by J. A. Huss
But sometimes I fuck around and do an acoustic version of a song. We include those as bonus tracks on full albums or release them on the internet. Most of the guys don’t join in my fascination with slow. Kenner did, of course. Because Kenner is… well, Kenner. A musician, like me. Not a rock star.
When I play Für Elise I play it like there’s a baby sleeping in the next room. The music is sleep. Is calm. Is dreams. My fingers barely touch the piano keys. My head bows low and my shoulders slump like I’d fall asleep while playing if the notes weren’t so motherfucking beautiful they’d haunt me in my nightmares.
Now I tap it out on my leg, my head falling back against the cushions, my eyes closing as I hear it in my mind. I let the notes drag on like I don’t want them to end. Like finishing this song will kill me and I’ll either have to start it again and play it on repeat until I collapse from exhaustion, or die just from the emptiness the end of the song makes me feel.
Beethoven does that to me. Drives me mad from the inside out. I glance towards the front room. Towards the piano. I wouldn’t mind playing right now, but not with Missy in the house. No. I decided weeks ago I’m never playing in front of an audience again. My rock star days are over and I can’t even begin to explain how happy I am about it.
I wish I could take back that moment when Missy caught me playing. It sends the wrong message. I still want to listen to music, but my band days ended with Ian, Elias, and Mo. I don’t know what Kenner’s gonna do, obviously. I haven’t talked to him. Hell, maybe his arms and hands will heal well enough for pounding on things again. And if he wants to get another band together, more power to him.
But not me.
I’ve got enough money. I’ll still get royalties from songs. Jayce said that sales of all songs are through the fucking roof. I’ll get paid on that shit for a while. And I can still write. That’s my real talent anyway. Singing isn’t my superpower, writing lyrics is.
Just like my dad.
I wonder, if Missy is for real, if we’ll fall in love and have kids. Teach them to play, and write, and love music like our dads did with us.
Nah.
Missy’s not into the domestic life.
I sigh and lie back, pulling on the crumpled quilt that made its home over the back of the couch in the weeks I’ve been here.
What will I do if she really is Missy? Will I love her the way I used to? Will she make me happy? Will she bury this creeping sadness inside me, put it in a vault and keep the key in her heart? Will she make me sane again?
What will I do if she’s really Mel? Will I hate her? Or forgive her? Will I give in? Or give up and let go of the one or two things that are holding me together these days?
I don’t know. I just don’t know.
Chapter Sixteen
The smell of coffee wakes me. I sit up, rubbing the nightmares away as I run my hand through my hair and get it off my face.
“Sorry,” Missy says from the kitchen. “I’m an early bird.”
I nod, recalling all the mornings she woke me up with a text. That makes everything better for like, oh, three seconds. And then I remember why she’s here.
“If you sleep in one of the bedrooms I won’t wake you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, standing up and pulling my jeans on. I wave her off as I make my way into the front bathroom to piss. I splash water on my face after I wash my hands and steal a look in the mirror.
It surprises me every time. The same sandy brown hair hanging over my face. The same wheat-colored eyes. The same mouth, and nose, and scruffy chin.
How can I possibly look the same on the outside when everything has changed on the inside?
I let out a long breath and grab a towel, letting it go. Because what’s the point of dwelling on shit that makes no sense?
Missy has the TV on when I get back to the kitchen and grab a mug. I pour and take a sip, even though it’s hot. It burns a little going down but nothing like it did last week.
I guess time does heal all things.
Well.
“Hey?” Missy calls from the living room. “I gotta work today. Wanna come with me?”
I stare at her. “Where do you work?”
She laughs. “Float’s.”
“Oh,” I say, taking another sip of coffee.
“I’m not just a pretty voice, Rowan Kyle.”
Her using my full name makes me smile. I walk past her and open the door to the back deck. The sun is just coming up over the mountains in the east. “What time is it?”
“Five fifteen.”
“What?” I ask, turning back to look at her. “Why the fuck are you up so early to work at Float’s?”
