Indigo Knights: The Boxed Set

by Jet Mykles

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rabin hated Los Angeles. He hadn’t particularly liked it when they were there on tour, but he absolutely loathed it now. He hated the hot, dry weather, hated the noise, hated the freeways, hated the dingy brown air. But it wasn’t just the city. He hated the tiny excuse of a two-bedroom apartment he and Zane had been put up in, even if it was about the same size as their place in Chicago. He hated that it was right next door to Markus and Sam. He hated the cockroach-infested building and the godforsaken, traffic-loud street. He hated that he’d sold his truck as part of the move. He hated the single minivan that had been loaned to all of them—one car for four grown men to use, in Los Angeles of all places.

  Worst of all, he hated the music. It was his music. He’d been a big part of writing it. But now, a year later, it was so very wrong. It wasn’t what he wanted to do or wanted to be anymore. To make it worse, the time in the studio was trying, at best. Rabin and Markus were the outspoken ones, the two who did most of the composing. They had barely managed to work together before. Now? It was nearly impossible to get anything done. As it was, they only moved forward when Rabin gave in.

  And he didn’t trust Arthur. A week into it, Rabin figured out that something wasn’t quite right. The man was pressuring them to finish—and finish fast—and always had a wild look in his eye when he realized how little progress they were making. That in and of itself wasn’t all that odd, since it was the A&R guy’s job to make sure things were moving smoothly. But Rabin couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was going on. He tried to keep his feelings under wraps. Kept reminding himself that this was a huge chance and a big opportunity. There were thousands of bands who’d give their nuts for the chance they’d been given. He tried to enjoy being able to live his craft.

  After three weeks, it was almost impossible to try anymore.

  * * * *

  Rabin stood in the early twilight of a claustrophobic back-alley entrance to a seedy little nightclub, ignoring the reek of urine and refuse from the trash bins behind him as he stared at Arthur, dumbfounded. He wasn’t alone. Zane and Markus stood beside him, Sam loitering somewhere a few feet away.

  Zane spoke for him, for all of them. “What?”

  Arthur, a generically good-looking man in his early forties, with light blond hair that disguised the touch of gray, had the grace to look ashamed. He leaned on the door frame, playing up looking dejected. “I’m sorry, guys. I had no idea. The owner double booked for tonight.”

  Disgusted, Rabin turned away, leaving Zane and Markus to talk to Arthur. The club behind him was supposed to be their venue for the night, a place to loosen up and start to get their name known again. It was one of the few things he’d looked forward to, because at least it was a chance to play in front of an audience instead of dealing with the frustration and isolation of the studio. But even that small thing had been yanked from him.

  Sam appeared beside him and leaned on the dusty brick wall as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Well, that bites, don’t it?”

  Rabin didn’t look at him, afraid he couldn’t hide his disgust. Sam had been a junkie when they were on tour, but Rabin had thought—had been told—it was under control, so he’d overlooked it. How stupid of him to believe. Now Sam showed signs of his addiction. His brown hair was lank, his hazel eyes droopy and glassy. The corner of his mouth had a funny twitch, and his skin color just did not look good. Rabin didn’t know what Sam was on, but he would swear the man was dying from it. Sam could still play, thank God, but he wasn’t much for suggesting anything new. In the studio, he sat at his kit—when they could get him to focus—and played what he was told. At night… Well, Rabin had learned the first night that he didn’t want to be in Sam’s company when they weren’t in the studio.

  Footsteps sounded behind him, and Rabin turned to face Zane and Markus—or Zane, at least. Rabin tried not to make eye contact with Markus. The bass player had been self-righteous before, but he was insufferable now. Once they’d arrived in LA, Rabin and Zane had discovered that it was Markus who’d gotten in touch with Arthur and who’d sealed the deal with Cardamon Records. So now Markus believed himself to be their savior. He thought that gave him the right to drive the music as well, which didn’t sit well with Rabin.

  Zane was disgusted, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. He wore a black leather vest with chains dangling from all manner of fake pockets and seams. His wild hair was primped for performance, and he even wore a gleaming silver medallion that emphasized the sparse mat of dark blond hair on his bare chest. “Scheduling mix-up,” he told Rabin. “Owner’s sorry.”

