by Racquel Reck
She squirms in her seat. “Jesus, Tryst. Quit hogging my air space.”
Tryst lifts a brow. “Making you nervous, Shortcake?”
"Mom!" Ben runs over and skids to a stop before he runs into us.
I cringe at the sound. Damn headache. I turn toward him, and lean on our circular desk. Way too much JD last night. I rub my temple. "What, Ben?"
"Can I tatt this on you?" He holds up the drawing of a snake winding around a rose.
It’s a great picture and has an awesome amount of detail. He’s a really good artist for his age and it would look hot as hell on my calf. But it takes time helping him hold the gun. And time I don’t have. I shove off the desk.
"I’m booked until eight, sweetie. How about you go play your DS? When I’m done with my appointments, I’ll let you do it while we wait for walk-ins or..." I lean in so that only Ben hears. "Bebe and Tryst are appointment free."
Ben’s blue eyes sparkle and he looks over at them. “Hey, Uncle Tryst. Can I tatt this on you?”
I grin and cross the room to my station. My appointment’s going to be here any minute and I need to set up.
Tryst says something about how he has an audition to go to.
Yeah, that picture was kinda girly. Probably needs an excuse not to stick around. I begin wiping down my chair and glance back at all three of them.
Bebe rises from her chair and takes the picture. “A snake and a rose.” She looks down at Ben. “You can tatt it on the top of my foot.” She smirks at Tryst. “It’s a reminder to stomp on the snakes who try to enter my garden.”
Tryst glares at her. ”Don’t leave the gate open and the snakes won’t enter.”
Ben looks back and forth between them. “You don’t have a garden, Aunt Bebe.”
And this convo needs to end. Pulling out a fresh pack of needles, I glance over my shoulder at Tryst. “I thought you were going to an audition?”
“I am. Be back by five,” Tryst growls and grabs his coat. He turns to leave and bumps into Oz, my appointment. “Your General Tso chicken gave me heartburn last night.”
“Sorry, man.” Oz cautiously moves past him. “Next meal’s on me.”
“Like I want to eat that shit again.” Tryst leaves so fast the bell on the door does a ring-a-fucking-ling in my head.
Ah… Fucking hangovers.
Oz comes toward me. He smiles and it reaches his slanted, almond-shaped eyes. “At least I know you like my food.”
General Tso does sound good about now. “Ignore Tryst. He’s unusually grumpy today.” He must be suffering from a hangover, too.
Oz takes off his coat and plops down in my chair. “When’s he not?”
I shrug. “He doesn’t like playing the guitar in front of people, and he’s going to an audition to escape Shortcake over there.”
Bebe looks up from her chair across the shop. Now she’s glaring at me. Ben puts his drawing on her easel. She smiles at him and hands him her tattoo gun. If Ben’s going to practice more, I need to get him his own.
“Really?” Oz’s eyebrows are raised.
“Yeah.” I take out Oz’s tatt, some ancient Chinese lettering, and set it on my easel.
“Didn’t know he played.” Oz rolls the sleeve up on his green T-shirt. “I play the keyboard. And sometimes DJ at Paloozie’s on Saturdays.”
“You any good?”
He points to the lettering I’m about to put on him. “You think that means some ancient Chinese proverb.” He shakes his head and laughs. “It’s my DJ name.”
“What’s your DJ name?”
He smiles widely and winks. “Come to Paloozie’s tonight and find out.”
Oz is forever trying to get into my panties. He’s a good-looking guy, but there’s only one man on my mind. Morgan.
Four
Morgan
“We got a bead on a guitar player. Dude’s name is Tryst." I put down my phone and lean back on the couch in my sound room. We’ll take what we can get, and I hope this guy knows his shit. Emily Rhines is going to be here in an hour and we are still short a member.
The excitement of her news overpowered every negative thought I had about our situation, and I forgot to tell her we kicked Rictor out. Nerves wage war in my stomach. This can’t be happening, not when we are down in numbers. I can feel my chance slipping away, and I’m reaching with everything I have not to lose my grip.
