to do it as simply as he does anything else.
“Mick Grisheimer’s son,” he says, but it’s more to himself than anything else. “Shit. That’s incredible. Can’t wait to hear what you can do. Let’s play sometime, okay?” He starts toward the doors at the side of the stage. Time for that Jack Daniel’s, apparently. “I’ll be out for check in an hour, Marty,” he calls over his shoulder before he disappears backstage.
Brendon flashes his pretty smile at us. “I should warm up. And I need to check on Murray and V. They fought again this morning.”
Murray and Vanessa are dating, which all of Liquid’s fans know. They also know that the relationship between them dictates the entire temperature of the band some days. If they fought this morning, tonight’s show might be rough. Or it might just be freaking spectacular. Angry and edgy and hard.
Then Brendon’s gone too, and Martin is left to be the boss. “Okay, guys,” he says, and already seems to be a little annoyed that he has to teach some newbies. “Let’s start with going over all the things you should absolutely, under no circumstances, by threat of death, ever touch.”
And just like that, I’m a roadie for Liquid.
Chapter Seven
Cameron
“Coffee,” I moan. “My god, I need coffee.”
Tess looks up from some paperwork. She is, at the moment, in my office with me, and we’re trying to pool our collective knowledge about the business, which, in the scheme of things, is probably barely 10 percent of what my dad knows.
“You do have a Keurig, you know.”
I look over at the bar area, where I do indeed have a Keurig, as well as a mini fridge and a basket of snacks that magically get refilled whenever supply runs low. I suspect Parker. “I know, but we could go out.”
Tess glances at the clock and sighs with exasperation. “It will be lunchtime soon, Cam.”
“All the more reason to go now. Let coffee break time blend into lunchtime.”
She looks back down at her paperwork, but there’s a smile on her face now. “I admire your work ethic.”
“Things are going fine,” I defend. And I’m not lying. So far today we finalized the contract for the Zippers, had a meeting about Luke Miles, and started on winter tour schedules for both. The coffee will be well earned. “How about a quick cup, we’ll check in with Luke’s agent, then we go to lunch at the Oaks?”
My sister cannot resist lunch at the Oaks. I know this for a fact. Her nose wrinkles up. “Fine. Twist my arm.”
Seconds later we’re in my Audi, top down, Luke’s rough cuts cranked up high. I sing along before I can stop myself, and Tess looks over at me, her auburn hair flying beautifully in the wind.
“This is close to the sound you should have, I think,” she says, and she’s not wrong. It’s my wheelhouse.
“Yeah. But I want it to be a little more homegrown. A little less polished.”
Tess gets me. It’s not even a twin thing; she just knows music, like all of us do. It’s been in the Pierce family for four generations now. “Any word from your mystery man?”
“I was hoping he’d contacted you,” I say. Hoping is the understatement of the year.
“Not a word,” Tess says. Then she gets her phone out. I only half keep my eyes on the road, sneaking peeks at her screen whenever it’s safe. “Uh-oh,” she finally says.
“What?”
“He’s gone.”
“His profile. It’s been deleted. Or blocked. Or maybe deactivated. I can’t tell which.”
“All of them?”
Out of my periphery I can see her check her other accounts. “Yep. All of them. Gone or blocked.”
“I can’t say I blame him. I probably scared the shit out of him.” I hit a button on my steering wheel and Luke’s voice grows quieter. “Hey, do you have his address still?”
Tess raises a brow, perfectly arched. “You can’t seriously be suggesting we go by his house. . . .”
“Jon told me this morning that our people got the paps to leave. I just think it might be nice to check in and apologize.” I shrug. “You know, grovel for forgiveness.”
Tess is giving me the side eye.
“Come on. I have to do something. If you’d have seen the look on his face when he realized I was a Pierce, and then he gets bombarded by TMZ the next day . . . I mean, no wonder he ran. I need to make this better and, selfishly, I need to feel better. I feel awful for putting him through this.”
