Dropping into the seat beside my bags, I rested my arms on my legs, stretching my back from being cramped in such a small area for a long period of time. Around me, the airport never really slowed. People from all walks of life passed by. Some were in a hurry, and some even passed by with an entourage of people, including security.
After thirty minutes, there was still no sign of whomever Woody had sent to pick me up. I tried calling him, but he didn’t answer. Figured. Stranded at a fuckin’ airport with no idea where to go. Grumbling, I shoved my hand through my hair. I could feel my anger pushing past the weariness. I had half a mind to cuss Woody out when I finally got to wherever the fuck he was.
“Excuse me…” I had no idea where the girl came from, but she’d walked up to me, stopping a few feet from where I sat.
I ran my hand down my face and gave her a once over. She was cute, kind of innocent looking. “Can I help you?”
I knew I sounded like a dick, but really, I was over all of it. She just happened to be the one who was unlucky enough to receive the brunt of it.
Her eyebrow shot up, and her cute little lips pulled into a sneer. “Jared, I presume?”
I sighed, feeling like a complete jackass. “Yeah, I’m Jared. Did Woody send you?”
She tossed her honey-blond hair over her shoulder and jingled the keys in her hand. It was like watching a storm come over her face. “Well, are you ready to go or what? I don’t have all day here.”
I stood up and pulled my duffel bag over my shoulder as she reached out and grabbed my guitar case. “Whoa, what are you doing?”
She rolled her eyes at me and set the guitar down. “Well, I was trying to help you, but now you can carry it on your own.”
She walked away from me, not even bothering to look back. Every slap of her All Stars against the floor sounded like a ‘fuck you’. I was immediately drawn to her. Her hair swayed against the back of her shirt and her shorts rode low on her hips, torn denim. It called out the redneck in me. I was glad she’d left me carrying all of my stuff, or I’d end up letting my hands wander to some part of her body that would probably get me slapped.
I followed her out of the airport to the parking lot where a beat-up Chevy Trailblazer was parked. She opened the back and gestured for me to load my stuff. I slid my guitar case in first, and then my duffel bag, as she opened the driver’s side and climbed in. The truck fired as I closed the back hatch.
We’d gotten off on the wrong foot, and I’d have to work extra hard to get back into her good graces. I’d groveled enough times with Riley to know how to do that. Then again, Riley was my friend and part of the Six, or well, seven if I got technical.
I shook my head at my wayward thoughts. The girl sitting in the front seat wasn’t Riley, or even a friend. I, technically, had no friends to speak of since I’d touched down in L.A., and couldn’t afford to piss off anyone working for Woody. I needed the next year to go as smoothly as possible if I wanted to make it with my sanity still intact.
I walked over to the passenger door and opened it. She turned in her seat and smirked when I realized there was no place for me to sit. A crate crammed full of files took up the seat, and there was a book bag on the floor, similar to mine. I grabbed the crate, hauling it out of the seat.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
I set the crate down on the ground and pulled the book bag out next. Opening the back passenger door, I tossed the book bag across the bench seat and then grabbed the crate, setting it on the backseat. “I’m moving your stuff is what I’m doing.”
She huffed, and I chuckled.
“I’m so glad to be such an amusement to you,” she said as I slid into the front passenger seat and closed the door.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d rather sit up front and not be chauffeured around.” That got me a weird look from her. “What?”
She put the truck in reverse, not answering me.
I could tell I made her uncomfortable by the way she sat ramrod straight in her seat. “I’m sorry.”
She gripped the steering wheel, ignoring me as we pulled out of the parking garage. Traffic was heavy. There were cars everywhere. When she finally got a chance to slip into traffic, she punched it. Behind us, someone leaned on their horn.
“Asshole,” she said, hissing through her teeth. I understood immediately. She didn’t like driving in this traffic. It didn’t help that I made her nervous. I wished I had pulled my sunglasses out of my bag before we left the parking garage. The sun was brutal and blinding me through the windshield.
