Sometime After Midnight

by L. Philips

  She lets her hand fall away and looks at me again. This time, it’s evident how much the past eight years have taken a toll on her, physically and otherwise. She looks like she has the kind of exhaustion that never goes away. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ve got a better idea. Think Victor can manage the Dairy Barn on his own for a few hours?”

  I have my doubts, but now is certainly not the time to bring them up. “Sure. I’ll text him. Why?”

  “I need to show you something. Come on.”

  I grab Dad’s masters and follow, not sure what she wants to show me, or where it would even be in our tiny house. I’m even more confused when she leads me out to the garage, motioning to the old Subaru Outback she drives.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, opening the passenger-side door.

  She looks at me with what might be the closest I’ve seen to a smile in ages. “Somewhere I should have taken you long ago.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Cameron

  “Maybe he’s sleeping,” Tess says as she watches me fling some shirts and a pair of jeans into a duffel bag. “I mean, you two had a long weekend, then he went home and listened to his dad’s stuff and so he might be out cold. Or maybe he forgot to charge his phone and it’s dead.”

  “I’ve called and texted a million times and nothing,” I say, stepping into my bathroom. I grab only the important things: deodorant and a toothbrush. I step back out, tossing those in the duffel too. “It’s been nearly twelve hours, Tess, and he promised he would call me, even if it was bad news. That’s not like him. So I texted Victor. Nate didn’t show up for his work shift. I mean, best-case scenario is he’s run off with a band again. Worst case . . .”

  I can’t finish the thought. Tess sinks onto my bed, knotting her long legs up underneath her like a pretzel. She reminds me of a baby deer. “So what’s your plan? You can’t just aimlessly wander the streets.”

  “I think he’s with Travis Blake.” Tess stares at me. “You remember, guitarist for Liquid?”

  “I know who he is,” Tess says. “Why do you think Nate’s with Travis? Wait, when you say ‘with Travis,’ do you mean . . .”

  “No. It’s not like that between them,” I say. “Travis is his musical mentor or something. If he wanted to talk about the recordings with someone, it’d be with him. And even if there was something between them before, I don’t think Nate would do that to me. I really don’t.”

  Tess studies me, her face soft. “It wasn’t that long ago that he hated your guts. And now you trust him not to break your heart.”

  “He wouldn’t unless he had to,” I say. I zip my duffel and stand there, staring dumbly at it. “I know. It’s crazy. And I let him walk out with his dad’s master recordings last night. If he does something with them, I’m done for. But he won’t.” I look at Tess, smiling. “Like I said, I know it’s crazy.”

  “You’re in love.”

  I take a breath, exhale, and admit the truth. “Yeah. You know me, the romantic.”

  “You say that about yourself, probably because you’re a poet with your lyrics, but I’m not so sure that’s true, Cam. Even with Harry you were cautious. You’ve always been a bit guarded, really. You and I have to be.” She regards me with curiosity. “But not with Nate. He opened you up.”

  I hear her words and know she’s right. I’ve never seen myself that way, but she’s right. And she’s right about what Nate has done to me.

  I shrug. “Still. It’s too soon to be talking like this.”

  “Maybe,” Tess says. She stands and walks over to the chair in the sitting area, where one of my leather jackets is thrown over an arm. She picks it up and smooths a crease. “But maybe it’s exactly the right time.”

  She hands me the jacket. I smile at it. “You are definitely Mom’s daughter. I don’t think I’ve ever been allowed to go anywhere without a jacket.”

  “A Pierce never travels without one.” Tess leans forward and plants a kiss on my forehead. “Be safe. Call me as soon as you know what’s going on.”

  I promise I will, and then I’m gone.

  * * *

  ***

  It’s not hard to track down Travis Blake and Liquid. Parker makes a few calls, talks to a few of the right people, and we have a location: Somewhat Damaged Studios, in San Bernardino.

  I drive in silence, even though I have our demo on my phone and could easily crank it up. I don’t want to listen to Nate and me right now, though, but no other music seems right, either.

