Reprise

by C. D. Breadner

  He took a deep breath through an open mouth, trying to calm the racing of his heart. Closing his eyes, he tried to envision the good parts of his life. And instead his guilt buried him in the assurance he was a piece of shit.

  He knew where he was headed when this life was over. Fluffy clouds and harps were not waiting for him.

  Chapter Two

  Mallory closed her eyes, hand curling around the neck of her beloved Bobby, body cradled close. The wooden back of her black Epiphone EJ-200 Jumbo pressed into her chest warmly, and as she plucked the strings the tune in her head vibrated through the maple back and the ebony fret board.

  This ditty didn’t have words, not yet. She usually completed the entire story, as it were, and then put the details in place. The feel was important, the words had to match.

  Creating her own song also had the added benefit of keeping her from losing her fucking shit because—an hour after rehearsal was scheduled to start—she was still the only one here.

  Bars were not fun to be around, not anymore. Not that she was sure they ever really were. But at midday the paint, the carpet, the sheen on the wood was all revealed to be dingy and sordid. And it always smelled like stale beer.

  The cleaning crew was righting the chairs when the first of her band mates showed up. Matt Shreider was the drummer, and while he seemed the most dedicated to the band his dedication seemed to keep its own schedule.

  She smiled her greeting, not feeling like getting in anyone’s grill. Not today, and she was tired of sounding like everyone’s mother. She switched from her original work in progress and switched to a little Creedance Clearwater. With a grin Matt slid onto his stool, found a couple sticks, and joined in.

  Next came Vernon Mark, or just V. V played bass, and once he was jacked in the song felt more complete. Last came Hal Picard. Just from the sight of him her body clenched, and she pointedly ignored him as he pulled his Fender out of the case. When he stepped to the mic and joined in on vocals she also tried to ignore the flutter in her chest.

  He’s so fucking good, she was reminded every single time they sang together. He was gorgeous and sounded like a rock God. She wished she could go back to being not attracted to him, but all her efforts were thwarted. She kept sleeping with him, too, that didn’t help at all.

  When they wrapped up the old staple Long As I Can See The Light, there was a long pause while a few throats were cleared, guitars retuned. She waited, stewing and trying not to go off like an annoyed hen. But damn these boys pissed her off.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Matt eventually said. “We were up a little late last night.”

  Being the “house band” for a bar seemed sweet. Guaranteed gigs every weekend, money in pocket. The guys loved it. Problem was it was in Cleary, Colorado, which happened to be her hometown. So yeah, this was no tripping-the-light-fantastic. And they were a bar band. She’d been at this for twenty-some years now. It was time to decide if this was really what she was doing with her life.

  But these guys were in their thirties, and like last night, they still had plenty of pussy to tap. And her? She got hit on by little pricks who called her cougar.

  To. Her. Face.

  But that was the crowd. They were easy to ignore. The band was its own headache. For example, no one was interested in making original songs. They were happy to do covers indefinitely as long as they were getting laid.

  All she wanted was a fucking album. One album, done and forever out in the universe. Even if no one bought it and she was giving them out as Christmas gifts for years, she didn’t care. But these guys? All they were worried about was the cost of recording, producing and distribution. And she’d bet it had a lot to do with the fact that any cash they made was spent on booze and pot. They even lived together to save on rent. Thank Christ Mallory had her own place. She had to mother these guys enough as it was.

  The guitar strap came over her head, and she didn’t reply to Matt’s apology. They knew she was pissed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw how they shifted in place, looking down. She set the Epiphone back in its velvet-lined case.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she finally said, snapping the case shut. “I’ve rehearsed. I’ve gotta go buy food. Have fun, boys.”

  One of them sighed. Another, probably Matt, muttered “Shit,” and Hal played a cord on his Fender, stage whispering “Real professional, Mal.”

