by Arden Powell
“You picked him up off the street,” Brian said. “Rayne . . .”
“He just arrived in the city! Listen to him play before you judge me for adopting strays.”
Brian sighed and dropped his arms. “It’s not strays I’m worried about, it’s getting involved with another Fink. Kris? You want to play us something?”
“Fink?” Kris asked.
“The last guy,” Rayne supplied.
“Right.”
Kris slipped away from Rayne, missing his warmth immediately—there was comfort in having his hand held, but he needed to focus—and took his guitar out. He slung the strap over his shoulder, fiddled with the tuning one more time just to have something to do, and shifted on his feet.
“So what do you want to hear?”
“Whatever you want,” Rayne said.
“Anything but ‘Wonderwall,’” Stef said. “If you play ‘Wonderwall’ I’m vetoing Rayne’s vote to bring you in.”
“You don’t have veto power,” Rayne said, “and we’re only pretending this is a democracy.”
“Ignore them,” Brian cut in. He had a patient, long-suffering air about him that must have come from wrangling rock stars all day. “Play anything.”
Kris nodded, blew out his breath, and played.
As he played, everything else stopped. He didn’t worry about money or employment or how his future hung on this one audition: there was nothing in his head but the music. His hands flew over the frets, the strings biting into his fingertips with every touch, and the music swelled to fill the studio with a rich, heavy sound.
“That’s ours!” Rayne exclaimed as Kris moved into the chorus. “Did you learn that in the car ride over?”
“It’s not perfect,” Kris said, letting the notes peter out. “I didn’t have time to memorize it; there are bits I had to make up as I went along.”
“But you got all that by ear in forty minutes,” Rayne said.
Kris shrugged. “I guess?” he offered sheepishly.
He transitioned to a seventies medley of Bowie, Queen, and T. Rex, and Rayne flung his arm around Brian’s shoulders, beaming ear to ear. “We can keep him, right?”
“He’s not high and he’s not jonesing,” Brian said reluctantly. “I can tell that much just from looking. Kid? You got any bad habits we should know about? Anything likely to interfere with the band?”
Kris shook his head, hugging his guitar like a shield.
“You know I wouldn’t take that kind of risk this close to the tour,” Rayne said. “We’re desperate, not suicidal. I’ve got a good feeling about him, Brian.”
Brian grunted. “Kris? You want in?”
“Please,” Kris said. “Not to guilt-trip you or anything, but the alternative is moving back in with my parents and embracing my Midwest heritage. Or living under a bridge somewhere. Just so you know.”
Brian winced. “Let’s try to avoid that. Here’s what I’ll do.” Everyone else quieted. “We’ll take you on for a trial period. We’ve got sixteen shows between New York and the Nevada festival. If you make it through all that without a hitch, we’ll talk about signing you on for good. But you make one wrong move, and I’ve got a session musician on speed dial who already knows all the tracks, and is just waiting to jump in and cover for us. All right?”
“Okay,” Kris said quickly. “I’ll be on my best behavior, one hundred percent. No wrong moves.”
Brian seemed skeptical, but he nodded. “I’ll get a contract drawn up tying you to the tour as far as Nevada.”
Kris’s heart skipped giddily and he tried not to let it show.
“Everybody on board?” Rayne asked.
“The kid can play,” Lenny acknowledged.
“Of course we’re on board,” Maki said.
“You’d pitch a fit if we weren’t,” Stef concluded.
“They’re all thrilled to have you here,” Rayne said, fixing the band with a stern look. “Right?”
“Yeah, we’re just fucking with you,” Stef said. “You sound great. Not that Fink was a tough act to follow, but whatever.”
Maki shook her head. “Fink was always a mess. I’m surprised he lasted this long.”
“He could play guitar but he was no prodigy,” Stef agreed. “And all that fucking heroin was a pain.”
“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Rayne said mildly.
“He’s not dead; he’s in rehab.”
“Yeah, but he’s dead to me. So, Kris—no drugs.”
