She laughs softly as she stands from her seat. Then she looks down and gives me a sweet smile. “No, the way it works is I have to rescue you back—and I’m going to do that by not giving you my number because being around me is bad for anyone’s health.” Then she turns on her heel and walks away, leaving me with nothing but the lingering scent of her perfume.
THE PACIFIC Ocean, where I’m from, is so different from this part of the Atlantic. I grew up in Portland, and my folks had a place at Cannon Beach on the Oregon coast where we’d spend summers. The ocean there is gray and a little fierce. Even though the summers were pretty warm, the beaches were rough, brown sand and wild, rocky patches. Here in Alabama, it’s white sand, blue waters, and heat. Lots of heat. Some days, I miss home—the Pacific Ocean, my little sister, Lyric—but I can’t focus on it. It might be a long, long time before I can see it all again, and it’ll eat me alive if I let it.
After I get back to my townhouse, which is just a half mile up the beach, I shower off and throw on a clean pair of shorts before I go to my patio on the edge of the sand, and get my guitar out. I love the way the smooth wood of the guitar feels on my bare chest. It’s like a woman’s soft hands touching me. It’s soothing and exhilarating all at the same time. I sit thinking about Carly and what her hands would feel like on me, stroking down my abs, wrapping around…I shake myself out of it. Getting a hard-on right now won’t solve anything. I have no idea how I’ll ever see her again, but I can tell already that I’m going to be looking for a way. That car of hers is pretty distinctive, if I have to cruise town all day watching for it I will. I shake my head and mutter, “Stalker,” to myself. But it doesn’t matter, I’m going to do it anyway.
I have a couple of hours before I have to be at the bar I’m playing in tonight, so I work a little on the song I’ve been writing. I wish so much that I could play it for Uncle Joss and get his take, but I swore to myself that I was going to do this without my family, so my parents aren’t the only ones I have to take out of the equation; it’s Uncle Joss, Mike, Colin—all of them. Even Aunt Mel is off-limits, although I know she’d give her left arm to do my promo photos for my website and gigs.
I’m a musician, and my family is rock and roll royalty. Sounds like a great combo, right? Yeah—until you spend your every childhood moment being followed, questioned, and compared. When you can’t go to any bar, club, or recording studio in your home state without the manager saying, “Oh, hey, you’re Walsh’s kid, right?”
My dad and his band mates are Portland legends. They’ve been the rulers of the alt rock scene there for over twenty years—since before I was born. But as much as I admire them, learned from them, and flat-out miss them, their very presence makes it impossible for me to have a career that I earned. And that’s all I want—a career that’s about me, not my father.
After high school I did what was expected, spent a couple of years at a small liberal arts college in the Northwest, not too far from home, but far enough I could feel like I’d left. It didn’t take. I knew it wouldn’t before I even went, but I wanted to make my parents happy. Neither of them has a four-year degree, and I knew they’d love it if I got one.
But, music is the one thing that calls to me, and sitting in a lecture hall listening to some old dude talk about classical composers in the seventeenth century wasn’t going to help me answer that calling. So, after my sophomore year I told my folks I was done, then I picked the farthest place I could find, changed my last name, and announced that I wouldn’t be coming back to Portland until I’d made it on my own. My mom, who can be a little intense at times, cried for three days. My dad told me, “No one makes it on their own. Success is about using whatever advantages you’re given and not acting like an idiot when good fortune smiles on you.”
Then he called Uncle Joss, the lead singer, who came over to the house and told me that he knew the perfect manager for me, a guy who wouldn’t be star struck by my family and would help me find my own sound and my own audience. Yeah, he wasn’t getting it either.
When Colin, the bassist, heard, he looked at me like I’d lost my mind then said, “Dude, why would you make something harder than it has to be?”
