The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2)

by Aubrey Parker

  Some of those places, if I dwell on them and the company I had, is bound to make me feel worse about being alone, not better.

  Once I’m on the street, making the short walk down to the club, I feel a bit better. I’m still alone, but alone isn’t the problem. Alone with my thoughts, with nothing better to do — that’s the trick. Maybe I should get a TV to occupy me, and damn the expense. But I usually opt for more organic solutions. I go outside and walk around. I switch on while engaged in conversation, and when that happens I become someone else. This moody, sallow Gavin vanishes so the performer can rise to the surface. It’s a Sybil situation; the two Gavins, if they met, might annihilate each other like matter and antimatter. But it works, and I prefer the company of public Gavin. He doesn’t have a care in the world or mind being alone because by definition, he never is. Public Gavin is strong, confident, magnetic, with a winning smile — the kind of guy who’d chat up a pretty waitress just because she’s there.

  But thinking of the waitress threatens to return my edge of sadness, so I focus on the nearing club. I don’t know what the problem is, seeing as I liked that girl a lot — enough, maybe, to go out to lunch again. I get a lot of female attention while I’m onstage and after I get off. I try my best not to wake up alone, at least on weekends. So why finding someone whom I enjoy in a different way would cause me to feel bad rather than good? It’s a mystery, and not one I care to solve right now, or maybe ever.

  I reach the door, which is on the club’s corner, and knock. I think Dimebag or Danny will answer, but of course they don’t. Instead, I get a face full of Richard — all glasses and his little porno mustache.

  “Gavin, good,” he says, ushering me aside and reclosing the door, his manner as if he’d expected something dire. Richard moves like an insect. If you asked him about it, he’d tell you it’s because he needs to be fast and observant for his job, but then he’ll refuse to tell you what his job is. It’s not as the Overlook’s doorman, that’s for sure. He just hangs out here, and I’m increasingly certain it’s because Richard, like me, enjoys an audience. Rumor says he’s an undercover cop dropped into Inferno Falls for reasons unknown. Everyone assumes he started this rumor himself.

  “Richard,” I say, walking past.

  But Richard grabs me. One palm is flat on my chest. The other is on my back. My guitar case, hanging in my left hand, is wedged between us. Stopping me with a soft pincher move is probably supposed to look clandestine and conspiratorial. Instead, it feels awkward.

  “Hang on. Gavin, when are you on tonight?”

  “Ten, I think.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “I’ve done ten before, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, no. Is it normal by music industry standards?”

  “This isn’t exactly the music industry, Richard.”

  “Club standards then.”

  “Danny doesn’t do standards. Show him the usual club playbook, and he’ll throw it away. This place isn’t like any club I’ve ever performed in.” Which is why we all like it so much, I add mentally.

  “Okay. I’m just trying to take the evening’s pulse.”

  “Thanks, Richard,” I say, breaking his embrace. I’m pretty sure I was supposed to ask questions and find out why Richard was taking the pulse, but that would only encourage him. Richard always seems like a man who wants to say something but won’t unless someone begs him. I don’t like to play along.

  The main room is arranged semi-concert style. This isn’t an “industry standard” or “club standard” term and would probably throw off Ricard’s pulse taking too. We’ve had to figure out our own ways to describe what Danny does because it’s as if he was never at a concert hall or bar before he owned a combination of the two. He’s been in plenty of both, of course, as patron and performer, but Danny likes to make his own rules.

  The way things normally are, when the Overlook serves lunch and spills customers into the patio wrapping the corner, we call that “bar style.” Inside, “bar style” fills the floor with smaller tables, and the kitchen prepares pub food to go with its award-winning drinks. When the night’s performers are loud and fast enough to draw larger, more energetic crowds — Friday and Saturday nights only, though only some of either — the place moves into “concert style,” with the tables and chairs moved to storage and the floor converted to standing room only. A few tables are left upright in a ring around the room’s most central area, but the floor is left for dancing — and, usually, a mosh pit.