Not to mention I’d just like to see him again.
Tess sighs, but regardless of the disapproval coming off her in waves, she reaches over and types Nate’s address into the GPS screen on my dash. The map tells me to head south to a neighborhood I’ve never heard of before.
“Cam, if he doesn’t want to talk to you . . .”
“I know,” I say, and we do our twin thing, both knowing exactly what the other is thinking.
Before long we pull into a cul-de-sac. Nate’s house is almost at the end. I glance around for any reporters, and breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t see any. I look at his house. It’s a small one-story with peeling brown trim and yellow siding that looks as though it needs to be replaced. And clearly, no one who lives here gives a flying rat’s ass about landscaping. There are no cars in the driveway, no lights on, and the blinds are down.
“Doesn’t exactly look welcoming,” Tess says.
“Hey, we have gates to keep people from nosing into our lives. You can’t blame the guy for shutting up his house like Fort Knox.” I pull into the driveway and put the Audi in park, but I don’t bother turning the engine off. If my guess is right, even if he answers the door, he’ll tell me exactly where I can go next. I nod to Tess. “Be right back.”
Nerves on high alert, I walk up the cracked sidewalk to the front door. There’s even a blind pulled down over the small window cutouts. I take a moment to think about what I’m going to say and then promptly give up. There’s not much to say except to apologize, and hope he doesn’t try to deck me. I raise my hand and push the doorbell.
The pleasant sound of it ringing inside the house is in complete dissonance with my racing thoughts, and my heartbeat thumping in my ears, but that’s all I hear. There’s no barking dog, no stirring inside the house. It’s empty. Still, I wait a whole minute before making my way back to the car, relieved but disappointed at the same time.
“Should I leave him a note?” I ask Tess as I climb back into the driver’s seat.
“So that the paps can steal it and publish it? I think not.”
“I guess. Still, it would be nice to apologize and . . . talk to him again.” Tess opens her mouth, but I cut her off. “Not on Twitter. It’s too easy and too public.”
As I head out of the cul-de-sac, I place a call to Jon at Paradise’s security. He answers on the first ring, his voice filling my two-seater via speakerphone.
“Hi, Jon. Got a quick question for you. You said the paparazzi left Nate’s house. But are you still watching it?”
“Not anymore,” Jon answers. “He didn’t come back this morning.”
“Sheesh, you really did scare him off,” Tess mutters.
I ignore her unsolicited opinion. “He didn’t come home? Where did he go?”
“I can’t say, sir. We didn’t have anyone tail him. Didn’t seem right to do that to him. But his friend came and left the house with a few large bags. I’d say he’s left town for a few days at least. I could have someone investigate?”
I glance over at Tess, and she shakes her head.
“No,” I say. “If that was too much attention for him, God knows a relationship would be terrifying. I should leave him alone.”
“There are other fish in the sea, sir.”
I smile at how sincere he sounds, and that it’s from someone on the Paradise staff. “Thanks for your help, Jon.”
I hit the button again and the speakers go back to playing Luke. Tess, doing her twin thing again, knows better than to talk about it right now. “So, lunch? You know, I really should have a salad. God, maybe even just a brothy soup. I totally blew the diet yesterday.”
And although I can’t and won’t say it to her, because I know that her whole life depends on her looking good, I want to tell her that she’s way too thin for her frame and I’d rather see her be healthy than skinny. But that is a conversation for another time.
“I’m not taking you to the Oaks for brothy soup,” I say instead. “You know I’m not a cheapskate, but there is never a good reason to pay twenty dollars for warm water. You’re getting a freaking steak.”
She throws her arms up in the wind, lets the breeze cool her. “Compromise? Tuna steak?”
“Tuna steak,” I agree.
A few minutes pass, the warm California sun improving our moods with each passing block. Then Tess says, “You okay?”