“We do breakfast on the weekends in the summer, RK. Have for years. And I make enough tips during breakfast to pay the cable and my phone bill.”
“Ah, fuck. I’ll take care of that shit, Missy. I can’t believe you’ve been paying my bills.”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve been here.” It comes out kinda snotty and I go still for a few seconds. “Sorry,” she says under her breath. “I didn’t mean anything by that comment.”
“Sure,” I say. “Sure.” I walk out onto the deck, enjoying how the wood feels on my bare feet. “I’m gonna decline your offer.”
“Why?” she pushes, following me out onto the deck. “You have plans today? Or you just want to avoid the bar?”
“Does it matter?” My retort comes out just as snide as her comment. I can almost feel her cringe behind me.
“Well, yeah. You gotta eat, right? We have really good food there now. Not like you remember.”
“Not much about that place is like I remember.”
“Maybe that’s good,” she says. “Maybe that’s bad. But it’s your home. This town is still your home. People care about you, RK. Love you. They want you to get better. Be happy and live on.”
Live on. God, that fucking hurts. It hits me in the chest like a brick.
“I can’t say anything right this morning. Forget I mentioned it.” She turns to go, but I catch her by the wrist.
“Wait,” I say. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be dramatic, OK? It’s just…” I shake my head. “Ian, and Mo, and Elias. And Kenner, too. He’s alive, he’ll live, like me. But live on, Missy? How the fuck do we live on? How the fuck do we put our shitty lives back together?”
She sighs deeply and places a hand on my bare shoulder. It sends a chill up my arm. Little pinpricks of emotion. “Just one day at a time, RK. One moment at a time. You wake up, you drink coffee, you shoot the shit with me. We eat breakfast, and go to work, and come home. And it still hurts. Maybe every moment of that day hurts. But you do it anyway because you have to take these little teeny-tiny baby steps before anything big can happen.”
I stare into her blue eyes. The dark makeup she was wearing last night is smudged and black. And she’s got a major case of bedhead. That thick, fabulous, mahogany hair is all tousled, and dramatic, and sexy as fuck. “Is that how it’s done?” I whisper.
She nods. “It is, RK. That’s how it’s done.” She swallows hard and my eyes dart down to her neck, then her nipples peaking through her white t-shirt. Her legs are bare. Maybe she has shorts on, maybe not. I can’t tell because the shirt is big and hangs down to the top of her thighs.
I let go of her wrist and she removes her hand from my shoulder. “OK, then,” I say.
“OK?”
“Yeah. OK. I’ll come with.”
She smiles big. Big. Big. Big. And all I see is Missy. She can’t possibly be Melanie. She can’t possibly. I know that smile. I’d swear on my own life. I know that smile and it’s not the smile of her devious, lying cunt of a sister. It’s that same smile she gave me the day of prom. “Let me shower and then we’ll go,” she says, taking off into the house. I walk over to the hanging curtains, pull them aside, and watch her ass until it disappears into the hallway.
I down the coffee and follow a few minutes later, veering off towards the front room where all the boxe
s of shit Jayce sent are still stacked. I rummage through them, find an old, ripped Anthrax t-shirt, a pair of ripped jeans to match, and boxers. But then I see one that says gear.
Gear? What kind of gear? Music gear? I walk over to the box and rip the tape holding it closed. Inside is, well, lots of shit I don’t recognize. Carabiners and things that look like clamps. Some rope and…
Fuck.
It’s climbing gear, I realize.
I look over my shoulder real fast, like this stuff is a secret and I need to make sure Missy doesn’t catch me looking at it. I go into the kitchen, look through half a dozen drawers until I find packing tape, and then seal it back up.
Secret, RK.
I let out a long breath, then grab my clothes and go into the front bathroom and shower, skip the shave, and still get done before Missy does.
I wait patiently as she blow-dries her hair and then walks into the kitchen where I’m fucking around playing a game on my phone.
“Ready,” she says with a smile. She’s wearing a proper waitress uniform. Crisp white shirt, black slacks, and some fancy black leather flats. But she still looks like a rock star even though that wild mane is pulled back into a tame ponytail. Her eyes are darked up with her signature eyeliner and thick lashes, but her lips are clear gloss.