She startled me when she spoke. “I hate driving in this city.”
I turned my head towards her, but she didn’t meet my gaze. “Why did Woody send you if you hate driving here?”
She laughed a hollow sort of laugh. “The same reason I do everything else for Woody. It’s my job.”
I gave her a knowing smile even though she couldn’t see it. “Well, thank you. Being stranded at the airport wasn’t something on my bucket list, so I appreciate you coming to get me.”
Her eyes darted over to me, and a tight smile formed on her lips. “Yeah, well, we all have to experience it at least once.”
I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with the way it pushed me forward, and ran my hand along the side, finding the controls. I groaned when the seat moved backwards, and I didn’t feel like I was about to eat the dash. “So, I never did catch your name.”
She looked at me briefly and then back at the road. “I never gave it to you.”
I leaned my head back against the headrest, wondering how in the hell I’d break through her ice princess attitude. “I can give you a name if you’d like.” I wanted to call the words back, but it was too late.
“I don’t do pet names, Jared.”
My head lolled against the seat to look at her. “Oh come on, you look like you could be a…” She shot me a look that stopped me from saying anything more. So I switched tactics. “Where are you from?”
The question caught her off guard. “Why do you even care?”
I loved the frustration in her voice. I could tell I was wearing her down. Maybe before we got to our destination, I’d at least get her name.
“Believe it or not, I was raised with manners.” She rolled her eyes at me. I tossed my hand, letting it fall to my leg. “I’m trying to be nice here. I’m sorry about earlier. I’m tired, and I’ve been jerked around since before I boarded the plane to get here. Do you think we can start over?”
A laugh laced in disbelief burst from her. “That’s probably the worst excuse ever. So what if you had a shitty day? Jesus, all you musicians are the same. Believe it or not, you don’t walk on water, and not every girl wants to fuck you.”
I jerked at her outburst. “Wait…whoa; you’re being a little unfair, aren’t you?”
She pulled into the parking lot of a small hotel and put the truck in park. “Get your stuff. Woody’s probably pacing the damn parking lot waiting on you.”
She never got out of the driver seat. In fact, she never even shut the truck off. As soon as my stuff was sitting in the parking lot, and the hatch to the truck was closed, she pulled away.
STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF the parking lot, I realized two things. One, my phone wasn’t in my back pocket anymore, so I couldn’t even call Woody. And two, I still hadn’t gotten her name.
I sighed, sucking in a mouthful of air that tasted like exhaust and decaying vegetation as I scrubbed my hand over my face with a groan.
“Jared!”
My head snapped up to find a man, dressed in a light blue-colored silk button down that fluttered against his cream-colored slacks in the slight breeze, crossing the parking. A matching cream-colored fedora sat atop his head at a slight angle, blocking out the midday sun overhead. I was no slouch at dressing, but the man striding towards me made me feel like the bottom of the Salvation Army bin.
When his hand came out, mine automatically lifted with the manners ingrained in me since,
well, since forever.
“Sorry for the ticket mix up. The guys are ready to head out as soon as you’re loaded on the bus. I caught them up on you, so introductions won’t be necessary,” the man shaking my hand said.
I could feel my eyebrows pulling together. Did no one here ever introduce themselves? “Woody, correct?”
I’d never officially met Woody since all of our contact had been either by email or over the phone. When I signed my contract, it had come by overnight mail.
He pulled his hand back and planted it on his hip, looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “Of course I’m Woody. Who else would I be?” He laughed, wait…more like brayed, like a damn donkey. I clenched my teeth together.
I stood there, staring, as Woody turned away and spoke to me over his shoulder. “Grab your stuff and follow me.”
The strap to my duffel bag bit into my shoulder again, making me wish Riley hadn’t let me pack so much. I followed Woody around the other side of the building, sidestepping the places where the asphalt had lifted. I was already unbalanced enough holding all of my stuff. The last thing I needed was to land on my face because I’d caught my shoe in a gaping crack.