  I walk into the studio like I own it, because that’s how I’m used to walking into studios. The girl behind the desk looks up at me through cat-eye glasses, startled. Recognition flashes behind her eyes and along with that, I note, fear.

  “Um, welcome to Somewhat Damaged. How can I help you, Mr. Pierce?”

  I eye her outfit and silently approve. She’s wearing a truly vintage tank top with Axl Rose’s face plastered on it, black jeans, and boots so chunky, they practically double the size of her feet. I smile and try to put her at ease.

  “I wondered if it would be possible to speak with Travis Blake.”

  She stands, and she’s shorter than I thought. “Sure, um, let me go see if he’s available. Would you like water while you wait? Tea?”

  “No, but thank you.”

  She takes a few steps toward a set of double doors, then turns back to me. “Mr. Pierce, what shall I tell Mr. Blake this is in regard to?”

  I glance down at the nameplate next to her desk. “Relax, Bree. He already turned Paradise down flat. I’m just here for advice.”

  She closes her eyes and smiles, relieved. “Of course. Just a moment.”

  She disappears through the doors and I wait. Not even a minute later Travis Blake himself comes through the doors, followed by Bree, who takes a seat at her desk and pretends to get back to work.

  “I never thought I’d see the day a Pierce stepped into this studio,” Travis says, voice like gravel and dirt. Despite his words, he doesn’t look surprised in the slightest to see me. He extends a hand and I shake it. “I can’t believe Bree even let you in. She usually spots a suit and hits the automatic door lock.”

  He smiles over at the receptionist, who is now thoroughly blushing.

  “Can you blame me?” she says. “Look at him.”

  “Bree, baby, you wound me. I thought you and I had a thing going,” Travis says, winking at her. She rolls her eyes at him, and I can tell she genuinely enjoys Travis and absolutely does not put up with his bullshit.

  “Besides,” Travis says, turning his considerably powerful gaze to me, “unless those photos in the tabloids were fakes, this one’s taken.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I say. “Is he with you?”

  Travis searches my eyes, and in answer says, “Follow me.”

  We push through the double doors and then down a hallway. Travis makes a left and suddenly we’re in a room with a setup I’m all too familiar with: instruments everywhere, microphones and cords scattered all over the place, a large window that looks into a room with all the control boards, and soundproofing panels on every square inch of the walls.

  I’m a big enough fan of Liquid to know each of the members as they stop what they’re doing and stare at me and Travis as we enter. Brendon, the lead singer with his cover boy face; Murray, scruffy and muscular; and Vanessa, with her trademark pink hair and towering height. She reminds me a bit of Tess for some reason, and it hits me with my second glance at her that it’s the confidence she radiates, just like my sister.

  “Cameron Pierce,” Brendon says. He whistles softly. “Has anyone checked the pigs for wings? A Pierce at Somewhat Damaged. I’ll be.”

  “Hi,” I say, feeling kind of like a square. “Big fan of your voice, man.”

  “Back at ya.” Brendon winks and I briefly wonder how Nate made it through a Li
quid tour without keeling over from the pure gorgeousness residing in this room. Between Brendon and Travis, it’s deadly.

  “I’d offer you a chair but we mostly stand to record, so . . . amp?” Travis says, gesturing to a large one behind me.

  “Sure. Thanks.” I sit, and he sits opposite me on a monitor and sips from one of the many water bottles that are half-empty and all over the place. The rest of the band goes on with their business, ignoring us, chatting and moving around equipment.

  “We’re in between takes at the moment. You caught us at a good time. For some reason this song just isn’t gelling. Rob’s thinking of cutting it.” Travis jerks his head in the direction of the sound booth, where a serious-looking bearded fellow is fiddling with various knobs. Travis regards me with scrutiny. “As you can see, Nate’s not here, man.”

  “Any clue where he is?”

  Travis hesitates, to the point where I wonder if maybe I was wrong when I told Tess there was nothing between them. At least not now. But had there been, on tour? My hands get clammy.