"Hope the dude can play. Otherwise we’re screwed. When’s he trying out?" Wiley bangs his drums, stops and looks over at me. His knee bobs up and down. He’s nervous as hell.
"Fifteen minutes. I texted him my addy."
“Good shit.” Bryan crosses the room to Lina and looks over her shoulder. “Whatcha working on, babe?”
They fall into a conversation on music and Wiley joins them. I’m not interested.
Emily Rhines. Is she like my mom? Is she going to laugh at us? My heart speeds in my chest. No, she’s coming because she’s interested. My mom has no place here. I can hear her laughter with her friends and her screaming at me when we’re alone. My hands twitch remembering the feel of her ruler’s smack when I hit the wrong key on the piano. Get the memories out of your mind before you fuck shit up for everyone. Going through lyrics in my head, I try to calm down. It’s not working.
I stand. "Need to smoke."
Lina looks up from the sheet music they’re all staring at. "I think I could use a blunt."
She follows me up the stairs into my garage.
Bryan soon joins us. Can’t blame the guy. If Lina was my woman, I wouldn’t want her around any man alone, even one of my boys. Not after what happened last night.
I spark up the blunt, inhale and hold it, letting the THC get its groove on with my nervous system. As I slowly blow it out, the smoke curls and takes all my anxiety with it. I pass the blunt to Lina. Then I open the passenger side door of my Hummer, and plant my ass on the seat.
She’s parked on the workbench I never use. Inhaling deep, she holds it in then lets it out slowly. "So do you think this guy is any good?" She passes the blunt off to Bryan.
"He better be." Bryan leans against my metal locker that houses my pot supply. He tokes it and hands it to me.
I hit it then pass it to Lina.
"What if this guy Tryst and Emily show up at the same time?" Bryan has a delayed cough and when the blunt comes back to him, he shakes his head.
Toking the blunt, I shrug. "Don’t know. Guess we’ll—"
A big truck pulls up into my driveway. It sounds fucking badass. At least the guy is punctual. That’s a good sign. Now, if his talent is as great as his ability to get shit done, we’re golden. No, platinum. I smile, and I hit the garage door opener.
His truck’s got a six-inch lift with Micky Thompson bogger tires.
"I wonder what he’s got under that hood." Bryan stares at it like a kid trying to hold in the question, “Daddy, can I ride the four-wheeler?” But that’s Bryan. Other than music, he’s a complete gear-head. "I bet it’s a 460 big block."
I butt the blunt. "Nah, it’s a 351 Windsor." Bryan might know cars, but I know my trucks. "Care to bet on it?"
"If it’s a 460, you have to quit smoking pot for a week." Bryan grins.
That would kill me. It seriously would. Okay, maybe not literally, but my nerves would go into overdrive and I’d have a heart attack. But I know I’m right. "And if it’s a 351, you have to pay for the door you busted last night."
"Deal." Bryan shakes my hand and we both turn our heads when we hear the truck door slam.
Tryst comes around the front of the car and—holy shit! It’s the dude from last night—the amateur pot smoker and the sex angel’s friend. What the hell is he doing here? Okay, I know the answer to that. But...he plays the guitar?
His shaved head shines in the sun and as soon as he looks at me, he scowls at my butted blunt. Yeah, not sure how this shit is going to play out. If he goes all DARE on me, this ain’t gonna work. Period. He hit my shit last night. I’ll pick up my damn
guitar. Or Emily can find us a new player.
Bryan lets out a whistle and he circles the truck, staring at it like he’s about to jack Tryst’s ride. “That’s one badass monster. What’s under the hood?”
Tryst pulls a guitar case out of the truck’s bed. “460 big block.”
Fuck!
Bryan’s obnoxious laughter starts a fire in my gut. Give up pot for a week? He can’t be serious—we’ve got a gig on Friday.
“Hand it over, dude.” Bryan holds out his hand. “Your stash. I’ll take care of it.”
“You mean smoke it.”
He glares at me. “The pot, Morg. Now.”
I look to Lina for help. It was just a silly bet.
She shrugs. “You did promise. A bet’s a bet. And you lost.”