Woody slowed down, letting me catch up to him. “So, my niece found you with no problems?”
Woody’s niece had been the one who picked me up from the airport? That explained a lot—like why her attitude was so sketchy, along with her disregard of introducing herself. It must run in the family. “Yeah, she didn’t have a problem finding me. At least, I don’t think she did anyway.”
We rounded the side of the brick building into the shade. Woody kicked his fedora back enough for me to get a good look at his mud-brown, beady eyes. “She’s a helluva worker, but not a pleasant one. Hired her on when her daddy skipped town and her momma drank her way into rehab.” He shrugged with a knowing chuckle.
It infuriated me that he’d so crassly talk about her parents as if it were like… it was like, hell, I didn’t even know what it was like. But I do know that if he’d spewed my life out to a total stranger, I’d be pissed. I’d officially known Woody all of ten minutes and had him pegged for a slime ball.
Across the empty parking lot, a bus sat idling. The back end, blackened from the exhaust and road grime, was marred with the words ‘wash me’. I came to a halt, wondering if what was before me was some kind of joke.
“Welcome to your new home,” Woody said, slapping me on the back.
I stumbled forward, unbalanced by the weight I carried, cursing the man beside me under my breath.
“You’ll be leaving here and headed out for Shreveport for a music fest in a couple of days, so you’ll be practicing on the bus…” Woody kept talking, but everything he said after that fell into a tunnel of nothingness that rushed with the sound of my own blood pumping in my ears. I couldn’t have heard him right. Practicing on the bus? How?
Before I could question him, we were at the bus door. It swooshed open with a rush of cool air that hit my face. The driver leaned out and pulled my guitar from my hand. I didn’t have time to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, because it was handed over to someone inside, and then he was down the three steps, yanking my duffel bag from my shoulder. When he went to grab my book bag, I yanked it out of his grip.
Woody, still yacking away, shoved me up the first step as I reeled over the abruptness of the situation. I spun on him, and he stopped talking. “Are you for real right now?”
“Of course I am. What the hell did you think would happen when you got here? Get your ass on the bus. They’re waiting for you.”
When Woody backed up, the driver stepped in behind me, forcing me further into the bus. The doors closed and the air brakes hissed as the driver shifted into gear, lurching us forward.
I pulled my backpack tighter against my shoulder, turning around to find the front of the bus devoid of any life. Where the hell were the others?
My guitar was on the couch. I numbly walked over and sat down. Peeling my backpack from my arm, I let it drop to the floor by my feet. My hand sought out the comfort of my guitar case as I stared blankly across the four-foot space where the kitchen area was, wondering what I had gotten myself into.
Why the hell had Woody made me fly out to L.A. if we were headed to Shreveport? I could have just met them there. And just how the hell had he expected us to practice on a bus? Did he not understand the concept of practicing at all? What a damn joke. I rolled my eyes and resigned myself to the fact that I was stuck on a bus with total strangers until we got to Louisiana. After that, if things didn’t change, I’d go home and figure out something else.
Popping the latches on my case, I hauled my guitar onto my lap. At least I had it to keep me company—fuck the rest of them. I pulled my tuner out and strummed a few chords. It was always like that when I’d found myself feeling scattered. I’d huddle over my guitar, lost in my own little world of music, as I worked out whatever issue I had. Even if I hadn’t come up with a solution, I still felt better when I could let go and pour it all out the only way I really knew how.
I made my way through a few songs, not singing, just listening to the sound of my hands sliding over the strings. Each cord following one into the other, until I’d settled into my zone and opened my mouth to sing. I made it past the first verse of “The Kill” by Thirty Seconds to Mars when I realized I was no longer alone.
Destroying Doubt’s drummer, Lars Hanover, leaned against the wall at the opening of the hallway, watching me.