  She picked up the case with a laugh. “Yeah. We’re such professional musicians. I’ve been sitting here an hour with my own company. The cleaning crew is here in fifteen minutes. That’s how long you have before they start vacuuming. And don’t put them off; that’s fucking rude. They’re just doing their job.”

  “Mal—”

  She held up at hand to stop V. “I’ve heard it. I’ve heard it so many times it’s going on my fucking headstone. Here lies Mallory Beck. She lived like a musician.” She dropped her hand. “V, we’re not musicians. We’re doing our best impression of a juke box most nights. As long as people can dance to it and they recognize it, we’re rock stars for an hour and then it’s done.”

  “It pays the bills.”

  Another dry laugh. “Barely.”

  “We were thinking,” Matt broke in nervously, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “Maybe it’s time for another tour.”

  She rolled her eyes and hopped off the one-foot stage. “I thought we wanted to make money at this.”

  Playing one bar after another meant you broke even. There was the cost of hotels, food, transportation, and bar owners seemed to think bands lived on magic beans or some shit. They’d do the summer festival circuit because there was always the chance of exposure, but those ended up costing money. The income always depended on attendance, the venue, and staff. Usually they came back a couple grand in the hole, and that was with sharing hotel rooms.

  “I don’t know—” she began, but Hal cut her off.

  “Not your call. We all get a say.”

  She clenched her jaw and glared at him. “I don’t feel like getting further in debt because you guys have the need for coastal pussy. It doesn’t do me any good and like I say, it’s not worth it.”

  “More exposure though, Mal.”

  She smiled at Matt. He was such a sweetheart. She wished she was attracted to him instead. “I know, Matt. But fighting with bar owners just to get enough to pay for our gas and hotel—”

  “We need a tour manager,” Hal declared, shaking his long dirty-blonde hair out of his face. “They can handle the bookings and negotiating pay ahead of time. Then we just practice.”

  Mal was surprised. She’d been saying this for months. “Yeah?”

  Hal nodded and plucked off a little tune. “Yeah. Gail said she’d do it.”

  It was a fight but she kept her face stoic. “She’s done that before?”

  “She can work a phone, and she can be a bitch at times. What more does it take?”

  Gail was a complication. She was Hal’s long term bitch of a girlfriend who had, unfortunately, convinced him he was the star of the band. She also hated Mal, but not because she knew about their illicit moments. She was young and insecure and every other woman was a threat for some reason.

  Okay, yeah, that was probably understandable.

  But she was also gorgeous with luscious black hair, almost midnight blue in color, creamy, perfectly pale skin and striking blue eyes. Pointy nose, slanted chin. The kind of face that could pull off the spiky, short, messy hair style she had. Grudgingly, Mallory had to admit she had a very cool style. Plus she was rail-thin with tits that didn’t need a bra.

  Mallory might have envied her, just a bit.

  Not bluffing in the least, Mallory excused herself from the children of her “band,” and stepped out into the sunshine of the street, dropping her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses from her hair to her nose. She smiled hello at the middle-aged couple passing by, remembering vaguely that their last name was Hardy but unsure of what they did in Cleary. They looked old, even if she was the same age. She jus
t refused to grow up.

  The Epiphone case slid behind the bench seat of her ‘69 Chevy. She wasn’t a car girl, never had been. Her father had kept this white and robin’s egg blue girl running for a long time, and she suspected it held a lot of sentimental value for him. When they’d put him in the home she couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of it.

  It wasn’t a pampered project by a long shot. There was plenty of rust and numerous dents, and it sucked back gas faster than a tank. But the engine was solid and dependable, and when it needed service it was dirt-cheap. No hooking this thing up to the computer. Del at the auto shop just had to listen to it run for ten seconds and he knew what was wrong.

  With a grunt she heaved the passenger door shut and the hinges groaned back at her. As she circled around the front hood a truck drove past; newer, a Dodge Ram—she knew that much, but no more. Other than it was shiny black, and new trucks stood out in Cleary. The chrome on it was still perfect.

