“Really?”
“One of many things. Hey, if you need management, give me a ring. I’ll talk to TJ. I’m sure he knows people.”
“Thanks, Luke. Appreciate it.”
“Anytime. You know how to reach me if you need to talk through shit. It happens to all of us. Don’t let it break you.”
Right…
I hang up wanting to believe him. Luke has lived it, fought his way through hell and back, so if anyone has permission to offer unsolicited platitudes, it’s the Night Shifts Black’s frontman. But I’m a whole new level of dysfunction.
Eyes closed and head pounding, I flinch at the bang on my door.
“Come out with us,” Parker belts into my room.
“I’m good. You guys go.”
I feel his disappointment when he lets himself in. No look necessary.
“Natasha coming over tonight?” Are you getting wrecked again?
“Don’t know.”
“Just come with us. We’re checking out that new spot on Broad Street. See if it has potential.”
“The sports bar?”
“It’s not a sports bar. Technically.”
After the last few nights, I’m definitely using help to get through the next one. “I trust your judgment.”
“Jess…”
“I have to work on my resume.”
He shakes his head, probing melting into pissed.
“So is this it, man? This is your life now?”
I shrug. “Apparently.”
“Well then, fuck you, because it’s not the one I want.”
I’m surprised he’s not worried about the health of the door when he slams it on his way out.
∞∞∞
Tonight’s mental tirade is… yeah.
I present two middle fingers to the shadows with a slow grin. They can’t touch me thanks to a few tiny pills.
Overra—ra—ra… Ha! Can’t even threaten.
“It’s all right in the candlelight…” My voice is barely audible, a feather tickling the cobwebs in my brain.
It’s all right. It’s all right.
I close my eyes and allow the waves behind my eyelids to soothe me to sleep.
2: FREEDOM
A former rock band fills my room, shifting its weight in nervous anticipation.
Parker clears his throat, arms-crossed all authoritative-like, and I force my groggy attention to him. “We want to start recording again.”
Part of my brain bursts into laughter. At least it doesn’t make its way to my throat. “Sounds good. Have fun.”
“C’mon, bro.” Oddly enough that comes from one of the guys who isn’t my brother.
“There’s no Limelight without you, and you know it,” Parker says. “Get your shit together and start writing.”
“I have.”
“Not that Ocean Ceiling crap. Real music. One homerun, man. That’s all we need to get relevant again.”
“That’s it? Just a chart-topper?”
“You know what I mean. Something to get us noticed.”
“Oh, well, if that’s all.”
Angry face now. Wait, freaking pissed face. “The grieving period is over, Jess!”
Asshole. He knows I don’t get that luxury. I tug the blanket up to my neck.
“So what, you’re just going to spend the last fifty years of your life stoned?”
Talent-wasted. “Doubt it’ll be fifty.”
He bristles. “Enough. Fucking do something!”
A notebook flies at my face, and I block it just in time. The others stare, the air heavy with uncertainty. I’m unpredictable. A genius and an underachiever. I read it in their hesitation, their fear that I will bring them down my dark hole. And I could. Parker’s right. There’s no Limelight without me. I’m the songs, the voice, the passion, the pain. I’m the failure. Their curse, because they can’t let go of our potential. God knows why I’m still here and not dead already.
Parker softens. “Do something, Jess.”
My eyes rest on a notebook that’s been through hell. Its tattered pages tell the story of my journey, every trial, every painful victory. I’m running out of pages and will need to replace it soon. My gaze travels across the room to the guitar propped against the stand.
Maybe soon is now. Maybe soon is never. The guys wait for the verdict.
“I need some air.”
∞∞∞
Air comes in many forms. It can be fresh air—good. Hot air—bad. Poisonous air—good or bad depending on the poison. This kind is good.
Natasha couldn’t stay today. Something about a job interview. She smacked me when I snickered, but come on. I asked if she wanted to use me as a reference. She smacked me again.
Now, I’m draped over my mattress, staring at the floor instead of the ceiling for once. I’m not sure why I don’t engage the rustic wood grain more often. It’s way more insightful than the blue ceiling I’ve grown so fond of in recent days. There’s history in this floor, a story I want to know beyond all reason at this second. I wonder if you can Google floor pedigree in the Philadelphia area. You can Google anything, right?
I’m starting to come down now. The worst part of the cycle, when the oblivion fades and dumps you right back in your mess—with the added bonus of guilt.
I swore to Parker I’d never get into the hard stuff, and I’ve kept my promise. The problem is our definitions aren’t exactly in sync. There’s a list of shit I won’t touch; his list is much longer. Whatever. I know my limits. I’ve only crossed into trouble a few times. Like Newark.
Parker loves to hold that night over my head. A wakeup call, he says. And yeah, it kind of was. When Luke Craven has to personally get involved in your rescue, maybe you stepped over the line. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but now I have a shitload of consequences to keep me company. Our manager Barry was pissed, and even though the guys will never say it, we all know what happened that night was a factor—read: the factor—in dropping us as clients. I’m not a big enough paycheck to be worth the headaches.