  Finally, Travis speaks. “He texted me this morning.” Anger flares within me, anger and wild jealousy. Maybe his lack of texts is the answer I don’t want to hear. Travis goes on, oblivious to my swirling emotions. “Said he’d been talking with Tonya. I guess she kept a lot of Mick’s things, so they were going out to see them.”

  “Out to see them?”

  Travis jerks a shoulder and takes another sip from yet another half-empty water bottle. “Some storage locker way out in the middle of freaking nowhere.”

  I let that sink in. “Well, I’m glad he’s talking to his stepmother. They needed that, I think. So is he still there? Where is it?”

  This time, when Travis hesitates, I’ve had enough. “Look, I know you don’t like me. Or at the very least you don’t trust me. That’s what your type does: they hate my type. We’re suits. Bloodsuckers. We only care about the bottom line, not the artistry. Am I right? That’s what you think? But I have to tell you, if Liquid was with Paradise right now, we would have let you make the record you wanted to make, and you would have had more backing you. You’d be on a world tour right now, not just a West Coast deal at every dive on the way. We’d have you opening for someone who packs arenas. If you see that as a bad thing, fine. But don’t let that prejudice fool you into thinking I don’t care about Nate, and that I’m not worried sick right now, and that I won’t use all I have at my fingertips to find him. That would be a big mistake, Travis.”

  Travis looks at me, doubt still plain on his face. “Regardless of how I feel about you, it’s that it’s not my place, man. I think Nate wanted to do this alone. I mean, I’m no psychologist, but my guess is, for some reason, he hasn’t truly grieved until now, and I’m sure this whole thing with you is bringing some shit up to the surface.”

  “You have no idea,” I say. I lean forward and bury my head in my hands, forcing my breathing to slow. When I look up at Travis, he’s studying me with concern and curiosity. “We talked to my father last night. Nate heard his side of everything. And then Nate listened to Mick’s recordings.”

  “I figured your dad destroyed them,” Travis says, shaking his head in disbelief, or maybe even shock. “In fact, I was sure he did. No one’s ever even heard them.”

  “For a while, I thought that too. But Nate has them. He took them home last night and he’s been unreachable today and I knew something was wrong.” I bite my lip. “So he’s going through his dad’s old things in a storage locker in the middle of nowhere and he wants to be alone.”

  Travis takes a long pull from another random water bottle, studying me. “But you want to go to him.”

  “It’s all I can do not to search every storage unit from here to Tijuana.”

  Something shifts in Travis’s amber eyes, though his face remains stuck in a doubtful expression. “Do you know what your dad said to me when I told him Liquid wouldn’t sign with Paradise? He asked what would change my mind. And he listened when I told him.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I didn’t want to be a slave to a suit. That I wanted to be represented by people who actually understood good music.”

  I can’t even imagine saying these words to my father, but then again, it’s Travis Blake, and he has the advantage of not being Richard’s son. “So how do you know he listened?”

  “Because the next truly rock ’n’ roll band he wanted to sign to Paradise, he didn’t send one of his cronies. He didn’t go himself. He sent someone else.”

  “Who?”

  Travis blinks. “You.”

  “The Jacket Zippers?” I ask. I shake my head. “No. I wanted them. He didn’t. I practically had to beg him to get their contract.”

  “I imagine a man like your father would make it seem like you had to beg. I know his type, like you said.” Travis smiles all crooked and sly. “So he made you work for it, but everyone got what they wanted. He acquired a great band, you got to manage them, and they’re not going to have to work with a bloodsucking suit.”

  It’s my turn for the sly smile. “So you don’t think I’m a bloodsucking suit?”

  Travis eyes me, lingering overlong on my chest. “Just because you can wear a suit doesn’t mean you are one. You care for Nate?”

  “More than I can put into words.”

  If this surprises Travis, he doesn’t show it. “And you care about his music?”

  “His music . . .” I pause, trying to think of a way to put it. “It’s like his music is my music. I’ve forgotten what parts he wrote, and which were mine. When we write together—”

  Travis hums a gravelly hum. “I get it, man. You don’t have to say.”

