by Nico Rosso
She punched a couple of commands on her keyboard. “And I’ve sent the screen grab to my phone.” Now she could stare at Trevor’s eyes, his perfectly mussed jet-black hair wherever she went. That was healthy. “You want it too?”
“I’m good, thanks. He doesn’t do it for me like he does for you.” Like a lot of people in Los Angeles, Jesse’s very white teeth contrasted against his tanned skin. “But it’s got to be driving you nuts, knowing he’s doing that surprise show tonight.”
Was Jesse needling her? Payback for those two times she gently declined dating him. One rejection should’ve been enough. But it didn’t matter what he thought, or what he might say about her in the break room. There was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity out there. She had to grab it. “I’m going to that show.”
He scoffed, waving his hand over the array of computer monitors and controllers on her desk. “You’ll never make it. Got to feed the puppy. We’re on deadline, remember. There are at least sixteen sequences that need full FX compositing. In HD.”
Fucking talking puppy movie.
“These damn movies are like watching cover bands. Not an original thought in any frame.”
Jesse shook his head with patronizing smugness, as if he’d seen it all, even though they were the same age and she’d been at the job longer. “We’re post-production, Misty. It’s not about creativity. It’s about delivery.”
Trevor’s eyes still bored into her and she had to click off the window. The walls to her small office seemed to close in. “Did you know Trevor Sand’s band never covers another band’s song? Not even when they’re playing live. It’s all them. Lyrics, musicianship. Totally legit.”
Sometimes she felt like a teenage fangirl, rather than a grown, twenty-seven-year-old woman. There was more than idol worship in her connection with Trevor Sand and his band, though. It started a couple of years ago, when she’d heard him on the radio as she drove into Los Angeles for the first time. He was just a few years older than her, but the depth of his words always resonated. Somehow, his lyrics always felt achingly relevant to moments in her life. Of course, not the sticky dirty images of “Jam Session,” but the more emotional lyrics of other songs draped heavily within her.
Jesse shook his head and took another step into her already cramped office. “You’re too much of a fan. Putting Sand up on a pedestal like that means no other guy will be able to measure up.”
Even without Trevor to compare him to, there was no way Jesse and his white belts and candy-colored polo shirts was going to get to the head of the pack of men trying to date her. Not that it was a crowded field. Over the last couple of years, she’d learned that the men of Los Angeles—in the movie industry specifically—didn’t quite know what to do with a woman who had a mind of her own. She shied away from workplace romances, anyway. Besides, Jesse was too soft to spark off of.
“I’m not a fan.” She didn’t have to defend herself to him. “I appreciate what he does. And his band. You are a fan.”
“Of Sand?”
“Of those directors making adaptations of breakfast cereals, turning the volume up to eleven so no one notices there’s more content in the box than in the movie.” Maybe the jab would get him out of her office.
“You know how hard it is to get a movie made in this town. Those guys are working, the top of their craft. If you stop paying attention to that, you’ll never climb the ladder here.”
“No one wants us to climb the ladder. We have to build it ourselves.”
“So go direct a two-hundred-million-dollar 3D epic in your spare time.”
Those kinds of movies were the problem, not the goal.
“While you were still warm and cozy in your footie pajamas this morning, I was up and working on my documentary.”
“The sunglasses one?” He smirked a little, and she remembered a couple of the fights she’d been in at her high school in Kansas City. She’d only thrown a few punches, and did more damage with her nails, but taking a swing at Jesse’s smiling face seemed awfully tempting.
How rock-and-roll was it when Trevor stormed off the set of that TV show? She’d had enough of everyone else’s projects. Everyone else’s opinions. Could she kick open doors the way he could?
“I’m going to that show.” Saying it again made it more real. If only the day would fast-forward so she could start living that night.
Jesse looked as if she’d tagged him with a right cross. “I’m not covering for you.”
The office walls seemed more flimsy, the door thin cardboard. “You don’t need to. I’ll put in my work, then cut out for the show. And—” she spoke it out loud to convince herself, “—I might sneak backstage.”
Jesse’s knowing smirk deepened into a frown. “You’ll never make it cross town from Santa Monica to Hollywood. You’d have to leave at lunch and they’d fire you for that.”
It didn’t matter that she’d been up since six-thirty that morning. “I’m going to make this night happen.” She pointed at the door for Jesse. Without any comebacks, he slipped out of her office. She wasn’t completely rock-and-roll, but it was a good start.
* * *
Work sucked. A day of revisions because no one could make up their mind or communicate with each other. It was easy for the executives in Burbank to call the shots remotely from their gigantic offices. She was the one in the trench who had to shovel the mud until the talking-puppy movie looked just the way they wanted—until the next round of revisions.
But at least she was finally home. Not for long. Traffic had been shit from Santa Monica to her Mar Vista apartment. She had to change fast and get back out on the road if she was going to make that show. It was going to be hell driving into Hollywood, but worth it.
“Date clothes? Why should I wear date clothes?” She stood with her cell phone to her ear, staring at the open closet. It all seemed a blur of colors and fabrics. Nothing good could come out of that chaos.