Mike was the only one who seemed to understand what I was doing. Maybe it’s because he’s a guitarist too—one of the best ever, in fact. Maybe it’s because he’s got a complicated relationship with his extended family. I don’t know, but when he was sent to talk to me—because they all were, Mom wouldn’t quit haranguing until every single one of the guys had a sit-down with me—he said, “Sometimes, you’ve got to leave your family to realize just how much they mean to you, and some things in life you have to do on your own. Just remember that time happens, people change, and people leave, and you might expect them to be waiting for you, but they’re not. You can decide if that’s a risk you’re willing to take.”
I only understood what Mike was telling me in a theoretical way, but somehow, I knew he got me better than my own parents did right then.
I’ve been in Bittersweet for two years now. For two years, I haven’t seen my parents, my sister, or my dad’s band mates because I won’t go see them and I won’t let them come see me. My dad’s band makes headlines every time they hit an airport, a train depot, or a limo lot. If Mom and Dad descended on tiny Bittersweet, my anonymity would be up in a heartbeat.
So it’s been two years since I’ve seen the Pacific Ocean. And it still hurts. Every single day. But I can’t go back. I can’t give up. My dad and the guys will never understand what it’s like to spend your entire life as Walsh Clark’s son.
Even if I wanted to be a banker or a doctor, it would be tough. As soon as anyone figures out who I am, they treat me differently. They can’t help it. They want to see things in me that are him—his songs, his voice, his face. And then they want to feel connected to the rest of the band through me. “What are they like? Did Mike say that? Did Joss do that? Who’s the bass player again?”
My dad and the guys can’t get what it’s like when no one ever sees you. Just you. Not a reflection of your parents, not some guy falling into the family business because that’s easy, but you—a guy who loves music because, yeah, he spent his whole life with it, but also because that’s just the way he’s wired. I would have been a musician no matter what my parents did. It’s in my DNA, and I can’t help that.
I sigh and strum a few more chords, jotting them down in the notebook I keep for songwriting. I’m trying to remember everything Uncle Joss taught me about song structure and lyric formation, but sometimes, I can’t help but just wing it, going with whatever flow hits me. Not much is hitting me today though, except the memory of Carly’s lips, so pretty soon, I pack it up and decide to head over to the bar early.
THE PLACE I’m playing at tonight, The Taphouse, is a smaller bar. Some basic bar fare for food, a modest stage, and the South’s best selection of craft brews outside of Ashland, North Carolina, where New Belgium rules the South’s microbrew market.
The owner, Blake, is a good guy, and he has me in to play once or twice a month. Their live music is usually booked Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Most weeks I do a Thursday here, sometimes a Friday, saving my Saturdays for Burn, the biggest, most popular venue in town.
I walk in the front doors, standing still for a moment to give my eyes a chance to adjust to the lower lighting inside.
“Pax!” I hear Blake call from his station behind the bar.
I blink a couple of times then turn and walk over. He high-fives me over the bar.
“The usual?” he asks.
I nod and watch as he makes up my club soda and orange juice. Then I set my guitar down on one barstool and my ass on another. Blake hands me the drink and I take a sip, relishing the sting of the bubbles from the soda water as they work up into my nose.
The memories this drink brings slam into my chest without warning. I see him sitting at the long table my mom always set up outside our Portland house in the good weather. It seated fifteen
, and my dad would be at one end, Uncle Joss on his left, and then Mike and Colin on his right. Dad loved those long summer dinners with family and the band. My Aunt Mel would always be lurking around with her camera, snapping shots of the various kids as they ate and ran around the backyard. My mom would be bustling, bringing out huge platters of food that my Nona DiLorenzo had made.
And whenever I’d sidle up to Dad, wanting to get my share of his attention, wanting to be one of the guys with him and Joss and Mike and Colin, he’d pull me over next to his chair, put an arm around me, and hand me his glass. “You want to make a toast, Pax?” he’d always say. “Say cheers to everyone and remind us how lucky we all are.” I’d make a toast, often something outrageous. The guys would cheer and clink glasses, and then I’d get to take a big swig of my dad’s club soda and O.J.