  The way it is now — the way it usually is on weekends, and just about the only way I’ll play — is a combination of both. The stage has a clear halo around it in case anyone wants to dance and thrash, but people can sit and chill farther back.

  I run into a bunch of loose flesh as I’m about to start threading between tables. As with Richard, this interloper has taken me by surprise. But with Dimebag, I’m never truly surprised. You expect Dimebag after a few weeks hanging around the Overlook. You just feel bad for him, and that’s worse.

  “Hey, Gavin,” he says, backing up. “You eating?”

  I almost want to make a joke about how I’m eating as long as it’s free, but Dimebag might take it too literally. Not only does Dimebag eat too much; the whole if it’s free thing is truer and (again) a bit sadder for him. This kid used to be rich, and by the laws of fairness should be rich today. But somehow, his parents got most of what he made. His parents and lawyers.

  “Maybe. I ate earlier, so I’m not that hungry.”

  Dimebag resumes talking, but it takes me a few seconds to catch up. Thinking of having already eaten recalls the earlier half of my day, when I couldn’t manage to write as usual. I don’t know why that’s so interesting, but thinking of eating feels important. I consider telling Dimebag that I finally tried the Nosh Pit and that it was great — amazing and definitely worth returning to, really — but that’s not quite what I mean, and Dimebag is already passing over it to move on.

  “Okay, maybe I’ll eat with you. When are you on? I checked the schedule. It’s ten. You’re on at ten. Chloe is at nine or something. Did you see Richard at the door? Remind me to tell you something about him later. Hey, will you talk to Danny for me about slipping into some of the squeeze room? Just like fifteen minutes, even.”

  Dimebag is smiling, but I sort of feel that everything he just said is window dressing for that final question, and the final question is more of a plea than his voice lets on. I don’t want to answer because I don’t want to promise something I have no intention of trying to deliver. Danny has a soft spot for Dimebag, but there’s no way he’ll let his horrible white rapper act take the stage on Friday night.

  “I’m not sure where Danny is.” It’s not an answer. Maybe I can weasel by.

  “Oh, he’s in back.”

  Dimebag gives me another smile. This one is strange. Fifteen years ago, Dimebag was a cute prepubescent kid who had the world’s attention. He was in a weekly sitcom, and silly films about all sorts of unlikely capers. Everyone knew his real name: Will Cusk. As Will, he had a winning look and a charming smile. But then Will’s time in the spotlight ended, and his show was cancelled. First, he got awkward, and then he got fat. Now, what used to be charming seems pinched and strange. Child actors rarely turn out normal-looking, and Dimebag’s no exception.

  “I’ll see him in a bit.” I head for the stage, as if sitting in the lone chair near the edge is somehow different from any of these chairs out here, beyond the semi-dance pit, in the pre-opening lull. It’s not a lie. I will see Danny in a bit. Whether or not I honor Dimebag’s request is another story.

  Dimebag shuffles away as I near the stage then detours to one of the normal chairs once he’s out of the way. I sit in the shadows, wandering at my mood.

  Here, at the club, I’m supposed to feel more outgoing, and I do. The numbness I’d felt at home is gone. But even so, I’m usually brooding and quiet until my set, then a rock star after. I’ve earned quite a cult following
in Inferno lately, and that’s good because Danny’s unconventional style gives performers a nice cut of the door. He’s even been known to pass out comment cards and surveys after the night is over. The people not too drunk to fill them out often do. The crowds expect it here. The lack of normality is what draws customers to the Overlook, too. But today, I’m somewhere between happy and confused. If I’m not careful, it’ll spill into mania, where I like stuff but don’t know which stuff I like.

  Maybe I should have lunch more often. Maybe my blood sugar is usually low, and this is what normal feels like. I bury the thought. Yes, I feel better today than I usually do, and I’m pretty sure I spent a lot of my time talking to Richard and Dimebag with a dumb smile on my face.