“Me going out makes you happy?” I ask, not able to stop looking at her. Suddenly overcome by how fucking beautiful she is. Suddenly remembering why I fell in love with her.
“Very,” she says. “Want me to drive?”
“Nah. I got it.”
We walk out to the garage and I open her door for her, then close it up after she slides in and goes for her seatbelt. Maybe coming home isn’t such a bad idea after all? Maybe, I think as I get in and start the truck up, coming home and finding the girl I thought was gone forever is still here will be the best thing that ever happened to me?
The lake air is warmer than it was up on our part of the mountain, but it’s still cool when Missy and I get out of the truck and walk up to the front of the bar. I open the door for her and she smiles over her shoulder at me as she walks inside.
It’s a flurry of commotion and people inside and all the tables are set with white linen cloth and a vase with one fresh rose. Nothing like the bar I was in the other night. The stage has a piano now, and some guy I don’t know fucks around with sheet music as he talks to Teej.
“What the fuck is this?” I mumble. Missy wanders off towards the back and I make my way over to TJ. “Hey,” I say, eyeing the pianist.
TJ cocks his head at me like he’s got lots of questions, but then turns back to his conversation and says, “Yeah, that’s gonna work, Richie. We’ll do that playlist.” He jumps down off the stage and claps me on the back. “So, you and Missy work things out last night?” He nods towards the back of the bar where there’s a sliver of her in view behind the pick-up counter for the kitchen.
“Not really. But I’m willing to listen.”
“Where’d she sleep last night?”
“My room. But before you get any ideas, I slept on the couch.”
He shoots me a dubious look and then grabs me by the t-shirt. “Come on, you can eat at my table.”
I follow him to the back where we were sitting the other night and slide into the booth. Teej takes the side opposite me. “So what’s going on here?” I ask. “You do fancy breakfast now?”
“Have for years, RK. Only in the summer though. We close brunch at eleven and then it’s just bar food again. You gonna be here next weekend for Festival Day?”
He’s talking about the first show Float’s puts on out by the lake at the beginning of summer. “Sure, probably.”
“Not gonna call that lawyer today and get the fuck out of town? Go back to LA and spend all your money like a petulant asshole?”
I shrug. “Might. Might not. Depends on how things go, I guess.”
“With Missy?”
“With everything. I still haven’t seen Kenner. So I’d like to at least drive down to Denver and make sure he’s OK. The only reason I haven’t been down that way already is because Jayce asked me not to. I guess he’s confused or something.”
“Hmmm,” Teej says. “Understandable. He was in a coma for what? A month?”
“Eight weeks?” I say, thinking back. “I don’t even know what the date is.”
“June second.”
“Kinda late for the dock shows to start, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, well. Things got complicated when you came home. I didn’t have time to worry about it.”
“But now you do?” I look at him with narrow eyes. It feels like he’s leaving things out.
“You’re getting better, right? Improving. I’m not as worried as I was.”
“You were worried?” I huff out a laugh. “Could’ve fooled me that first night I came into town.”
“You came here looking for drugs, RK. You know you did.”
“I was in a lot of fucking pain that night, asshole. You’d have been looking for relief too.”
“Maybe. But I wouldn’t have to worry about the aftereffects of my meds.”
“You want to go there?” I snarl. “Because we can. I’ve been clean for a while now and you’re hardly the Rock expert you once were.”
“Right,” he says, snarling back at me. Teej is a huge guy these days. Muscles press against his white dress shirt under his suit jacket. His short hair still makes him look military, even if it is styled when he’s at work. And his eyes seem to say, Fuck with me and I’ll kill you. I realize I don’t know this version of Toby John Saber.
“I see the Army did good things for your disposition.”
“You don’t know me either, Rock.”
“Don’t call me Rock, OK? I don’t like it.”
He shrugs. “Everyone calls you Rock, what’s the difference?”