Damn. What the hell am I gonna do? I’ve always been a man of my word. Not going to stop now. Reluctantly, I fish my stash out of my pocket. My heart beats so fast I swear it’s going to short out. My hand shakes a little as I pass it over to Bryan.
He pats my shoulder. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He has no freaking idea.
#####
Tryst sets up his guitar and I fill him in on what happened to the last member. He doesn’t eye-fuck Lina, so that’s a damned good sign. But his attitude toward my drug use, the mean-mugging he gave me, the “just say no” needs to go. The dude hit my shit last night and hypocrites have no place in my circle of smoke.
The clock on the wall suggests that Emily Rhines will be here in less than half an hour. Not enough time for us to hear him and make a decision. If there is a God, Emily will get a flat tire or some shit like that.
Picking up the music sheet, I hand it to Tryst. It was the third song we played last night, the one that Emily heard, and the one where Rictor had a hard time with skipping notes.
He takes it, studies it for a minute, and hands it back to me. "Don’t need that shit. I’ve heard you guys play that song before."
Nerves play basketball in my system. If this guy messes up the song and Emily walks in, she’ll probably walk right back out. If I make him keep the sheet, then it’s gonna look like he has a hard time memorizing the music. Only strumming home the fact that he messed up last night, even though he’s not the one who did. I should go upstairs and lock all my doors. Then she’ll have to knock instead of coming down like I told her to. But I might not hear her, and she’d probably leave. Whatever. "Try to keep up."
Heading to the center of the room, with the drums behind me, I give the signal.
Bryan’s bass and Wiley’s drums start off the song, followed by Tryst. His fingers dance across the strings, and every note is A-fucking-plus. The melodic sound of Lina’s keyboard enters the mix and I wait for the right time to belt out my lyrics.
There’s a reason why I chose this song. Most of the songs we do, I wait for the right repeat of the melody from the guitar. I have to be sure this guy can play it right. And there it is.
I scream into the mic and follow it, rapping the lyrics.
Tryst is doing a great job. He nails a complicated bridge, which is important for my transition into the chorus.
As he leads me in, I look over at him to give him some reassurance, but the dude is completely blank faced. No emotion. Just standing there, staring off into space and he’s not smiling. He may have talent and that’s all good, but his machine-like stage presence sucks big, fat, hairy ass.
The lyrics are flying out of my mouth and I try to ignore his “not really there” appearance. We go into the downbeat and he switches it up. It sounds way better than what Rictor wrote. It helps Lina’s bass fit perfectly with my falsetto-like scream. I can’t tell if he’s improvising because he forgot the right chords or if he’s doing it purposely to impress us.
Looking at my band mates, I see the confusion in their eyes, but we all just go with it, and let him do his thing.
He switches back to what Rictor originally wrote, and leads me perfectly into the conclusion of the song. I give one final scream into the mic, and Wiley ends the song with a few solid beats. The room goes silent.
We’re all staring at the man who’s a hell of lot better than Rictor. They say that things happen for a reason, and I’m beginning to put more stock in that phrase.
He sighs and looks up. "Sorry I changed it up a bit, but I think it sounds way better if you invert it."
"Oh, I like him." Lina gets a dirty look from Bryan. She laughs. "Not like that. His talent fits with ours. Just sayin’."
"Better than Rictor." Wiley hits his snare and laughs. "He’s got my vote."
"Yeah, he’s got the talent." Bryan looks at Tryst. "But dude, your stage presence sucks. It’s too robotic. Not sure you’re gonna generate fans looking the way you do. You need to move around some. Get the audience pumped and keep them there. You need to bob up and down or something."
Tryst gives him a blank stare, like he couldn’t care less about what Bryan said. I’ve seen my ten-year-old niece give my brother Logan this same expression when he’s lecturing her.
Bryan’s jealousy is all over that comment. He’s pissed by Lina’s reaction to Tryst. Which strikes a huge chord with me. If they can’t get along, this shit isn’t gonna work. If this guy is going to cause problems like Rictor did, I don’t want him in the band. I’d rather have a happy band than be signed and have it fall apart in the first few weeks. Maybe I can spin it. Emily did say Rictor was off. I could tell her we kicked him out and are looking for a new one. Hell, she might even know of one. Producers do that type of shit all the time. What the hell was I thinking trying to pass Tryst off for Rictor?
