Here's to Yesterday

by Teagan Hunter

  The only thing that feels positive so far is this room. Not the people in it, just the room. Being in this small box, surrounded by the boards and instruments, a producer behind the scenes, it all screams you belong here to me.

  But I’m not so sure I believe it. At least not here.

  A guy sitting at the soundboard leans forward and says, “Good, Jackson. It feels real.” Bullshit. “Let’s take five.”

  Jackson sets his guitar down and walks out into the small booth.

  “Hey,” he says, sticking his hand out to me. “Jackson Jones. I’ve heard what you can do. You’re wicked awesome, man.”

  Taken aback, I clear my throat and shake his hand. “Thanks. I love ‘Take It All Back.’ Great hook, and the simplicity of it is staggering.”

  I say this partly because there’s no doubt in my mind that song was written by him and is one that he’s proud of. It’s something I think he needs to hear. I also say it because it’s true.

  I must be right, because he perks up at the mention of it.

  But his excitement is very short lived. He hunches his shoulders as he’s ushered out of the room by the person I assume is his assistant, if the two cell phones and clipped tone are any indication.

  “What are you thinking, Tucker?” Daren asks hopefully.

  “It’s nice,” I tell him, referring to the booth when he’s referring to the whole situation.

  He claps me on the back. “Glad to hear it. How about we head back to my office to discuss some more details? We’ll get you signed on that dotted line in no time.”

  As we head out of the room and back down the hall to elevators, Maura reaches over and wraps her pointer finger around my pinky in a small, simple act of encouragement.

  “Scotch?” Daren asks when we enter his office.

  “We’re fine,” Maura answers. “Those were nice studios you have. Do you produce a lot of albums here?”

  “Dozens a year. Jackson and a band called Reckoning to name a few.”

  Chart toppers. Both of them are chart toppers. Something I want but am also terrified of.

  “Hmm,” is all she responds.

  Daren takes a seat and places his amber-filled glass in front of him. He steeples his hands together and squints at me. I think he’s trying to look cool, but he’s failing miserably.

  “You seem lost, Tucker. Not one hundred percent ready to commit yet? We can certainly take more time if you’d like. Of course, that time will create more and more musicians and raise the competition bar higher, but I’m sure that’s something you’d be able to handle.”

  And I guess this is his way of trying to scare me into a contract. Again, failing.

  “I’m sure I could. For now, I’m weighing my options and approaching this career shift with much-warranted caution, taking in all the offers I’ve received over the years. But I’m sure you can handle that competition,” I respond smugly.

  Daren sits back at the bite in my voice and gives me a tight nod. “Sure.” He suddenly leans forward and grabs an overly stuffed file, presenting it to me. “Take a look at these songs. I know we can pick something from these that would be recordable and suit your tastes.”

  I grab the folder and start thumbing through it when his words settle on my heavily. Pick something? For me to sing? Am I not writing my own music?

  Looking up from the folder with a raised brow, I ask, “Wait. You mean I won’t write my own music?”

  Daren barks out a mocking laugh. “That’s what we have songwriters for. You’re the singer part of the singer-songwriter duo.”

  I toss the heavy folder back onto his desk.

  “I write my own music,” I say flatly.

  Daren smirks at me, a look disbelief gracing his face. “Look, Tucker, we all sit around and pen the ‘next big thing’ in our dark, lonely bedrooms. But let’s face it, you either have a pretty voice and face and you can’t write, or you can write and you have no voice and are ugly as sin. It’s one or the other. I’ll bank on you being the first one.”

  What in the actual fuck? Is this asshole for real? I was complimented and insulted and called a liar within a few sentences. And I’m pissed.

  I’m pissed because I can sing and I do write. I write lyrics that I really fucking like, music I think is good.

  And that stupid voice in my head starts spouting off long-buried insecurities.

  But what if he’s right? What if I’m too partial to my lyrics because they’re my lyrics? What if it’s all shit? What if all I am is a pretty face or decent voice?

  Fuck.

  “I write my own music,” I say again.

  Daren sighs. “We can discuss your songs when we sign the contracts, yeah? For now, why don’t you take time to think about this and go over those other options you have.”

  He says all this like he doesn’t believe me about the songs or options.

  What a dick.

  We stand and shake hands, promises of calling exchanged on both ends. Maura and I make our exit, staying quiet during the elevator ride and out the front doors.

  Not until we’re standing defeated at the bottom of the steps, watching as a parking officer sticks a ticket under my windshield, do we speak.

  “That was kind of…”

  “Bullshit,” I finish for her. “Yeah, I agree.”

  Maura lets out a frustrated huff directed toward Daren Darren. “How’d it feel? Honestly?”

  “That’s a hard one to answer. I immediately want to say wrong, but there was also a moment in the studio where it felt honest. But that was short lived.”

