Down Beat

by Max Henry

  Fair enough.

  R: How long does it take you to learn by ear?

  It’s a skill I’m not that great at. Toby can pick things up, but it takes him a week before he can play start to finish without any errors. There’s no way in hell she would have already been learning our work. Too much of a coincidence.

  T: Depends on the piece. Your music was quite basic once I broke it down.

  R: Ouch.

  T: I said basic, not shit.

  R: Better.

  T: Why? Are you trying to learn something?

  Would she teach me? I chew the end of my thumb as the bus slows for the city limits. Thank fuck this torture ride is almost over. I mean, I love these guys, but the tension lately has been off the charts.

  R: Nope. Just curious. You decent?

  T: Would it stop you if I wasn’t?

  I barely have time to read her reply before she dials through. Best part of my fucking day seeing that face when I hit Accept. I honestly thought she’d tell me to get fucked when I finally sent a reply.

  “I got the tattoo when I was nineteen.” I hit her with the details straight out of the gate.

  Her eyes soften, yet she shows no emotion with her mouth as she softly nods. “Okay.”

  “I, um, read it somewhere. Can’t remember where now. But it struck a chord, you know? I’d had a rough patch with my mental health and it helped me accept who I am better.”

  She pulls in a carefully measured breath before asking, “Do you mind if I ask what you’re diagnosed with?”

  I cast my eye over her tousled hair, as though she’s repeatedly run her fingers through it. Her eyes are tired, and yet she looks fucking beautiful out in the natural light, seemingly somewhere open like a park.

  She’s not asking to hurt you. “Bipolar.”

  Tabby doesn’t say a goddamn thing, and I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. She simply nods a couple of times, and then glances to her right.

  “Where are you?”

  “Shopping.” She holds up a spiral-bound notebook. “I might have fibbed: I do write my music on paper.”

  Her smile fucking undoes the last six days of doubt and regret. “Ice-creams, or polka dots?”

  Her lips part as her smile widens. “Polka dots.” She raises her voice to be heard over my laughter. “But only on the shorts.”

  “How far are you from home?”

  Her brow pinches, the breeze catching the ends of her hair. “A block.”

  “Are you headed there?”

  “Soon. Why?”

  “Play me something.”

  Her frown deepens. “When I get home?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Play me one of the pieces you wrote.”

  Tabby ducks her chin, a low chuckle sounding from her. “Confession.” She twists the phone a little, showing me her violin case beside her. “I was busking as well as shopping.”

  Fuck-all coins sit on the velvet. I can’t explain why that makes me so mad, but it does. “How often do you do that?”

  She twists the screen back to herself. “When I need to. Hang on.” The picture blurs as she jostles the phone around, setting it down on the ground beside where she’d been seated on a low brick garden edging.

  Her legs come into the shot, narrowing as she walks away from the phone, her violin at her side. A sense of amazement comes over me as I look at this effortless beauty, kitted out in her gray coat and white scarf to ward off the cold, her legs kept warm in black skinny jeans, a pair of heavy boots on her feet.

  She pauses with the violin to her shoulder, her chest expanding on a deep breath before she begins.

  I stretch my arms out before me on the table, my phone held between my hands, and watch with awe as she plays a slow, sweeping piece. The image is blocked momentarily while somebody drops a coin in her case, and I break my spell long enough to find Toby now awake. He stands in the aisle between the ends of the beds, arms stretched over his head to the curtain rail, and listens. Tabby sways with the music, her song building tempo. A flash of jealousy takes me surprise as Toby drops onto the seat beside me to watch her also.

  She plays for me. This is my show, even if it is in the middle of a park. She didn’t start the song for any of them, and she didn’t start it for Toby.

  She started the song for me, and I want it for myself.

  I want the way she makes me feel for myself.

  Damn it—I want her.

  “She’s fucking good, yeah?” Toby’s fingers knit in front of his mouth, his elbows on the table as he watches her finish up the piece.