“Second date.” Kim was two hours ahead in St. Louis, already done with dinner, but willingly turned off her TV to talk Misty through the decisions. “Second date like the first went really well and you want him up your skirt.”
“Him. Funny. There is no him. So I should wear a skirt?” Through high school and beyond, this phone call had been a pre-date routine between Misty and Kim. Though this wasn’t really a date, just an extended fantasy. “Not feeling a skirt for tonight.”
“Tight little something that ends just below your ass.” Kim chuckled on the other end of the line.
“I’m not going to be in a video.”
“What if you were onstage?”
A hot thrill ran through her like a shot of whiskey. “Jeans.”
“Pour yourself in.”
Misty stepped out of her work slacks and picked out a pair of skinny dark-rinse jeans. She hopped to get them over her butt. “What about you, big plans tonight?”
“It’s Wednesday here in St. Louis, Melissa. Same as the rest of the country. The only person doing anything special is you.” Excitement ran through Kim’s voice. “How freaking amazing is it that they’re playing that show? Spur of the moment. Small venue, right? That’s what you said. Two hundred people, max.”
“Wish you could come.” She still needed shoes and a top. “Most of the women I’ve met in this town are just mercenary and mean.”
“I’m mean.”
“In the best way, though. The kind that’ll break a bottle to get an asshole away from her friend.”
“I’d totally do that for you.”
Los Angeles felt lonelier than ever. “You did. At the Limelight in KC.”
Kim paused. “Right. No wonder we’re not allowed back there.”
Misty had to get her back on track. The show was supposed to be starting in less than an hour. “Jeans are a go. Top?”
“Dr
apey, sleeveless. Show a little skin, but not too much.”
“Bright or dark?”
“Do you really need to ask that? You’re going to see Trevor Sand’s band. Wolfgang’s going to pound the drums while Lee slaps the shit out of his bass. And Trevor’s going to be singing every song to you, including ‘The Disappear,’ then you’re going to sneak backstage and rock his world after he rocked yours.” Kim was getting a little heated. “So imagine yourself doing that. Are you wearing a fucking bright coral top?”
“Jesus Christ, fine.” She pushed through the tops in the closet until she found one. “Why don’t you climb into that pint of mint chip and cool yourself down?”
“How’d you know?”
“I’m in your head, Kimberly.” She retrieved a gunmetal-gray sleeveless top. “Shoes?”
While Kim deliberated, Misty slipped off her work blouse and pulled the gray top on. Kim still hadn’t come to a decision by the time Misty had clasped a necklace of jagged-looking black beads around her neck.
Kim finally spoke. “Okay, what shoes would you like to see on your feet as hot-ass rocker Trevor Sand holds your ankles?”
Misty was stunned. “That’s a vivid image.”
“Not that it’s going to happen,” Kim quickly added, “but you never know who you might meet there. Maybe a nice food blogger you can intimidate. At least go out there with some confidence.”
“I can’t do combat boots.” She’d left that look behind in high school.
“Sexual confidence. You’ve been in that town for years and haven’t been on your game.”
“The playing field’s all fucked up. I don’t understand these rules.”
“Sure you do, but you don’t agree with them.” Kim’s insight was always like a laser. No wonder she rose so quickly through her company’s management. “So change the rules. Tonight.”
“That’s asking a lot. You’ve only visited out here and—”
“You already changed the rules. Going to a show on a weeknight after a full day of work?”
“And I don’t know how much attention I was paying. Might have to make up for it all tomorrow.” Her shoes were all lined up and waiting on the bottom of the closet, but no pair voluntarily stepped forward. “With no sleep.”
“I hope you don’t get any sleep.” Kim took a long breath, making Misty calm down a little with her. “The high-heeled gladiator platforms. You sent me the picture from the website.”
Misty snatched them out of the closet. “Rock and roll.” But she still had to be practical. “I’ll wear my trail runners to drive and put them on in the parking lot.”
“Eat some dinner. A couple of energy bars in the car if you have to.”
“I’ll grab them on the way out.” She sat on the edge of the bed and put on her trail running shoes. “But the purse—”
“No purse. You’re lean and mean. ID, credit card, a little cash, keys, a condom and your phone. Bad bitch like you doesn’t need anything else.”
Misty found her purse and pulled only what she’d need for the night. “You’re the baddest bitch of them all.”
“Kisses.” Kim made a smooching sound. “So what if the planets align and you find yourself at the bar, elbow to elbow with him?”
“Who?”
“Trevor Sand.”
Impossible. “Right.” She slid her ID and credit card in her front pocket.
“But what would you say if you met him?”
Her mouth went dry. “Hi, Trevor. I’m Misty. You’ve been writing songs about me.”
Kim chuckled. “Good girl.”
“Bad girl.” Excitement for the night rose in her.
“Make me proud.”
“I’ll try.”
“You already have by stepping out, Misty. Call me when your head clears.”
They said their goodbyes then she grabbed her portable dinner and headed out the door. As she locked it behind her, the metal snap brought her thoughts into hard relief. Who would she be when she unlocked that door again? Kim was right—she’d already stepped off the map. Whatever came next was completely unknown.