  Markus laughed. “Our drinks are on the house for the night if we want to stay.” He wasn’t a tall man, but he gave the impression of being big due to a torso and muscles that were just thick. With long, straight black hair and bushy black eyebrows over dark piercing eyes, he looked like he belonged in a ’70s hesher grunge band. Played like it too.

  Rabin glanced toward the open door, not seeing Arthur. Beyond the door was the end of the alley, the last vestiges of sunlight streaming across the street beyond. Escape. But escape to where? That apartment? God, please no. He didn’t want to face that place tonight. “What’s Arthur say?”

  Zane shrugged. “Nothing he can do. He says we might as well stay the night, see if we can talk to the owner about a gig some other time.”

  Rabin grimaced. Do his job. “Fuck!” He spun around and kicked the wall. It didn’t help, so he kicked it again. And again. “Fuck!”

  “Calm down, man.” Markus’s too-calm voice broke through his tantrum. “It’s just a gig.”

  Rabin whirled, pulling back a fist, but Zane was there to catch him. Rabin struggled against his friend, glaring daggers over his shoulder at Markus. Right, the burly guy would probably kick his ass, but it might be worth it. He was angry enough that a little pain would be welcome. How sick was that?

  “All right, all right.” Zane pushed Rabin back against the wall. “We’re all pissed.”

  Rabin glared at him, and Zane’s blue eyes showed he knew Rabin wanted to rip Markus’s head off—and that he might want to join.

  Sam pushed off from the wall, dropping his cigarette as casually as if the rest of them weren’t there. “Did you say something about free drinks? I’m all for that.”

  “What about the truck?” Rabin asked, pining for his guitar even if there was no gig.

  Markus turned to follow Sam inside. “We sent the truck back to the studio.”

  Outraged, inarticulate bleats squeezed from Rabin’s throat at Markus’s retreating back. Zane leaned in to hold him propped against the wall.

  “It’s okay,” Zane soothed, keeping his tone low. “It’s better’n keeping the equipment parked in an alleyway in this part of town.”

  It was true, but Rabin was feeling obstinate enough to still be pissed about it.

  Alone with Zane, Rabin shook off his friend and kicked the wall again. The rancid fumes from the trash bins were making him nauseated. “What the fuck, man? This is whacked.”

  “I know.” Zane gazed off toward the end of the alley, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. “At least this place is better than the last one.”

  Rabin shuddered. A few days previous, they’d played in an awful dump with a stage the size of a dime, no lighting, awful acoustics, and no audience to speak of. “You mean, would have been better.”

  Zane slumped against the wall. “Yeah.”

  Rabin braced both arms against the wall and leaned hard, hanging his head down between them. “We need to get a manager. It’s mad to think Arthur’s really looking out for us.”

  “Yeah.” Zane sounded tired. “You’re right.”

  But that didn’t help tonight, and none of this was Zane’s fault. Rabin was as much to blame for their being here. On silent agreement, they hadn’t talked about it. Rabin didn’t dare. If he started, he wouldn’t stop until he convinced himself to leave, and that probably wasn’t a good idea. At l
east, he told himself it wasn’t a good idea. The reasons why seemed less and less with each passing day.

  Zane pushed from the wall and patted Rabin’s shoulder. “Let’s go inside. It’s a pretty nice club.”

  Rabin stared at a smashed cigarette butt near his left boot. “Markus has the keys to the van?”

  Zane hesitated, then sighed. “Yeah.”

  “Fuck. Who the hell elected the alcoholic as our keymaster?” God, why couldn’t they be in New York or Chicago or any city with a decent public transit system?

  “Van’s in his name.”

  Rabin pushed from the wall so he could glare at his friend. “Don’t remind me.”

  Zane avoided eye contact. “Look, you’re all wound up.”

  Rabin heard himself snarl.

  “I get it.” Zane shook his head, and Rabin knew from his expression that he was holding back some anger of his own. “Let’s go get drunk and find a girl and get laid, huh? There’s nothing else we can do tonight.”

  Rabin considered being a hard ass. Then he sighed, letting the anger drain from him. Not that he liked the despair it left behind. “Yeah. All right. Fine.”

  Zane patted his shoulder, then walked toward the door.