“No, of course not,” Kris promised. He glanced at Brian. “Uh. Weed?”
“Doesn’t count,” they all said in unison.
“No hard drugs,” Rayne amended. “Weed and party drugs are okay. Partake responsibly.”
“I’ve never done anything besides weed.”
“He’s cute,” Maki said decisively, and just like that, Kris was accepted into the fold.
“I’ll pay you back for it as soon as I can,” Kris said.
They stood on the sidewalk in front of the music store. The neon letters in the window read OPEN, and the display was full of bright, shiny new instruments Kris didn’t have a chance in hell of affording anytime soon.
“Shut up and let me buy you a guitar,” Rayne said pleasantly.
Inside, the store was low-lit but spacious. Aisles of cords, cables, speakers, and amps filled the front half of the room, giving way to keyboards as they moved farther in. Rayne steered him to the left side near the back where, tucked away in a little nook, the electric guitars and basses were covering every inch of the three walls. They were glossy and bright and came in every size, shape, and color, and Kris’s eyes glazed over with want just looking at them.
Rayne nudged his shoulder. “Find one you like.”
“Any one?”
They both glanced at the double-necked beast on the back wall. It had to weigh more than Kris.
“Maybe not that one,” Rayne amended. “Anything else.”
Kris stepped into the nook with the sensation of stepping into a whole new world. He reached out to touch the nearest guitar. Rayne waited in the main body of the store, letting him explore on his own, for which Kris was grateful. The one-eighty degree spin his life had taken since landing in New York was still catching up to him, as dizzying as a hurricane and keeping him off-balance. Right now, looking at the wall of guitars and knowing he was going to take one of them home—or out of the store, anyway, wherever “home” was—he was nearly in tears.
He checked the nearest price tag and swallowed. His acoustic had cost him fifty bucks. These were significantly more.
“Pick one up, try it out,” Rayne said. “Play me something.”
Kris forced his attention off the numbers and onto the guitars. He landed on a Squier Mini Strat in the back corner, and had lifted it from its hook before he was aware of his actions. The body was a dark cherry red, wood grains showing through black near the base. Rayne hummed in approval. The Fender was smaller than the others—Kris was short and needed a guitar with a shorter neck to match. He knelt down, balancing it across his lap, and gave it a strum. Unplugged, the sound was faint, but the notes were true. He closed his eyes and plucked out a scale, skipping up and down the frets.
“You like it?” Rayne asked. “Plug her in and play me a song.”
There was an amp waiting in the corner beside a stool and a pair of headphones. Kris plugged in and spun out a riff to match the Green Day song on the overhead speakers, and Rayne grinned in return. The guitar felt warm and alive under his hands. He liked the look and the feel of it—it was just the money niggling at him.
“You want to try any others?” Rayne asked.
“This one’s talking to me.”
The longer Kris sat with it, the more attached he got. He played until Rayne wandered off to look at something, and as soon as his back was turned, Kris snuck a peek at the price. It wasn’t the most expensive guitar on the wall; maybe it was even the cheapest. That didn’t make it affordable.
Th
e cherry-red finish glinted up at him.
“You sure you don’t want to get me a used one somewhere?” Kris asked, calling Rayne back.
“You looked at the price, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“You make it hard for people to buy you stuff, you know that?” Rayne said. “You like it, right? Best out of all the ones they’ve got?”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts.” Rayne nudged him until he stood. “You’re in the band; you need a guitar. I promise, the label can afford a decent instrument or two.”
Kris shifted, cradling the guitar in his arms like a baby, and relented.
Rayne grinned. “You’ll get used to the whole rock-star thing. Wait till we hit LA. You’re allowed to be a diva there. Hell, you’re expected to be.”
“I’m from Kansas. We don’t have divas or rock stars there. We have wheat. And cows.”
“Yeah, you look like a cowboy kind of guy.” Rayne held out his arm, beckoning Kris in. Kris stepped up and Rayne caught him around the shoulders, steering him out of the nook. “Come on. We’ve got a show tonight.”