  Tabby walks back toward the phone before I get a chance to tell my brother where he can stick his appreciation of my precious treasure.

  “Oh. Hey,” she greets as she picks up the device.

  Toby lifts a hand as he slides away. “Fucking awesome, Tabitha.”

  “Thanks.” Her gaze tracks him as he leaves the shot before I get a single raised brow. “So?”

  “What he said,” I grumble, still sore over sharing my things.

  I’m fucking five all over again.

  “Say it again, but try and convince me this time,” she teases as she retakes her seat on the garden edge.

  “It was beautiful.” I cringe a little at such a girly affirmation coming from my mouth, but what the fuck else do you call classical music? “One of yours?”

  She nods. “One of the first pieces I decided was good enough to play for an audience.”

  “When did you start?”

  “Playing?” She flicks her hair out of her face after the breeze tangles it across her nose. “When I was seven. Dad thought it would be a good substitute for what I really wanted.”

  “Which was?” I frown as the bus pulls up at our digs for the night.

  “Football.”

  My laugh escapes as a snort. “What?”

  She chuckles. “I know, right? I wanted to play in the lingerie bowl, apparently.”

  Can’t deny that’d be a sight worth watching. “We’re at our destination now,” I explain. “I better go.”

  Her lips turn down as she nods. “It was good to talk to you, Rey.”

  “It was good.” I stare at the screen, unable to hang up just yet.

  Her lips kick up on one side. “Call me whenever you need to okay? No matter the time.”

  Tell her you like her, you idiot. “Sure.”

  “Bye, Rey.” Her finger comes toward the screen, and then she’s gone.

  “Time to get out of the sardine tin, man,” Emery announces from the front of the bus. “Come stretch your legs and get some fucking sunshine or whatever it takes to cheer you up.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Ain’t nothing outside this bus going to make me feel any better, though. Not when the weight of the world slammed back down like five hundred pounds straight to the shoulders the minute that screen went black.

  I’ve found what it takes to cheer me up, and it’s not on this bus, let alone anywhere on this tour.

  It’s a thousand miles away playing for its supper without a single goddamn complaint.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Tabitha

  “Anthem for the Underdog” – 12 Stones

  I made a little over forty dollars with my busking. Not a bad effort, considering I played at the end of the workweek, and after the lunch rush. It bought us power, so there’s that. Still… if I don’t figure out how to turn this all around and save my flailing career before its even really started, busking will be a daily occurrence, not just a backup plan every few weeks.

  “Have you seen this?” Kendall kicks her legs out to sit herself upright, eyes on her phone as she rises to join me at the kitchen counter.

  I set aside the laptop, and focus on what she has to show me.

  “It was only uploaded a couple of days ago, but it already has over ten thousand views.”

  I glance at the YouTube video as she places her phone down on the counter. “Keywords—that’s why. They have Dark Tide’s name in the
title, plus all the band members names in the description.”

  “Plus yours.” She lifts her eyebrows while I frown at the screen.

  Sure enough, after Kris’s name is mine, plain as day in serif font. I tap the triangle icon and lean my chin on my upturned palm as the footage plays. The quality isn’t too bad, clearly recorded on a phone from somewhere to the right of stage. The video cuts in at the end of the first verse of my cover. My money is on the person being surprised by my song choice and then having to get their phone out in a hurry to capture it.

  It’s weird, watching myself play like this. I can’t help but see myself with a critical eye: did I play to the audience enough, or was I lost in the music; why did I skip through that last note; my tempo was uneven in the change.

  “I guess I’m partially famous now, huh?” I sass, pushing her phone back to her.

  She shoves it back my way. “Read the comments.”

  I shake my head, using the laptop to nudge her phone away again. “Rule one in surviving the critics: don’t read what they say.”

  Kendall slams the phone down on my keypad. “They aren’t critics, though. They’re fans.”