Party smart, Luke had said after tracking me down in a shady park and dragging my nearly unconscious ass back to the tour buses. It became my mantra since then. Finally, someone cracking me over the head with rules I could actually follow. And I have. God knows I have, which is why I forgive myself for escaping when necessary.
Do something.
I close my eyes against the voices, the pressure I can’t satisfy.
Do something. One homerun.
Deep breath. A push up from the bed. A pause until I’m able to shake the voices off.
Food. There’s never enough in our house when I emerge from hiding, but way too much Parker. Funny how that works.
“I didn’t write anything,” I say as I duck into the fridge. I feel his sigh from the table and snap a look back. “Dude, why don’t you write something for once?” Yeah, I’m a jerk. It’s like asking why he doesn’t try having green eyes instead of brown.
“I’m not good at that and you know it.” Every thread of his glare is knitted into his tone.
“I know.” I let out a breath and straighten. “I will man, okay? I just need time. It’s not an on-demand thing.”
It is for a lot of musicians. I hear it in the silence, but I’m not them. I do music because it’s all I have. It was never a choice. It’s who I am, and sometimes that’s not enough. I’m a slave to my nature, waiting for it to show mercy and drop a gift in my lap. I wrote “Candlelight” in forty-five minutes. “Nothing I Want” poured out in just over an hour. “Dragonfly” was the outlier and took me three. That’s my process. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and bam—chart-topper. As annoyed as I was over Parker’s comment, he was only reciting history. Three #1 hits on our debut record? Yeah, that’s why he thinks I have a gift.
But they don’t get it. It’s a curse. Expectations fucking suck when you have no control. The music chose me. I’m its victim not its gift.
“Just…”
I meet Parker’s
gaze when he stops and read the rest. Be careful? Don’t crash/break/implode this time?
All valid. All screaming in the silence.
Don’t be you, Jesse Everett.
Except he needs me to be me and he knows it. Everyone fucking needs it no matter how much damage it does to me. It’s why they’ll never seriously stop me from swallowing, snorting, and smoking.
“Come out with us tonight. Just for a little? Clear your head.”
“Fifty-cent wings?”
Relief colors his smile. “And five dollar pitchers."
∞∞∞
Wings, booze, and the dissolution of our relationship with SauerStreet Records: the perfect formula for a mock celebration.
Parker holds up a shot glass. “To freedom.”
We toast and swallow our liquid release.
“I also have an announcement,” Parker continues while I signal for another round. “You know that festival in Allentown?”
“The week-long thing?” Reece asks.
“We’re in the lineup.”
“Seriously?” Derrick is amazed at everything on the planet. The weather? Yep. The new signing by the Flyers? Wow. The dog statue beside the hostess stand? Epic.
“Yes, it’s official.” And Parker is damn pleased with himself, except…
“Isn’t that in August?” Not trying to be a dick but we’ll probably have to eat in the next eight months.
“Well, yeah.”
I force a half-smile because deep down I do love my brother. “That’s great, man. Gives us plenty of time to prepare.” If we haven’t starved by then. Biology’s a bitch.
“I’m in talks for some other stuff. Plus, not all of the promoters have backed out. Some of our dates are still on.”
“Like?” Me again playing the asshole.
He taps his fingers on the table. “Harrisburg.”
“The glorified lawn party?”
“Poconos.”
“The poolside thing?”
“Dover.”
“Oh, that super-fun bowling alley.” So much for not being a jerk, but come on.
“It’s not a bowling alley.” Parker’s glare has its own personality. “Anyway, the point is we still have dates. If we add some new tracks to that, we can get back up.”
“As long as we’re doing local shows, our costs should be low too,” Reece adds. The silver lining is way more their thing than mine.
Parker’s arms cross again because he’s so freaking right about this. “Exactly.”
I shake my head and throw back another shot.
∞∞∞
Overrated. Talent-wasted. Do something!
The bar’s assistance was good for a few hours of sleep, but alcohol is a disloyal companion. Especially when it passes on its wrath as payment for its assistance. Head pounding, stomach churning, mouth dry from…
Failure. Hated. Wasted.
Wasted. Heh.
My phone buzzes with a notification, and I hold it up, a spotlight streaming down to connect my squinting eyes with its critique.
Bad news about SauerStreet @JesseEverett99. Never mind duck, I've heard there's dough to be made in kids’ parties.
Fucking… Really? A spark tears through me. Fire.
You’d know with your thriving clown career @MilaTaylorRocks #nicecostume
My blood pounds right along with the satisfied smile that stretches across my face. I wait in the darkness, hoping she bites back.
3: ENGLEWOOD
Our first gig without a label also means we’re back to a trailer and our own biceps for moving our gear. Reece pulls the van around and double parks in front of the building that houses our practice space. It shouldn’t be too much of an issue at this hour. Avoiding parking violations is a big part of our tour schedule.
The rest of us have already started piling cases and amps on the curb so Reece can work his Tetris magic inside the just-big-enough box hitched to the back of our van.