They ended up at the register with the guitar, a hard case, a strap, and a pack of extra strings—Rayne said that Fink had left behind his old amplifier, and Kris was more than welcome to inherit it.
“Hey, Rayne,” the cashier greeted them. “Find everything okay?”
“This is baby’s first electric guitar,” Rayne said, ruffling Kris’s hair.
“Your boy’s got good taste,” she said, ringing up the instrument. “You guys have fun?”
“I think I’m in shock,” Kris said. “Should I wait outside while you pay for this?”
“Don’t be dumb,” Rayne replied as the girl punched the numbers in. “After this I’m buying you coffee—one of those fancy ones with the ridiculous names and ten hundred toppings.”
“Thanks,” Kris said helplessly.
“Get used to it, babe. You’re living in the fast lane now.”
The total flashed up on the register, and Kris broke out in a sweat and had to look away. Rayne paid with his business account without batting an eye, and Kris was only allowed to carry the stuff to their car after fighting Rayne for it first. Butch, who’d been waiting patiently behind the wheel of the ’66 Mustang, put the top down and drove them around the block to the nearest coffee shop. Kris bolted from the car, vaulting over the door before Rayne had undone his seat belt, and flung himself into the shop, adamant that he would get in line and pay before Rayne could.
The barista spelled both their names wrong, and Rayne laughed at him the entire drive back to the studio. Somehow, that didn’t stop Kris from enjoying his drink, though he suspected the caffeine was going to fry his nerves. They could get fried—the important thing was staying awake to play the show.
“You good?” Rayne asked as they pulled back into the studio lot, twisting in his seat to look back at Kris. Butch killed the engine and disembarked, warning them not to linger too long.
Kris rolled his cup between his hands and breathed. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just trying to wrap my head around everything. I feel like I left Kansas in the real world, and I landed in some parallel dimension where everything is just . . .” He met Rayne’s gaze. “Wild. Unbelievable. And good? But like.” He let the condensation from the cup drip over his fingers. Rayne smiled encouragingly. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” Kris finished.
“I didn’t give you a lot of time to think about it—” Rayne began, but Kris cut him off with a shake of his head.
“I want this,” he said firmly. “This could be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You met me a few hours ago, and you’ve already bought me a guitar, man! This isn’t how real life works. I should be working twenty hours a week as a cashier making minimum wage in some crappy convenience store, not—” He gestured up and down to Rayne.
“The guitar suits you,” Rayne said. “You look good with it.”
“It outclasses me by a mile.”
“You wouldn’t have picked it if you thought it wouldn’t work for you, and you wouldn’t have blown that audition out of the water if you weren’t meant for this.”
“I want it to suit me,” Kris said. “I think it could, but . . . maybe a version of me that doesn’t exist yet.”
“It will,” Rayne promised. “Maybe you think I’m nuts for offering you all this when I barely know you, but listen—I have a good instinct for people. When I saw you in the park, even before I heard you play, I knew you were worth taking a chance on. You’re pure potential right now, and we’re going to shape you into something incredible. Besides, Brian won’t let you fuck up too badly.”
Kris thought about the little red guitar in the trunk of the Mustang and tried to imagine himself onstage with The Chokecherries, in leather and makeup and too much glitter, playing for a crowd of thousands—his old dream, glimmering on the brink of coming true. His head spun at the thought of it.
“That,” Rayne said. “Whatever you were thinking right there. That’s what we’re going to make you into.”
“I’m in.” Kris’s mouth was dry and his heart beating too fast. “Just tell me what to do.”
Rayne described the show as “intimate,” but the venue looked plenty big to Kris. The set list had twelve tracks, all covers the band had chosen once it became apparent Fink wasn’t coming back and they couldn’t train a new guitarist on their original material in time. Kris knew all the songs and could play most of them; those he couldn’t, he was confident he could fake. Bowie, the Rolling Stones, Nirvana—they were so deeply ingrained in Kris’s mind he could play them in his sleep. He’d cut his teeth on The White Stripes’ song, learning to play back in middle school.