My dad’s an alcoholic, and he hasn’t had a drink since the night I was conceived—yeah, that was more detail than I needed about it too—so his O.J. and Club is a family tradition, and it’s been my favorite drink since before I was even old enough to say ‘Orange Juice.’ I have the occasional beer too, but because of my dad’s disease, I’ve always been very careful about my own drinking, and honestly, ninety-nine percent of the time, I’ll choose the O.J. and Club over alcohol anyway.
“So how’s everything going, kid?” Blake asks as he wipes down the counter.
“Good, man. I’m playing at Burn Saturday and Jayz next week.”
He pitches the rag he’s been using into a utility sink behind the bar. “That’s great but I’ll tell you kid, you get too comfortable here in this tiny town and you’ll never make it. You have to go where the market is, and it ain’t in two-bit Bittersweet.”
“I know you’re right, but I’m set up here, man. I’ve got gigs and friends.” I sigh, my thoughts straying to Carly yet again. I’ve known her for all of five hours. Nothing to do with her should be in my mind when I’m considering my career, but when I do think of her, Bittersweet seems even more appealing than it did this morning. “I also have a place to live, and I’m not sure my dad would help me with that again.”
My condo is the one thing I’ve accepted from my parents since I left home. It may seem hypocritical, but when they told me that if I were going to college they’d be paying for a place for me to live in anyway, I caved. What I’ve taken on is damn hard no matter what, so if my parents have the money—which, trust me, they do—to put a roof over my head, then I’ll take that. I still work, teaching guitar at the local music shop, to pay for my food and car insurance and all that, but I let Dad handle the mortgage on the condo. I know it’s bullshit, but I’m not perfect.
Blake nods as if he understands. “Well, just keep it in mind. I love having you here, you always bring in a ten percent increase in business, but you’re too talented to stay, and I’m not selfish enough to ignore that.”
I finish up my drink and head backstage to get ready for the show. When you’re one guy with a guitar, there’s not much in the way of ‘getting ready.’ I make sure it’s tuned, get myself a bottle of water to take onstage, and that’s about it.
Thirty minutes later, the place is getting busy and Blake pokes his head in the little closet they give performers as a prep room. “You ready?” he asks.
“Yep,” I say, standing and giving him a smile. “All set.”
I stroll out on stage, the lights momentarily blinding me to the crowd beyond. I sit down, get my guitar settled, and then look out at the audience. It’s a pretty full house, but up front by the stage, it’s clear. I smile and introduce myself.
“Hey, my name’s Pax, and I’m here to play you a few songs. Some of them are mine. Some are covers. I hope you like ‘em.”
Then I launch into one of my most popular tunes. When people ask me who I sound like, I’m always tempted to tell them, “Myself,” but I know that’s not what they’re looking for. They want to be able to put me in a box, find a word to classify me, so the best I’ve been able to come up with is John Mayer or Ben Taylor. But that’s not right because I know I’m edgier than either of them. I’ve had people compare me to Uncle Joss when he does his solo stuff. It’s not a comparison I mind, but it’s also not something I can play up because it might clue people in to who I really am.
I guess I’m lucky I’m not like Lukas Nelson or Scott Eastwood. I remember seeing photos of those two when they were my age. One glance at them and everyone knew that they were looking at music and movie progeny. I look a lot like my dad, but I have my mom’s coloring—she’s Italian. We have the olive skin and dark hair. Dad’s fair-skinned and has light-brown hair. The difference in coloring is enough that people don’t see the resemblance. I also ended up the same height as Dad, but he’s a pretty lanky guy. I’m a little bulkier. After playing hockey in high school I’ve kept up the workouts and lifting I did to be on the team.
I’m on my third song when I see her, a girl who’s been moving closer and closer to the stage since I started playing. When she reaches the circle of light that filters onto the closest portion of the dance floor, I look straight into Carly’s eyes. My heart beats faster and I have to swallow to keep my voice steady as I sing. For the first time ever in my life I wish I could cut my set short. I’m so afraid she’ll leave before I can get off-stage to talk to her.