"Thing is...you’re our first audition and we—"
"No sweat." He stands. "I just needed a reason to get out of letting an eight year old tatt me up." He walks over to the wall and unplugs his cord from the amp.
Bryan’s eyebrows shoot upward. "Why would you let an eight year old tattoo you?"
Tryst pauses and looks back at him. "Because he’s my cousin’s kid and she’s my boss. He’s a pretty good artist. I just don’t have the patience to hold his hand while he uses the gun. They’re heavy, so he needs help, and the drawing he wanted to do..." He shakes his head. "Way too girly."
Bryan nods at Tryst. “You got my vote.” Bryan reaches into his pocket. “But I think you’re the one who needs this." He chucks my eighth at Tryst and he catches it midair. "You need to loosen up a lot if you’re serious about joining."
"Um..." He looks down at it and scrunches his nose. "If you ever meet my cuz, I don’t smoke this shit. She really hates drug use."
Maybe the dude’s cool after all. Still pissed about my pot though. What the hell am I going to do without it? Just watching Tryst handle the bag of my green has me itching to spark up. I’m a man of my word. The mantra isn’t working. My high from earlier is gone. All my body wants to do is get blitzed.
"Oh." Lina jumps up and down. "I just got a great idea. If Emily does sign us, we all should get our band’s logo tatted on us! Ya know, to celebrate?"
All of them agree, and what can I do? They outnumber me. I nod my head. "Okay, then we all agree. Tryst is the new guitar player?”
Wiley does a drum roll then hits a cymbal. “He’s in.”
Lina nods. “Hell yeah he is.”
Bryan rolls his eyes and shrugs.
Excellent! “Let’s go through that last song again. I want to be playing when Emily gets here and I don’t want any fuck ups."
Five
Shay
The door slams. Another one of Tryst’s clients just walked out. He was supposed to be back by five and it’s almost eleven. He’s costing me money. This is so unlike him. He never misses his appointments, never takes advantage of the fact that he’s my cousin and he hasn’t been answering his phone. You’d think the guy would at least call me and let me know what’s up. I tried calling him but his phone’s off. Did he get in the band or not?
Turning away from the clock, I click back into my financial re
port. My numbers are down. This day just keeps getting better and better.
"Does it hurt?" Ben asks Heather for the millionth time.
She nods and grits her teeth. Her entire body is tense as she lays on the chair under Bebe’s gun.
Normally Ben’s already in bed, but Nancy, his babysitter, called off, and I was forced to let Ben come to work with me. With my appointments I haven’t had the time to tuck him in. But since Tryst’s client decided she’d reschedule, now I can. "Ben, why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for bed? I’ll be up in a minute to tuck you in."
I glance back at the numbers that are laughing at me. I’m never going to open a shop in a decent neighborhood at this rate.
"But I want to see the tatt when Aunt Bebe finishes." He comes over to where I’m sitting and yawns.
"Tell you what. You go upstairs and get ready for bed and I’ll let you stay up half an hour after your bedtime tomorrow. Deal?"
"Yes!" His eyes go bright then he takes off through the beads that lead into the back of my shop.
"How in the hell do you get him out of bed so early on Sundays? Staying up late always makes me grouchy." Bebe wipes away the blood and ink from Heather’s calf and glances at me.
"More like makes you a bee-yatch."
She arches a brow at me then goes back to inking Heather's calf. "I just don’t understand how an eight year old can get so excited about going to the Laundromat."
"That’s easy." I hit print and lean back to wait for the computer to spit out my financial report. "He loves to play the arcade games before it gets busy.” Sundays are always jam-packed there, and Mondays aren’t any better. The earlier I go, the better. I really should see about getting a washer and dryer. Can’t afford it, though—not if I want to reach my goal.
Bebe half-laughs, wipes and sprays Heather’s calf with antibacterial solution, then begins dressing her tatt.
I grab the financial report and head toward the stairs to my loft. "Watch the front. I’ll be down in a half hour."