  I wish proper food infusions didn’t damage my budget so badly. It wasn’t just the meal. I tipped my waitress way too well.

  Sometime later, I hear activity and know the club must be opening for the evening. I consider staying where I am, but don’t know that I want to eat so there’s little reason to be out here. My odd mood has turned to uncharacteristic nerves, and I don’t feel like greeting guests early.

  I head into the back, thinking about my ill-spent tip, visions of a random chat with a lovely waitress running circles behind my eyelids with every blink.

  CHAPTER 5

  Gavin

  I’m in the back, on what might once upon a time have been a loading dock, when Danny approaches me.

  Danny’s like a Muppet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him unhappy, even when asshole performers have taken advantage of his kind, enthusiastic nature to rip him off. Danny’s a great guy, but a shitty businessman. The Overlook succeeds despite Danny, largely because the best and most regular performers step in and crowdsource its management. The club is a bit like Wikipedia. Nobody’s really in charge of Wikipedia; the nerds who hang out to watch the pages agree to do what’s best, and it all kind of works out. That’s how we are here, and Danny is just another ward.

  “Hey Gavin you ready?” The question comes out as one big run-on. Danny’s a study in contrasts. He has an old face and a mop of long, younger man’s hair. Without the hair, you’d expect a guy with a face like Danny’s to run something like an old-time drug store where you can order milkshakes at the counter. You’d expect him to say darn and shucks and golly. But that’s probably just his enthusiasm — the way it lights his eyes makes him seem naive. He really isn’t. Danny’s got cred, and I’m sure he saw his share of unsavory stuff during Rusty Evidence’s fifteen minutes of fame, but none of it stuck.

  Danny has the wide eyes of someone who thinks Hollywood is made of pixie dust and that any small club’s dusty spotlight could be the place where a creative soul’s dreams can finally come true. It’s probably why he’s so generous with the Overlook’s spotlight. Except for the big-ticket weekend nights, Danny will let just about anyone who can carry a tune onstage at least once. You never know; any night might be the one some buried gem of a singer’s hopes and dreams finally take root.

  “It’s barely seven, Danny.”

  “Yeah yeah. You seen Freddy? He was looking for you earlier.”

  “Tell him I’m not here yet.”

  “You don’t like Freddy?”

  “I love Freddy like a brother. He just won’t leave me alone.”

  “I won’t leave you alone either.”

  “Yes, but you cut my paycheck.”

  “Are you smiling? Why are you smiling?”

  The change of topic takes me off guard. I actually touch my lips. There’s no way I was grinning; I’m sure I was just smiling widely if at all. It strikes me as wrong that a mild smile is reason for someone to comment. Don’t most people smile? Don’t I? Of course I do.

  “Careful with that,” Danny says, slapping me lightly on the back. “People come to see you sad and brooding.”

  I laugh, but Danny’s face changes. His pale features and eyebrows are almost blond enough to disappear, but his face is so lined that wrinkles make up for any topology he’d otherwise lose. I’m reminded of my grandfather with a highly inappropriate haircut that my real grandfather would have a definite problem with.

  The wrinkles, right now, go from exuberant and razzing to concerned.

  “Oh hey I’m sorry,” he says, again without a pause. “I don’t think sometimes.”

  “It’s fine.” I force the smile to widen, and to my surprise the change comes easily.

  “I know how hard it is to create sometimes. Stuff like what happened, it can be a good catalyst. But you don’t want it, either.”

  “Danny … ”

  “I know that’s your appeal, but it shouldn’t define you. But hey.” What should be a pause becomes a hard stop as Danny again changes direction with his goldfish’s attention span. “Have you tried to turn it around? There really should be some great art inside you.”

  “Danny, no.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But even the songs you have already, if you’d be willing to play them … ”

  “I’ve got my whole set,” I say, trying not to be defensive.

  “Right, right. But with the lyrics. The originals. I know talent, Gavin, and when I first heard you … ”

  “You heard all of us. You heard Firecracker.”