“The difference is it’s not my name. Fans call me Rock. Reporters call me Rock. Jayce calls me Rock. You, and Missy, and everyone else in this town who knows me do not call me Rock. So if that’s a message that needs to get around, make sure it spreads. I don’t fucking like it.”
The front door opens and a crowd comes in, chattering like their lives are not in shambles. I envy them. Then the piano starts and Beethoven’s Adagio Pirouette fills the room. I frown at the guy on the piano and then look at Teej. “A little dramatic for breakfast, don’t you think?”
TJ shrugs. “You don’t like it, play something else.” And then he gets up and walks off, calling, “I’ll send Missy over with a menu. It’s on the house.”
So that’s what this is about. I stare at the guy on piano and critique him. He’s not very good. I mean, yeah, he hits all the notes, but he’s amateur hour. If TJ thinks he can stick me in a room with a piano and a subpar player and think that will be enough for me to take over the guy’s job, he’s got issues.
Missy comes by with a menu a few minutes later and the tables are starting to fill up. “The orange-ginger pancakes are good. So’s the bacon and cheddar strata.”
“Fancy shit,” I say, looking over my choices. “Where’d Teej develop such a swanky palate? Iraq?”
“Don’t be a dick, RK. We have a chef in the summer. It’s his menu. And it’s good food, so pick something. I’ve got tables.”
“Relax,” I say. “I’m just fucking around. And I’ll have the BLT strata. I had that in London once and it was delicious.” Missy stares at me for a moment, her face blank. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says, waving a hand at me and taking the menu. “It’s just I forget who you are sometimes. It’s hard for me to think of you as this famous world traveler. I’ll be right back with some coffee. Want juice too?”
“Sure,” I say. I watch her ass as she walks off to put my order in. She sounded a little regretful. Maybe even jealous she got stuck here in this small-town life and I went out and saw everything she didn’t.
The piano guy transitions into the worst rendition of Für Elise I’ve ever heard.
He plays extra fast, like he knows I play it extra slow and he’s doing it on purpose to piss me off. I actually wonder if Teej told him to do that.
Another waitress brings me coffee and juice, not Missy. I don’t know this girl and she just seems nervous. “Thanks,” I say, looking up at her smiling face, her blonde hair and blue eyes looking perfectly Scandinavian against her tan skin.
“Um,” she starts. “I don’t want to bother you, Rock, but…” She pulls a ticket stub out of her apron pocket and places it on the table in front of me. “I’ve been carrying this around hoping you’d come in. I’ve been waiting for weeks.”
Weeks? Have I been here weeks already?
“I was at that show.”
I pick up the stub and read it. Boston. Last year. “Yeah? I hope I wasn’t too fucked up and ruined it for you.”
“No.” She laughs. “No, you were awesome. Best show I’ve ever heard. You know, usually when you see a band in concert they don’t sound anything like their studio productions. But you guys…” She sighs. “You guys always sound better live. Can you please sign this for me?” She pulls out a Sharpie and I uncap it and scribble my name.
“Alice,” Teej barks from a few empty tables over. “Leave him the fuck alone. I warned you about that.”
“Sorry,” Alice says, snatching up her ticket stub and smiling as she backs away, her crystal-blue eyes never leaving mine.
“Don’t worry about it,” I call.
It’s nice, I think. It’s nice to know people loved us. And maybe Son of a Jack is gone forever, but we left something behind.
Something worthwhile and beautiful. Something that will keep my lost friends alive forever, even though they’re dead.
Chapter Seventeen
By the time I get done eating my BLT strata, which I have to admit was fucking fabulous, every table is full and neither Teej or Missy have time to visit. So I make my way outside towards the dock.
I hear Sean Whimel shouting commands and threats at the various dock workers as they shore up the rigging for the upcoming shows. The dock has to be inspected every year by the county before Float’s can put on shows. The area down by the lake has been built up over the years. Bars, restaurants, boutique hotels… they all have to obey the town noise ordinance. But Float’s was grandfathered in a long time ago when my dad’s friend was the mayor, so no matter how much people complain, the show will go on.