  “So will you tell me where he is?”

  “I can tell you, but are you sure you want to go? Because that could go two ways. One, you show up and he wants to be alone and gets all pissed off that you didn’t respect that. But then again two, maybe he does need someone. He’s never really had anyone before like this. Who listens. Maybe he doesn’t even know how much he needs you, or how good it would feel to let someone in.”

  “So you’re saying it’s up to me.”

  “It’s up to you.” Travis is staring at me. I feel his eyes boring into my soul. “I admit, I wasn’t sure about you at all, man. But now that I’ve met you, I’m glad he has you.”

  “What, now that you’ve seen I’m absolutely miserable at the thought of him being alone right now, you trust me?”

  Travis smirks. “Something like that. So tell me: you didn’t go to Malibu just to make out on the beach, right? You had to have written some tunes. If I know Nate, he can’t stay away from the guitar too long.”

  I grin like a doofus. “Yeah. We recorded a few demo tracks. They’re good. Really good.”

  “Need this place?” Travis asks. “We’re going to have studio time left over.”

  “Thanks, Travis. That’s really generous of you.”

  He shrugs. “I know you probably have a million studios at your disposal, but . . . this one’s pretty great. Plus, you know, it’s not associated with Paradise.”

  “I thought we established that Paradise isn’t all bad?”

  “We did. But you shouldn’t record there. And you definitely can’t sign with them.”

  “I can’t sign to Paradise?” I ask, confused. “Why not?”

  As understanding as he’s been the last few minutes, when he answers, I hear some impatience, like he can’t believe he has to explain this to me. “You want to be taken seriously, right? You can’t do that if Daddy gives you a deal. You have to prove yourself to someone else. Make yourself legit. If you sign to Paradise, you’re nothing but a spoiled kid doing a vanity project, no matter how good the music is. You have to put in the work, Cameron.”

  His words hit me like a freight train, and for a long minute, they echo around in
my head. He’s right, of course, but I couldn’t see it. I’d never seriously considered anyone but my father, any company but Paradise. Most of the reason I wanted to sign with Paradise was so I could get my dad’s approval. Which is exactly what I tell Travis.

  “I know,” he says. “But what’s he going to be prouder of, you coming to him, or you getting a deal without any of his help whatsoever? Your dad’s going to respect you more and take you more seriously if you get the deal all on your own.”

  The truth of it crushes me. Everything going on overwhelms me. In spite of present company, I bury my face in my hands and don’t fight the tears coming on.

  “You’re right,” I tell Travis. “You’re right.”

  “I’m seldom wrong, my friend,” Travis says, cocky as can be. He places a hand on my shoulder. “Nate’s at a storage place called U-Stor-It. He said it was off the Fifteen. Help him, then bring him home. Finish the demo. Do the work.”

  “Do the work,” I agree, resolved. I look at him. “Thanks, Travis. I can see why he thinks of you as a mentor.”

  “Christ, that makes me feel old.” Travis laughs a gravelly laugh. “But seriously, anytime. Any friend of Nate’s is a friend of mine. Just don’t let it get out. We can’t associate in public. They’ll revoke my indie card.”

  We stand, and he offers his hand again, pulling me into one of those whacking-each-other-on-the-back type hugs. I promise to keep him in touch about everything and then leave, waving to Bree on my way out. Then I get in the car and drive to Nate.

  Nate

  When Tonya turns her clunky old Subaru onto Interstate Fifteen, I turn to her sharply. “Okay, what is this? Are we going to Vegas? Because I appreciate the sentiment, but I want to talk about Dad, and I don’t mean over drinks and a hand of blackjack.”

  Tonya’s lips twitch. “That would be much easier, but no. It’s a hike, but I’m taking you to see your dad’s things.”

  I stare at her. “In the desert?”

  She only nods, eyes firmly on the road. They are, I note, slightly damp. “Storage unit. The best money could buy. My money, anyway. It’s called the U-Stor-It.”