  She may have spent time away from the small town, but when in Cleary she was as much a local yokel as anyone. The truck passed by and she stared, able to see into the cab because the passenger window was rolled down. Cigarette smoke drifted out, tickling her nose slightly, but when she caught the profile of the driver she froze in place.

  The lighting was bad. He was mostly in silhouette. His hair was short now, but the beard was there. And it looked grayer from what she could tell. Even with sunglasses on—his and hers—she knew that was Harlon Gray.

  Time froze and stretched at her feet. Her body swayed, causing her hip to hold her weight against the Chevy’s front panel. One glimpse, taking all of three seconds, rendered her down to a scared shitless twenty-year old again.

  And that was almost thirty fucking years ago.

  Unwittingly her hand was on her lower stomach, and it probably looked like she was fighting nausea. That wasn’t it at all. She was fighting back memories that would better stay dead and buried, saving her sanity and spine.

  And her poor battered heart.

  He hadn’t seen her, thank Christ. She made her feet move, climbing behind the Chevy’s steering column and ignoring how her hands shook as she tried to slide the key into the ignition. Fourth time was a charm, but once she got the engine running her mind blanked on her again.

  “Damn darlin’. Those things real?”

  “They feel real, don’t they?”

  “They’re too perfect.”

  Hair past his shoulders, a chestnut brown with predictable wave to it, fitting around his face like he styled it. Flat-fronted ball cap on, what was definitely a “trucker’s cap” perched a little high on his head because he’d just removed it to scratch his scalp before setting eyes on her.

  But she’d been staring at him for the ten minutes he’d been in the bar before noticing her. He was the most beautiful, manliest thing she’d ever seen, and she’d grown up in Cleary where all men were either loggers or truck drivers. This guy oozed machismo, all from across the room.

  It hadn’t been shocking that he’d commented on her tits before saying hello or looking her in the eye. She’d dressed so that her tits were really the point of the outfit; low cut, wrap around blouse with faded jeans. No dressing up more than that when you were out to get laid. Men didn’t bother with the ones that looked serious.

  She remembered everything about that day. His jeans had been dirty, the white undershirt cleaner but only by the mercy of the oil-stained denim shirt he also wore. Later, when that denim shirt came off, the sleeves of that T-shirt stunned her by how they stretched to accommodate his biceps. Of course, there was the trucker cap. Heavy boots that had to have a steel toe if he was a trucker. His hands were filthy; dark oil soaked into the cracks and markings of his fingerprints. The only sign of age to him were the fine lines around his eyes, and she only saw them when he finally looked at her face and smiled.

  “You even old enough to be in here?”

  “It’s my friend’s twenty-first birthday.”

  “Not really an answer to the question.”

  “I’m old enough.”

  He was too much to be around, even with the essence and feel of a crowded bar full of other people, all around to be distracted by. He smelled like man; sweat, beer, and smell of motor oil from a few days before. It had a specific smell, and she recognized it because her father’s work clothes held that same tangy stink. That was the smell of a man to her.

  “Can I buy you a drink, sugar?”

  “That’s why I’m over here.”

  Her eyes closed and she rested her forehead on the steering wheel. It shouldn’t be a surprise he was here. His parents still lived in Cleary. From what she’d heard around town, his mom was going the same route her father did. Her friend Tawny confirmed that Angelina Gray was on the waiting list for the old folk’s home, which was where the woman worked. And she’d also heard from a guy she’d been seeing a while back that Harlon, that would be Harlon Senior, was in the hospital for cancer treatments, but that had been years ago.

  People kept her up to date on the parents of an old boyfriend, but she’d been lucky to not see the man himself until right then.

  He hadn’t been the first she’d been with, but he’d been the first to make good and proper use of her body. He’d made her feel sexual, empowered, all from the fact he couldn’t keep his hands off her or stay away from her. A man like that, who could have anyone he wanted, came after her like a bull seeing red.