  Rabin glanced up at what he could see of the darkening sky beyond the wires across the rooftops. Whatever. He followed Zane in.

  It was early yet, so there wasn’t much of a crowd. The walls were standard painted black, with most of the color in the place around the big corner bar. Two bartenders in white stood behind their gleaming electric blue station, the neon lights behind them shifting the color of their shirts. About a dozen people were gathered around the high stools, and there was still plenty of room. Seven small booths lined one wall, and a few small tables were scattered around the periphery, but half the floor was empty, clear in front of the small stage. Not the best of venues, but not bad either.

  Rabin ordered a beer, then claimed an empty booth, ignoring Markus and Sam where they stood at the bar. Zane followed. They didn’t talk at first, just watched the band setting up to play. Rabin was beyond even envying them. Then Zane started to comment on their equipment, and they dropped into a mild discussion that occupied them until the band was ready to play. By that time, a little bit more of a crowd had gathered, but the cleared part of the floor remained mostly empty.

  When they started to play, Rabin forgot just about everything else. He sat forward and neglected his beer, fascinated. It wasn’t the music. The tunes were okay but nothing to rave over. The lead singer, however, was absolutely exquisite. He was gorgeous, to be sure. Tall and slim, with shining, wavy strawberry-blond hair that a woman would die for. His face was long, jaw squared, chin cleft. Rabin couldn’t tell the color of his eyes but thought they were a light color under dreamy eyelids and sculpted eyebrows. But it wasn’t his looks that captivated Rabin so much as his voice and his presence. There was no way to concentrate on any of the other three members of the band. Rabin realized three songs in that he didn’t even know what they looked like. The singer dominated and made mediocre tunes something special. It was almost enough for Rabin to forgive the absurd name of the band: Whispering Pole.

  When the set ended, Rabin was a little surprised to see Sam seated at the edge of the booth, facing out, watching the crowd. He had not been aware of when Zane left or when Sam arrived. Still thinking about that singer—Danny, he’d said his name was when he introduced the band—Rabin surveyed the crowd. Markus sat two booths down with a bunch of other people, clearly well on his way to drunk. Zane was at the bar chatting up a brunette who, by her body language, seemed open to him.

  Rabin scooted out the other end of the booth and, without a word to Sam, headed for the bar.

  “Hi.”

  About to take his first sip of his fresh Scotch and soda, he paused to glance down beside his left shoulder. A pretty girl stood there, her dark eyes heavily lined and her lush lips glossy pink. The cleavage presented by her tight green tank top was impressive. She smiled big, and his response in kind was automatic.

  “Hi.” He waved his tumbler. “Buy you a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Amused that he didn’t have to pay, he ordered her a drink. Her name was Mary, and she warmed even more when she heard he played guitar. He explained that his band had been supposed to play that night but that there had been a scheduling mix-up. She’d seen Whispering Pole before at another bar and really liked them. He admitted never having seen them before, and she started suggesting other bands he might like. It was a good opening talk, the two of them maintaining eye contact as they gauged each other. He played the game, wondering if he really wanted to spend the night with her. He hadn’t been out with anyone since arriving in LA.

  While she was talking, a familiar face came to the bar behind her and ordered a beer. Rabin politely waited for Mary to pause before he caught the lead singer’s eye. “Hey, man, that was a terrific set.”

  The blond turned and flashed a smile. “Thanks.”

  Mary turned and gave him a smile too. “Oh yeah, that was great.”

  Yes, the eyes were a light color, maybe hazel or a deep blue. Rabin could tell this because they were fastened on him, even as Danny gave Mary his thanks. “You were with the other band, yeah?”

  Rabin grimaced. “Yeah.”

  Danny stepped back so he could comfortably offer Rabin his hand. “Hey, I’m sorry about that. We didn’t even know.”

  Rabin shook with him. “No sweat. Not your fault.” He nodded as they released each other. “I like your style. Especially…”

  He didn’t mean to, really, but he and Danny started talking about songs and lyrics, and he kind of lost track of Mary. She faded off to the other end of the bar, and he and Danny adjusted closer so they could talk over the overhead music. Soon enough, they were both ordering second drinks, and they took them to one of the booths. Danny was easy to talk to and knew a lot about music and the local scene. He even remembered the Indigo Knights from when they’d played in LA before. It was nice to have a pleasant conversation about his passion without the tension that hovered over and around the Knights these days. Rabin even got to complain about LA, since Danny didn’t like it any more than he did.