  “Then just you, afterward. And you today. I hear you every night, practically. I’m just saying, as soon as you’re ready, I think we can do some amazing things. Or you can.”

  “Sure, Danny.”

  He stands, clearly uncomfortable. “Okay. Well, then.”

  “Tell Freddy I’m in here if you want.”

  “No, no. It’s fine. I’ll give you some time.”

  “I don’t need any time. Seriously.”

  Danny still doesn’t look like he knows what to do. He’s like this. He speaks from his heart then spends a lot of time backtracking when he imagines he’s said the wrong thing. Interestingly, he seldom does. Danny’s instincts — for people as well as music — are outstanding. It’s his self-confidence that sometimes needs work.

  “Gavin?”

  I look up. Danny’s at the door. I can tell he’s thinking of saying something he might regret. If the pattern holds, it’ll be something Danny will doubt afterward, though it’s truly what needs to be said.

  “She wouldn’t want this for you,” Danny says.

  Then he’s gone, and the cloud I’ve been managing to hold at a distance for most of the night begins to drift toward me.

  CHAPTER 6

  Abigail

  I’m cleaning glasses behind the Overlook’s bar, which isn’t my job. I told Danny no problem; I’d play both bar back and waitress while service was light. I laughed and said that he only had to pay me once. Danny laughed back. But he has an intense sense of fairness, and I could tell it bugged him.

  I just want to keep busy.

  And really, I want to keep busy without talking to people.

  I had to talk to people all day at the Pit. Now I’ll have to talk to people all night, too. I’ll even want to, once things get rolling, because talking and being nice will earn me tips. But not yet. I’m here for two reasons, and tips are just one.

  I want to hear the music. I want to feel like I’m part of something.

  I left Hartford on some ill-advised errand to make something of myself. I could’ve stayed on the rails, churning through the system, becoming the blueblood I was raised to be. I had the Princeton scholarship, and when I turned it down and broke up with Brian in the same year¸ my parents looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Mom tried to analyze me, and Dad wanted to fight. I needed a damn good mission if I was going to run away — and, naturally, get cut off in the process, thus making my struggle to survive a real one. Creative freedom made the most sense at the time. I leaped without looking. And now here I am, twice the waitress I never meant to be.

  But at least there are creators here. At least there are people making a living from what’s flowing inside them, even if I’m not one of them yet.

  Mom has alw
ays been an overachiever. She raised three overachievers before she adopted me, and I figure she either spent all her helicopter parenting in those first gasps or I’m genetically different, because what happened with my siblings didn’t stick with me. I did well in school; I earned the prestigious scholarship; I even had a blueblood fiancé. But I wanted more — and now here I am, all chattel jettisoned, with less.

  Mom said one thing that actually stuck: You are who you spend time with.

  If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll soak up something from Danny and the people here. If I’m unlucky, I’ll absorb more waitress abilities, becoming some kind of table-service superhero. Until today, I’ve felt it was a wash at best, a loss at worst.

  But the energy tonight is different. I’ve never been here on a Friday or Saturday, when the real talent performs. I came to Inferno Falls and heard of the Overlook in the same gasps as I heard about everything else happening in this quickly growing burg. Yes, the Falls seemed to be an up-and-coming town, sick with an overabundance of hip mentions on trendy TV shows. Even my roommate, Lisa, came here because of Inferno’s growing cool factor, though her siren song came from something decidedly more marijuanical. It made sense that I’d find my muse here. If I can get past all the glassware, and the customers who ogle my ass the drunker they get, maybe I still can.

  For now, I want to be inside my head. I can feel something here that I want to percolate within me — something that Lisa wouldn’t make fun of me for but my mother would. Mom’s creative; I don’t know why she doesn’t believe it’s something you can catch like a spreading fire. Just the aura of this place makes me want to go home and sit in front of my computer and write … well, to write nothing as usual, probably, and to second-guess and over-polish every sentence like I always do. But one step at a time.