  I drop a heavy sigh as I scroll up and humor her. Worst-case scenario is they point out what I already know: classical violin is a dinosaur that’ll never earn me a real living. It’s a niche market, one that shrinks by the day.

  “Wow! I love this version!”

  “Who is she? I need to see what else she’s done.”

  “Is she touring with the band now?”

  “Are they doing any more concerts with her?”

  Kendall meets my gaze with a smug smile as I lift my head. “See? They love you.”

  I shrug, killing the video on her screen. “Doesn’t matter though, does it? I haven’t got any other covers like that for them to go to. They’ll track me down, find what I really play, and then move on.”

  “Are you hearing yourself?” She snatches up her phone. “You’ve been given an opportunity—use it.”

  “Was given an opportunity,” I correct. “This was a week ago. I fucked up the minute I forgot to take marketing material with me.”

  “Do another cover.” She stares at me, hard-ass and clearly unwilling to let this go. “We’ll pick somewhere edgy in the city to record, and I’ll shoot it on my phone. So fucking what if it’s not done in a studio? Snare them, Tab.”

  “And then what?” I close the lid on the laptop and swivel on my stool to face her. “I don’t make a career out of covers. I make a career out of traditional classical compositions.”

  “Why?” She thrusts her arms across her chest.

  “Because it’s what I play,” I cry, exasperated with this fucking inquisition.

  “Yes. But why? Why do you play traditional classical? Why do you put yourself in that box?”

  I wordlessly flap my jaw, hoping that some goddamn answer will form on its own. Yet as Kendall nods and then walks away, I realize she’s won this argument.

  Why do I only play traditional music? I can’t say it’s because that’s solely where my passion lies, because it isn’t. My passion is in the instrument as a whole, no matter how it’s played.

  What if this is the fucking universe giving me a nudge in the right direction? Will I miss my shot at making a lifetime career out of this because I’m too pigheaded to accept change?

  “Where do I sell it, though?” I mumble, refusing to give Kendall the satisfaction of looking at her. “So they get hooked, and then what? I need to monetize that interest.”

  “Like we talked about the other night, we work out how to get you on Spotify. Google it. Now. Fuck whatever you were doing before.”

  Looking for regular work online. “Fine. I’m doing it.”

  “Good.” She stays quiet a beat before adding, “I’m proud of you, Tab. Remember that. Don’t forget to look back every now and then so you can appreciate how far you’ve come.”

  I glance her way, not entirely convinced; I’ve got so far to go.

  “Remember where you were when we met?” she asks.

  I suck in a deep breath and turn my stool to face where she readies her bag to head to work. “Waiting tables in the same block as the movie theater you worked at.”

  “Exactly.” She fills her water bottle, and then twists the lid tight as she adds, “And now here you are, making music your full-time thing.”

  “We can barely afford to eat,” I point out. “I’m literally on the verge of giving up, Kendall.”

  “Not yet, grasshopper.” She leans over and places a kiss to the top of my head as she makes her way to the door. “Not when that video proves that you can make a goddamn stir given the right audience.”

  “Love you, boo.” I reach out and catch her hand as she walks away.

  Her fingers slide from mine as she tosses a smile over her shoulder. “We got this babe.” The door clicks as she pulls it open; I return to my laptop. “And you have a visitor.”

  “What?” I slide off the stool and walk around the half wall to see what on earth she’s on about.

  Kendall gives a cheeky finger wave as she slips past the last person in the world I expected to make a house call.

  “Hey, kitty.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rey

  “Tear Down the Wall” – Art of Dying

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” she cries, brow pinched tight.

  I thumb in the direction Café Girl headed. “Like me to leave?”

  “No.” Tabby shakes her head, finger and thumb pressed to her forehead. “Come in. Shit. I’m sorry.” Her hand drops as I step inside her apartment, and I’m graced with that smile I need so fucking much right now. “I mean, I didn’t expect to see you here, is all.”