“You’re going straight from Britney Spears to Nine Inch Nails?” he asked.
“Have to keep them guessing,” Rayne said. “They’ll love it.”
It was already 5 p.m. The show was slated to start at eight. Kris was running on caffeine and not much else, and he hadn’t played with a real live band in ten years. Brian walked him through all the equipment as the others warmed up. The tech was familiar, albeit fancier and more expensive than Kris was used to, but muscle memory kicked in and he managed well enough, even if he felt like a kid pretending to be a grown-up.
“You’re fine,” Brian determined. “We’ll get you in better shape by the time we hit the road, but you’ll do for now.”
“Right.” Kris took a deep breath. “I’ve got this.”
“Ready?” Rayne asked.
Kris shifted his guitar around until it felt like part of his body and nodded. “Okay. Go.”
He kept to himself at first, concentrating on the music and the equipment and learning how the different players fit together. The Chokecherries were so familiar with one another they could communicate without words, and Kris felt left behind—like he was stuck on the ground trying to understand the beauty of a flock of birds. Maki and Lenny were the easiest to pin down; they stayed by their stations, Lenny emanating quiet ease while Maki seemed effortlessly cool, keeping to herself until she needed to trade sarcastic asides with Stef. Stef, meanwhile, took up every inch of space they could manage, strutting back and forth, their hair falling in their face as they thrashed their bass around with a palpable aggression.
And then there was Rayne.
He stayed near his mike stand, giving directions and suggestions between tracks, sometimes pacing, but with nowhere near the energy Kris had seen in the videos. Rather than making the rehearsal feel dull in comparison to them, the air was thick with anticipation, like the room was waiting for the tiger to burst from its cage.
By the time they had run through every track, it was one hour till showtime. They tucked themselves away backstage in a single dressing room, waiting for the audience to pile in.
“It’s a going-away show,” Rayne said. “Mostly friends and family. It’s really small; a few hundred people, tops. We’re not even dressing up for it.”
Kris nodded and pretended he wasn’t being eaten alive by nerves. The others were all comfortably settled in their preshow rituals, and he didn’t want to interrupt to demand reassurances. He knew the songs, could use the equipment, and the rehearsal had gone fine. Rayne believed in him. Kris swallowed his anxiety, wiped his palms on his jeans, and smiled. It felt shaky, but no one questioned it. He spent the last hour as a ball of nervous energy, pacing backstage, tuning his guitar, trying to sit, drinking too much water and then running to the bathroom every five minutes. He could hear the venue starting to fill, a low thrum of voices and bodies behind the curtain, waiting for the band.
He left his flannel shirt folded over the back of the dressing room couch and hoped he didn’t look too out of place. The Chokecherries were exotic even in plain clothes, and Kris wondered if he might have preferred taking the stage for the first time behind a mask of makeup and high fashion.
“You good?” Rayne asked brightly.
“Yeah,” Kris croaked, holding his guitar in a death grip.
“It’s going to be great.” Rayne slung an arm around Kris’s neck and toppled him off-balance into a hug. “They’re going to love you.”
“Right. No, totally. I’m not even nervous.”
Rayne flashed him one last smile before the voices reached a crescendo and he lunged forward to take the stage. The sudden well of screams—a few hundred, but god, the noise—was the last thing Kris heard before he followed Rayne into the blinding lights.
Kris couldn’t remember a single detail about the show once it was over. As soon as Rayne was done with the introductions—“The Chokecherries” left a rich taste in Kris’s mouth: sweet as honey, and just a little bit dirty—and they launched into their first song, his mind went blank and all that was left was the music. It passed like a fever dream: a rush of sound and color that was over as quickly as it had begun. He remembered the feel of the strings under his fingers, and the way the floor vibrated with the heartbeat of the drums, but little else. He couldn’t have answered to his own name, but he knew Rayne’s. The crowd chanted it like a prayer.