Chapter Two
Stale beer, breath and body and the smell of an old leather sofa. Perfect. The wood chair Trevor sat in creaked with the rhythm of the tune he picked out on an acoustic guitar. He’d found countless melodies hidden in the strings and frets. And before guitars there were lutes and citharas. But each song was something new. There was always a voice to discover.
His bass player, Lee Rome, stretched out on the couch, his leather pants against the cracked leather cushions. He casually drew on the wall with a marker, adding his scrawl to the hundreds of signatures and crass remarks that turned the dressing room of the Rascal into an historical relic.
Clinking glass from the bartenders setting up and the canned music leaked from the main room to Trevor, but he didn’t stop playing. Lee tapped a hand on the sofa, keeping rhythm with the squeaking chair. They weren’t due onstage for another hour and this was the quietest place available. Management knew not to disturb them.
Trevor tested to see if the song’s phrases and deep minor chords could support words:
Death is a melody
Played on fly wings
Forever ringing in my ear
Razor sharps and flats
It bleeds me
A song I can never unhear
Ribbons of sound tied the lyrics together, knotting the song into a unified piece. It would work. The people would hear it and understand.
Lee, though, merely laughed a little, tossed the pen onto a scratched coffee table and picked up his beer bottle. “Heavy lyrics for a dude who’s going to live forever.”
Trevor hit a final chord and let it vibrate through the guitar. “We only live if someone’s listening. Once they stop, we’re done.”
Lee’s bottle was empty, so he rolled it under the couch. “Unless you find your Muse.”
“Never witnessed any truth to that. You ever know any of us to find his Muse? And what have you seen in these fragile humans that makes you think they could somehow cross the bridge and transform into what we are?” Lee was silent. No one had seen proof of the Muse, not even a rumor for hundreds of years. “Those are the kind of legends that are carved on the insides of ancient oaks.” He put the guitar down and pulled a couple more beers from the small, battered fridge. “You can’t believe that bullshit.”
Without getting off the couch, Lee grabbed one of the beers, popped the top and tossed the cap in the corner. “We’re made of legends too.” And when he winked to his friend, the skin of his face briefly transformed into the bark of a tree.
“Not that deep.” Trevor made a fist, the curl of his fingers shifting into a knot of redwood burl. “It’s not our fate to find something that lasts.” He changed his hand back to flesh and drank. The beer was cold, but it didn’t wake him from the thundering gloom that surrounded his thoughts. Maybe it was the hunger, but the hollow ache had an unfamiliar darkness around it, black as thick blood.
Lee took a pull from his beer and sat up, flashing that smile that got all the groupies melting. “Your Muse, she’s got green eyes.”
“Fuck off.”
“Dude, I’ve been listening to your songs almost every night for centuries. So many songs about the mysterious woman with green eyes.” Lee toasted him and Trevor didn’t return it. “My Muse is going to have a big round ass.”
“That’s why I don’t let you write the songs.”
“And Wolfgang’s Muse—” Lee gestured toward the hallway where their drummer talked up a couple of local girls, “—she’ll probably be an uptight librarian, just to fuck with him.”
Trevor had lived countless lives, reinventing himself and his appearance to trend with the times. There had been women t
hrough all those years and miles of road. But the one? She didn’t exist. She couldn’t. Not after all this searching.
“You keep looking,” he told Lee. “I’ll keep booking shows to feed us.”
“Like tonight’s last-minute gig in this palace?” He poured a little beer on the floor and swirled the grime with his cowboy boot.
Trevor dripped some of his own beer on his bassist’s boot. “Don’t pretend to be disappointed, asshole. We were all getting hungry, and you know how tight a small venue feels.”
Lee’s smile broadened. “Snug.”
“And I’m not that reckless ass, Kent Gaol, destroying tour buses and lighting hotels on fire.”
The smile on Lee’s face faded and he ran his hand through his long dark hair. “What the hell’s with that guy? It’s like he wants the Philosophers to take him out.”
“Easier than doing it himself. Then he can blame them for his inevitable flameout.”
“Son of a bitch’s making it harder for all of us.”
“It’s never easy, brother.” Another reason they were always touring: a moving target is hard to hit.
“Philosophers get more zealous all the time. I thought that dick on the TV show with you this morning was one of them.”
“It crossed my mind, for a second. But that joker was as tough as a wet newspaper. Just pulp, no bite.” He finished his beer and retrieved three fresh ones from the fridge. “But that doesn’t mean the Philosophers aren’t out there.”
Lee took his beer. “Let ’em try.”
Trevor called toward the hallway, “Wolfgang, quit pumping, we got a set list to go over.”
Wolfgang muttered something and the girls giggled. Then he opened the door and sauntered into the room. “I don’t give a shit about a set list. You call it out and I start drumming.” He took the beer Trevor offered and slammed the door shut with his bare foot. Now that it was just the three of them, he dropped his voice conspiratorially. “After the gig, I got to get some ink. The tats are starting to fade again.”