  I shrug. “Spur of the moment thing.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be wowing thousands?” She chews her thumbnail as she asks the question, leaning against the wall as though she’s unsure what to do.

  Fuck. I don’t know what to do now I’m here either; that’s about where my plan ended. “Something like that.”

  “Something like that?” she repeats with a raised eyebrow. “I think you better sit your ass down and tell me what the hell is going on, Rey.”

  Her short hair bounces as she hotfoots it to the kitchen counter and slams her laptop closed. I edge further into the place as she points to their small sofa.

  “Sit.”

  I do as instructed, jamming myself against the rolled arm so that there’s plenty of room for her. She drags the stool over and sits on it in front of the TV. Huh.

  “What happened?” She places her hands between her knees, face neutral as she waits on me to speak.

  I feel as though I’m back at the shrink, and yet I’m more relaxed at the thought of opening up than I’ve ever been.

  This is why I’m here: because she makes me feel like that.

  “I told them I don’t want to tour anymore.”

  “Who’s ‘them’?”

  “The band. Management.” I stretch my arms out over the back of the sofa. “Told them yesterday.”

  “What did they say?” Her brow pinches, and although she may not realize it, Tabby leans forward, eager to hear the answer.

  She’s concerned for me—it’s cute.

  “Told me to do the final eleven shows and hold off on making the decision until afterward, or I could kiss another album goodbye.”

  Her head pulls back as she lifts both eyebrows. “Extreme.”

  “Not really.” I shrug. “I’m fucking with their business by demanding this.”

  “So why do it?”

  I jerk my head to the sofa. “Come sit here and I’ll tell you.”

  A fucking lump wedges in my throat as she slides off the stool and complies. I need her so bad it physically aches. Surely she can see that? Surely it’s written all over my fucking face how broken and desperate I am?

  Tabby settles on the opposite end, one leg tucked up beneath her as she sits sid
e-on to face me. “Why do it if it makes such an impact?”

  Jesus. I’m not a crier. Really am not. But looking into those warm brown eyes of hers, I want to finally let go of all the anger, the frustration, and the despair. I want to let it out before it downright destroys me, and for the first time I feel as though I’m completely safe to do so.

  This keeping a brave face gig is exhausting. I’m tired. I’m done. And yet, I shove that emotion down, like I always have, and swallow away the urge to let it all go.

  “Hey.” She reaches out and pulls my hand off the back of the sofa.

  I watch with raw fascination as she sets it on her leg and toys with my ring. Such a simple, seemingly normal thing for her to do. But it’s everything for me. Fucking everything.

  I’m surrounded by many, adored by thousands, and yet not a single fucking person connects with me like she does.

  “I can’t survive what touring does to me again, kitty.” I choose to stay focused on her slender fingers as she pinches the side of the metal skull between her forefinger and thumb and gently swivels it. “I struggle to live a normal life, let alone this one.”

  “Did you tell them that?”

  I nod. “Toby’s worn out. He’s lived with this shit for years. Growing up with it was bad enough, having to go without because Mom and Dad were consumed by caring for me. But now that neglect is amplified when our whole fucking entourage dedicate themselves to keeping me level.”

  “Is it that bad?” Her hand stills, lying flat over the back of mine.

  I give her leg a gentle squeeze. “I’m an asset, kitty. I make people a lot of money, so to them the expense is worth it to keep me playing—physical expense, and monetary. They’ll use me until I burn out, and by then the next big thing will be ready to take off.”

  “I really don’t know what to say.” Her hand slips around mine until she has them palm to palm, her fingers threaded between mine. “I hurt for you, so I can’t imagine what it’s like to be you.”

  “I’m selfish. I know the chaos I cause, and yet I still act up, let myself slide, all because I know there are people ready to catch me.”

  “That’s a good thing though, right? Having a good support network?”

  “How long until they get tired of picking up the pieces, though?” I run my thumb over the back of hers. “How long until they let me fall?”