My hands stilled over the strings when lead guitar player, Jason Howey, squeezed past Lars and sat down next to me, guitar in hand. Everyone knew him as Licks, because of the hot licks that poured out of his guitar when he played.
Lars made his way over to the dinette and sat, drumming his fingers against the table, nodding at Retro when he came from the back and slid into the opposite bench.
Evan Fields, known to the music world as Retro, was Destroying Doubts bass player, and probably the quietest of them all. I’d seen several interviews where Retro said no more than a handful of words, and couldn’t be coaxed into saying anything more.
Bent over his guitar, Licks strummed the beginning of one of their songs. His head snapped up, and he jutted his chin at my guitar. “You gonna play that thing, or just hold it?”
My fingers worked over the frets, and I moved into the song with him.
“Know the words?” he asked.
I nodded as a bout of nerves shot through me.
Licks smiled and said, “All you then.”
When we finished the song, everyone went eerily silent.
Retro hooted as his fist pumped the air. “You fuckers owe me. Pay up!”
Licks pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his front pocket and stood up. Retro snatched it out of his fingers and laughed. “I told you. I told both of you!”
Lars rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat as he reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He flipped it open, not looking at Retro. “You called it. Still doesn’t mean shit if Jared doesn’t know the other material.” He held a one hundred dollar bill, keeping it just out of Retro’s reach. “But I say double or nothing. I say he doesn’t know the other songs.”
Retro slapped the bill Licks gave him on the table. “I’ll take that bet just to see you lose even more money.”
They were betting on my ability to play all of their songs. I swallowed nervously. I knew their songs—could play them in my sleep—but I never sang them quite like Kit James. To say I was uncomfortable with changing up the vocals of their songs was putting it mildly. It wasn’t like Kit James sucked at singing his songs. He was good. Damn good. It was why he left a trail of panties behind him wherever he went. But to me, his singing felt forced. Music was meant to be felt deep in that place that rubbed against your soul. A place where everything flowed together, making it an experience instead of a bunch of sounds hitting you while someone screamed the lyrics into a microphone. I felt what I played. I let it roll along
every nerve ending and flow out of me. I wanted to be the guy who gave people the chills when they listened to me play.
Licks kicked my foot. “You gonna do one or what? I got a lot of money riding on you. Don’t fuck it up.”
I plucked my fingers along the strings. Inhaled. Exhaled. Fuck it. They’d either like it or hate it. But I wasn’t going to start being a pretender to give them what I thought they wanted. I broke into one of their older songs with my spin on the tempo and vocals. Kit James had done his best to make it a full out, rock-your-eardrums kind of song. I slowed it down and made the melody more haunting. Softer.
I kept my head tilted, my eyes closed. Felt every string, of every note, and didn’t look up until the silence of the guys around me made my nerves as taut as the strings under my fingers.
Beside me, Licks pulled his guitar from his lap and set it upright on the floor between his feet. His hands were wrapped around the neck and his head was hung. That couldn’t be a good sign. I blew out a deep breath and forced myself to look at Retro and Lars, trying to gauge just how much I’d screwed up by changing one of their biggest songs.
Retro had moved to sit against the lower cabinet in front of the sink. His arms were draped over his knees. His head was bowed, leaving me no way of knowing what he thought of my re-make.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lars lean back. He watched me through the slits of his eyes, but he said nothing.
Silence, while great for thinking, totally sucked when you were waiting for the bottom to fall out on your dreams.
I cleared my throat and swallowed hard. Once. Twice. The third time, I forced myself to apologize. To say something, anything, to make them not hate me. “I… uh… I guess I shoulda waited to play it like that another time.”
Lars shifted on the bench seat and slid out. It took everything in me to keep my eyes on him, when all I wanted to do was slink off and hide. When he stopped in front of me, my hand dropped off the neck of my guitar. I rubbed it against the material of my jeans to keep the telltale shake of my hands from him. The last thing I wanted was for Lars to see how freaked out I really was.
End Note Page 2