Unfortunately, it looks like her problems have walked in with her because the next thing I know, the guy from the beach is coming up behind her and she’s yanking her arm out of his hand as he shouts at her. I see her wilt under his assault, and then he’s grabbing her again and she’s trying to pull away, but he’s dragging her across the floor, her feet skidding along as she struggles against him.
I see people near them look over, wondering what the commotion’s about, but no one’s intervening. I’m off my stool before I even register that I’m moving. I set my guitar down harder than I should and jump off the stage, reaching the pair of them in about three strides. I put my hand on the guy’s arm, Carly looking up at me with fear in her eyes.
“Hey, man. It doesn’t look like she wants to go with you—again. Why don’t you walk away,” I tell him.
His lip curls up on one side as he gives me the once-over, still not taking his hands off the girl.
“You need to mind your own business, pretty boy,” he snarls. “The bitch and me are having a business discussion. Go back up on stage and play us something, will ya?”
“Look,” I grit out as I lean into his face. “Didn’t this afternoon teach you anything? I’m not going to let you hurt Carly, and I’m not afraid to take you on.” I look him up and down, making sure to stand up to my full height since I’ve got several inches on him.
“Yeah, and if I haven’t made myself clear, this is None. Of. Your. Business. And I’m not going to let some punk kid keep me from doing my job which is to bring her to my boss.”
I swallow, trying not to let my temper get the best of me. I’m a very mellow guy, a lot like my dad, but once my temper gets unleashed, it’s hard to get it back under control. That part I got from my mom. She spent a lot of time and money on therapists learning to control it. She still lets loose now and then, but Dad’s a pro at talking her down. I’m thinking someone may have to talk me down, though, when I see the panic on Carly’s face.
“Just walk away now and everything’s cool. Otherwise, I can’t be responsible for what happens next.”
He laughs, but it’s bitter and cruel. “Walk away? Who the hell do you think you are?”
I feel the adrenaline rising inside me. I scan the room, wondering where the hell Blake’s bouncers are.
I shrug. I guess I’m on my own. Or maybe I should say this guy is on his own.
I put one arm between him and Carly. She leans back, seeming to anticipate what I’m about to do. He still has a hold on her, but I quickly lever my arm at the same time that I swing one leg across the floor, hitting him square in the ankles.
It all happens fast, and I put my other arm behind Carly’s back so I can c
atch her as I break his hold on her and she stumbles. Meanwhile, he’s going down. Hard. He hits the wood floor with a loud crash, and I see a couple of guys at the nearest table stand up, ready to rumble.
I spin Carly away from me so she’s out of the line of fire and step on the guy’s wrist fast before he can recover. He’s splayed out on the floor, one wrist pinned, and I guess it’s not too comfortable because I hear him grunt as his face screws up in pain.
Before he can use his other hand, which is moving toward his ankle, where I imagine he has a knife, I kick the arm with my free leg. “Don’t even think about it,” I tell him. He glares up at me.
We’ve created enough noise that Blake’s security men arrive. Tony and Roy are good guys—and about two hundred forty pounds each.
“Need anything Pax?” Tony asks.
“Yeah, I think this guy needs to be escorted out,” I tell him.
“Will do,” he says, tossing a menacing look at the dude on the floor.
I release the guy’s wrist and he pulls it into his body, cradling it. Tony and Roy reach down and lift him up by his elbows.
“Let’s go tough guy,” Roy says as they point him toward the exit.
Bad dude looks over his shoulder at Carly, who’s still silent, eyes wide, watching it all. “You and I will have that talk. You can’t avoid us forever.” Then he casts me a nasty look. “And you and I aren’t done yet either, you little bastard. Watch your back.”
“Come on, big talker,” Tony admonishes as they move away to the door.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the sensations rolling through me. I want to hit something or someone, and I’m about to storm off behind the stage and take on a wall in Blake’s closet with my fists when I turn and see Carly standing there, watching me with her big eyes.
I’m overwhelmed with the urge to take her in my arms and I have to hold a deep breath and pin my arms to my sides for a moment. Finally, I find my voice.
A Lush Reunion Page 23