  Much later, Zane dropped into the seat next to Rabin. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” There was enough alcohol in Rabin’s system that he easily found a warm smile. “Zane, Danny. Danny, Zane.”

  They nodded at each other across the table.

  Zane held up his hand and dangled keys. “We’re headed out. You coming?”

  Rabin hesitated. “We?”

  Zane jerked his head behind him, indicating Markus still in the same booth as earlier, although perhaps surrounded by a different crowd. “Markus is getting a ride from a friend of his. Sam’s coming with me and Mandy.”

  “Mandy?”

  Zane grinned. “Over at the bar.”

  Rabin glanced and saw it was the brunette, waiting patiently a few steps away from a very out-of-it Sam. “Nice.”

  “Thanks. So, let’s go.”

  Rabin looked at Danny. Who grinned. “I’ve got my car. I can give you a ride home if you want to stay.” Unlike Rabin, Danny had switched to cola a few drinks back.

  “Cool.” He smiled at Zane. “I’ll see you later.”

  Zane hesitated, keys clacking on the tabletop. “Uh…”

  “What?”

  Chuckling, Danny slid out of the booth. “I’m gonna get a Coke. Need another beer?”

  “Nah, I’m good.” Rabin waited until his new friend was gone, then frowned at Zane. “What?”

  Zane leaned in for a conspiratorial hiss. “Dude, he’s gay.”

  “He is?” Rabin wasn’t surprised. “How do you know, anyway?”

  “You’ve been talking to him for hours, and you didn’t know?”

  “We were talking music.”

  Zane nodded, knowing Rabin well enough to realize that he really could talk music that long to the exclusion of all else. �
�But…you know.”

  “What?”

  “Dude, don’t be stupid.”

  For a second, Rabin honestly didn’t see the problem. Then he saw things through Zane’s eyes, with Zane’s mind, and laughed. “What? You afraid for my virtue?” Little does he know.

  Zane was clearly uncomfortable. “Dude, I know that doesn’t bother you, but he was hitting on you.”

  “No, he wasn’t. Even if he was, so? I can handle myself.”

  Zane scowled. “You serious?”

  “Absolutely.” Even more so because of Zane’s hesitation.

  His friend shook his head. “Fine. Fuck it. I tried to help you. Don’t call me if you need a ride.”

  Rabin laughed as Zane stood. “I’ll be fine.”

  He was still chuckling when Danny returned to the booth.

  “Let me guess.” Danny set a beer in front of Rabin, despite Rabin’s earlier decline. “He was making sure you knew I’m gay.”

  “You got it in one.”

  “Yeah. It’s not much of a secret around here.” Danny sipped his bottle of Coke. “I completely understand if you want to go home with your friends.”

  Rabin scoffed, sipping from his half-empty bottle. “Dude, I spent the better part of a month living with Brent Rose and Hell Witting from Heaven Sent this spring. Your being gay isn’t going to bother me.”

  Danny sputtered, light brows soaring high. “Brent Rose? Are you shitting me? You know him?”

  “Not only know him—I filled in for him once. Over New Year’s.”

  “New Year’s. Oh. My. Fucking. God! You son of a bitch. I’m so jealous. I heard they had someone filling in, but… You lived with him?”

  “At his place outside Chicago.”

  “Oh man!” Danny sat forward, his blond hair spilling off his shoulders. “Tell me everything that you can.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Danny opened the door and switched on the light. “Home sweet home. Sorry, it’s a mess.”

  Rabin followed his new friend into the main room of a small but nice apartment. The walls were an odd peach color, but Danny seemed to feel that walls were meant to hang things on rather than be seen. Nearly every inch was covered with posters or pictures, mounted in a manner similar to a typical teenager’s bedroom. All of the pictures were stars from various times and genres. There were even a few country stars in there. A glossy oversize poster of Heaven Sent commanded a prime position over a faded walnut upright piano. Clothes were strewn here and there, mainly shirts and jackets.