We’ve arrived at the Oaks, and I pull up to the valet parking area. The man who comes to take my keys, probably ten years my senior, addresses me as “sir” and “Mr. Pierce” in the same breath. I wonder briefly what will happen when I start wearing suits all the time like Father. No one will ever call me Cam again, I suppose.
I finally answer my sister as we walk into the restaurant. “Yeah. I mean, I thought he had promise, you know? In that brief few minutes, he really got me. But I can’t blame him for not wanting to be involved with someone like me.”
“Like us,” Tess amends.
We’re seated immediately, at a table by a huge window with a lovely view of the courtyard.
“Like us,” I agree, and unfold my menu, even though I know what I’ll get. It’s lunchtime, but that’s no reason to skip out on the best filet in town and eat light instead. It occurs to me that the price on the menu isn’t even listed. You don’t eat here if you have to have prices on the menu. You don’t get a window seat if you aren’t a regular, and if your name doesn’t carry any weight. And you don’t get addressed by the valet by name if you’re not important in this town. I look over my menu and make eye contact with Tess, as the full brunt of the world she and I live in hits me. “We aren’t exactly normal.”
“Yes, but who wouldn’t want this?” she says, gesturing around us at the fancy dining room, and although I do love what our money and name affords us, I find myself unable to agree so readily. She lifts her water goblet to her mouth and takes a sip. “Maybe that’s telling. That he wouldn’t want a guy who could give him this.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But maybe not in the way you mean.”
Tess shrugs. She truly does enjoy living the life she leads. Then again, Father knows about—and seems okay with—her not wanting to be part of the family business. Not to sound like an ass, but she hasn’t known the pressure of being the future head of the family. Of Paradise. I’ve known it since before I could talk. I’ve felt it since before I could talk.
“There is something you need to think about, though, now that Nate’s removed himself from the picture,” Tess says, drawing me out of my self-inflicted bitterness.
I raise a brow. “And that is . . . ?”
“You still need a guitarist.”
Nate
One whole week into being a roadie and I’ve fallen into a routine. We head to a new town, have late breakfast
/early lunch, check out the venue, and start to work. Vic and I run cables and cords, lift heavy speakers, shift monitors. Then, right before sound check and not a moment sooner, I tune Travis’s guitars. Then I tune them again before the show. Lastly, I touch up the tuning during the concert itself. Although I’m used to doing it now, it still feels like the guitars are too sacred to touch.
Travis plays three different guitars onstage but keeps about six with him at all times. Two are electric, sleek and heavy and perfect, and they seem to vibrate even when they’re not plugged in. Okay, I might be exaggerating, but really, a guy like me lives for guitars like these, the ones used so well that they seem to have some sort of power left in them, even when they’re not being played.
Then there’s the acoustic. The band’s sound is too electronic for much use of an acoustic guitar, so it surprised me that he even kept one onstage, but a couple of days in I saw why. The crowd was especially awesome that night, really energetic, so Travis brought out the acoustic and treated everyone to a stripped-down version of one of their ballads. Just Travis’s incredible guitar and Brendon’s incredible voice. After the show, the band invited some close friends and the crew to their hotel rooms to bask in the afterglow. Four more venues went by before they did an encore like that again, and it’s on that night that Travis hands me a small hotel tumbler filled with whiskey and asks me to bring out my guitar.
It takes me downing that glass and half of another before I work up the courage to grant him his request.
I don’t have to be so nervous, though. When I come back with my father’s acoustic in hand, Travis has moved out to the hotel room balcony, away from the others. We’re halfway between L.A. and San Francisco, and I’ll be damned if I know the name of the town (both a pro and con to touring, not knowing where you are but finding you don’t give a shit). Liquid is signed to a great indie label, one that gives them a lot of freedom even if it’s not a lot of money, and quite frankly, everyone can sense it: they’re not going to stay small potatoes long. They’re on the verge, the precipice, even. All it’s going to take is one more good review, one more notable person saying their name, one more popular video on YouTube. Small potatoes will turn into big fries.