  She shifted the truck into drive and pulled out into traffic, still shaken but able to drive. She headed to her small studio apartment located on top of a bakery. If anyone could doubt she lived over a bakery she’d point out the size of her ass.

  Bobby the guitar came with her up the exterior wooden stairs, and she set him down while unlocking the door and the deadbolt. Once inside she left Bobby by the door so she couldn’t forget him on the way to the gig later that day, locked herself in, then drifted to her bedroom, moved by an unseen, highly emotional, force.

  Behind her closet door, top shelf, hiding beyond an ill-advised cowboy hat purchase, was a shoebox that made her heart clench just at the sight of it. Her hands still trembled as she pulled it down and carried it to her unmade bed. Eyes locked on the lid that just read “KEDS,” she sat cross-legged, taking a few grounding breaths.

  Once a year, always on November 20th, she opened this box and took a crying jag down memory lane. She was a couple days early, but seeing Harlon brought it back and she needed this fix ahead of schedule.

  With an uneven exhale she plucked the top off the box and picked up the small white leather photo album in one motion, like pausing would steal her nerve. Maybe it would.

  The leather was still very white. It was only handled and looked at once a year, after all.

  The front page was a piece of parchment with harvest gold lettering, and baby rattles drawn in the corners. Angelina Anabelle Gray, it read in her mother’s teacher-perfect hand. November 20th, 1987.

  Tears started immediately. They were silent and expected, so she turned the page without thought. Tucked into the plastic holder was a photo she looked at annually but still found new things about it to cherish.

  Her newborn daughter in a moss-green knitted cap, matching green and butter-yellow blanket swaddled tightly around her. Lying on her father’s chest. Harlon Gray was 29 in that photo, hair long. Scruff starting to turn into a beard as dark as his hair. Smiling at the camera.

  This time the light hitting his eyes struck her as new. He had a twinkle to them, one large hand holding their daughter to his chest as the other was extended towards the camera. He’d been motioning to her, she remembered. Telling her to put the camera down, let his mom take a photo of the three of them together.

  Which was the photo on the back page of this one. Jesus, she was a baby, too. Just out of the hospital and still thinner than she was now. Not a line on her face, totally unmarked. Grinning like she’d just won a prize at the county fair. She could overlook the size of her h
air. Maybe that’s why she looked so much smaller.

  Harlon had his free arm around her in this one, kissing her temple. Angelina slept on. This was just thirteen months after they’d met in the bar. Look at her, so grown up at twenty-one.

  A pain in the center of her chest made her heart gape open wide. Thirty years dissolved in the time it took a Dodge Ram to drive past her on Main Street. She could look at these every year and feel sad for all that she’d lost, but never him.

  She never missed him.

  But now the numbness had, evidently, worn off. This hurt. This really fucking hurt, and she wasn’t done being angry. Not by a long shot.

  If only she’d stayed away from him that night. But no, she’d followed him out to his truck, parked in the long haul spots behind the diner that joined with the bar. Her legs had been shaky from fear and want. The first gave a painful edge to the latter. Mallory knew what to expect from high school boys and the kids her age. Not from men old enough to drink in bars and drive long trips for a living.

  The smell of him had been stronger in the truck’s cab. The berth in the back was little more than a piece of camping foam with a flat pillow and two blankets tossed to the side. It had been his home for many miles and she’d been excited by that. He’d seen more than her, done more than her. She was also thrilled by the incredibly stupid thing she was doing, just being there.

  Truthfully, she would have let him take her on a bed of nails. She remembered the foam under her back, his rough hands on the skin of her legs, hip, neck. The way he’d worshipped at her breasts as though it was his first time ever seeing a pair. It was as out of her head as she’d ever been in her life, no doubt aided by the tequila shots he’d bought her. He was too much, and yet perfectly everything all at once.

  “I’ll make your dreams come true, sugar.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”