“Yo, D! How about you not throw my shit around like that?” Reece shouts as he leaps down from the driver’s seat. Derrick returns a middle finger and disappears inside for more stuff. I start moving boxes and stacking them by the entrance of the trailer.
“We’re using the in-ear system, right?” Reece asks, scanning our remaining pile.
“Yeah. Want to give me a hand with this?”
He meets me on the sidewalk and hoists the other side of a heavy case. Together we work our way through the legally parked cars to our soon-to-be ticket if we don’t get our shit loaded.
“How many seats at this venue?” he asks.
“Are there seats?”
He snickers and backs up the ramp with his side of the crate. “We need to get a case with wheels.”
“We had one until Derrick decided to ride it down that ramp in Seattle.”
“At least he broke his nose to go with it. Idiot.”
“Let’s have no injuries today. We can’t afford medical bills right now.”
Reece grunts and starts strapping down the cases. I go back to the curb for another load, just as Parker and Derrick stack their latest with the pile.
“That everything?” I ask, grasping the handles of a couple guitar cases.
“Yeah. We hitting Wawa on the way?” Derrick asks.
“Duh,” Parker says and points to the drum cases. “Reece needs those next.”
We finish loading, lock the trailer, and pile into the van.
“Everyone good?” Reece asks, turning the ignition.
“Let’s do this,” Parker says. He tosses me a grin that takes us back five years. No Mila. No Label drama. Just four guys and a thing they had to do to keep breathing.
Gotta admit, the feeling in my gut doesn’t suck.
∞∞∞
After playing a stadium, Englewood Pub feels like a great aunt’s living room. It’s a tight fit, but we manage to cram most of our equipment on the tiny stage. Reece called it quaint because he’s the least cynical of the bunch. He changed his mind when we didn’t have room for his extra bass.
“What am I supposed to do on ‘Candlelight’?” he whines, inspecting the clutter of equipment for an empty space we missed.
“Dude, it’s Englewood Pub. I guarantee no one is going to notice the difference in your tone,” Parker mutters. “You ready for a sound check?” he asks me.
“In a sec. Something’s up with my pedal board.” I crouch down to investigate. “Shit, it’s the compressor.” Parker joins me and starts poking around as well.
“Fuck. You removing it from the chain?” he asks, even though I’m already rerouting cables.
“You’ll have to take the intro to ‘Dragonfly’ now.”
“Yeah, no problem. Just play rhythm.”
“Okay, got it. Let’s go.”
We straighten and settle in front of our mics. I adjust the boom stand to the right height and toss Parker a thumbs-up. Then we wait. And wait because this venue is supplying their own house engineer, and Reece is back at the booth arguing about something.
He stomps toward the stage, and we huddle together to brace for bad news.
“So apparently, the engineer, is the owner’s nephew. I gave him specs on how we like our levels and he’s refusing.”
“Let me guess, doesn’t want to ruin their equipment,” I grunt.
“Bingo.”
Drummer Derrick curses, and we give him a collective warning in the form of a stare-down. He holds up his hands. “I know, I know. I’ll back off the volume.”
“Gonna have to tickle those babies in a space this size,” Reece corrects.
“Should’ve brought the shield,” Derrick jokes. Shit, we barely have room for the kit.
“We’ll make it work,” Parker says, returning to his mic. “Let’s get a sound check to set our monitor levels at least.”
∞∞∞
The set goes as well as can be expected. We actually have a blast rocking a small crowd again, and we’re a big enough name that they’re apprecia
tive. Fully engaged, even, especially the scantily-dressed cluster of women hovering just offstage.
I’m not surprised by their approach immediately after we close our set. Flirty eyes are universal, and I’m still pulling the guitar over my head when I hear my name.
“Jesse, right?”
She’s tall, curvy, straight black hair. Yeah, okay, I’m game.
“That’s right. Nice to meet you,” I toss back as I balance my guitar on the stand. I jump down from the platform and offer my hand. She takes it with a coy smile and risky stroke of my thumb.
“You guys are really good.”
“Thanks.”
“None of us agree with all the stuff they’ve been saying about you.”
“Yeah?”
“Dude, you packing your shit up or what?” Parker barks from stage left.
“Just a minute,” I shoot over. “Sorry about that,” I say to… this person. “What’s your name?”
“Maria.”
“Hi, Maria. Thanks for coming out.”
She studies the action behind me. Cases clicking, cables being wrapped into coils. “You guys leaving right away?”
“Probably. We have to get back to Philly.”
Her eyes brighten. “You live in Philly?”
I nod and climb back on the stage.
“Me too. I’m a junior at Temple.”
“No, shit. What are you doing down here?”
“Her birthday,” she says, pointing at our audience of giggling women.
“Wish her a happy birthday for me.”
“Thanks. She’ll love it.”
I give her my famous smile and start back to the equipment before my brother’s head explodes.
“Wait!”
I look back, and she’s holding out a scrap of paper. Well, okay then. I take it from her and let my grin spread.
“You know. If you’re ever bored,” she says, lashes thick as they lower over striking dark eyes. Damn if I don’t have a thing for eyes. Soul-windows and all that.
Limelight (NSB Book 4) Page 2