  She moves closer to me and links her fingers with mine. “I’m sorry, Tuck. I know how badly you wanted it all to feel like this epic homecoming, and it didn’t, but maybe Daren’s not the guy for you. We can keep looking.”

  I nod. “Yeah, maybe not.”

  She tugs on my hand, pulling me toward the car. “Come on. Let’s go get a few greasy burgers and sulk together.”

  “Who’s next on your list?”

  I take a long, noise-filled pull of my practically empty chocolate shake. I peer down into my glass and suck up the last of it and then immediately pout because it’s all gone.

  “I don’t know,” I answer Maura. “What about that Clover guy?”

  She taps her chin with her pale blue nail a few times. “Hmm. Maybe. Think he’d let you write your own music?”

  I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. But what if Daren had a point? What if you can only be one or the other? A singer or a songwriter. What if my music is shit?”

  Maura scrunches her brows and shakes her head, her smooth, pink-tipped blonde hair swinging with the movement. “You can’t believe that, Tuck. There’s no way that’s true. There are plenty of musicians out there who do both.”

  I fold my arms across my chest in an aggravated gesture and stare out the window of the small diner she dragged me to.

  “But,” she says, “what if that were the case—which I’m not saying it is at all. Which would you choose?”

  Well, that’s a damn hard question to answer. Daren was correct about one thing: writing music and playing music are two different things. Writing is so personal. Playing is a bit more detached. I can, and do, play other people’s songs all day long because I have no real attachment to them. But what I can’t do is play my own stuff. There’s too much baggage attached to them, too many memories. Although I can’t perform my music yet, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to one day. A day when I’m a lot braver than I am currently.

  I realize that I can’t decide between the two. They’re too different yet so essential to one another for me. Writing is my outlet for my emotions, and playing is how I survive them all.

  “Both,” I admit in a low voice. “I’d pick both.”

  Out of my peripheral, I can see Maura’s smile. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  I turn back to her. “Yeah? Why is that?”

  “Because it means we need to keep looking. Daren obviously isn’t a goo
d fit for you if you can’t live without writing. You need it. We need to find a company that lets you do both.”

  She’s one hundred percent correct. I need to keep searching for someone who’s going to let me craft my own music from scratch. I’m not going to let this shitty experience sway or deter me from pursuing a label to sign with.

  “I love it when you say ‘we.’ Gets me all warm and fuzzy inside.” I smirk at her.

  She pins me with a glare. “Don’t tease me, Tucker Bentley. I will throw things at you.”

  “Pfft. Like I’m scared of you. You’re tiny.”

  “Just because I’m tiny doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you.”

  Her words make my heart momentarily stop beating. Hurt me. I know she means physically, but I’m more worried about my heart in this situation, not my balls. I mean, I am kind of worried about my balls since that’s probably as high as her short legs can kick, but I’d be a fool not to be worried about my heart.

  “Oh, I have no doubt you can, Maura,” I say a bit too seriously.

  She gulps loudly enough for me to hear. “But I’ll do my best not to.”

  I know she’s talking about the same thing I am, so I nod my head once, letting her know I’ll do my best too.

  I go back to staring out the window as she goes back to sipping on her shake. We’re quiet and it’s nice. I don’t feel like we need to force conversation between us, that we can sit here and enjoy each other’s company for a while.

  The waiter, who seems to have a permanent scowl, comes by and drops off our check without a word. Maura grabs her purse, and I race to pull out my wallet, tossing down enough to cover the bill and a decent tip.

  She puffs out a breath. “I can pay for my half, Tuck. It’s not a date.”

  I bring my hand to my chest. “Damn, girl. You sure do know how to bust a guy’s heart. I thought for sure this was and that I was wooing you with the excellent cheeseburgers and angry customer service.”

  Maura lifts her hand and pinches her fingers together. “Close.”

  “Obviously. Come on,” I say as we scoot out of the booth. “Want me to drop you off anywhere?”

  Her shoulders fall as we head toward the door. “Oh. I, uh, I thought we were gonna hang out.”

  “Geez, Maura. I didn’t know you were so attached to me.” I glance over to find her mouth hanging open and her beautiful ice-blue eyes wide. “Joke. It was a joke.” She swats me on the arm for it. “Of course I want you to come hang out with me. But there’s this thing I have to do first if that’s okay?”

  Something I’m very, very nervous to do with her. Something that only Hudson knows about. But I know that if I ever want to have a relationship with Maura, she needs to know everything about me. No matter how scared I am to share it with her.

  She nods, slipping her hand into mine as we cross the parking lot. “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you say we were coming to Mic’s?” Maura asks as I park the car.

  I don’t say anything as I exit the car and run around to her side to open the door.

  (Dudes, if you’re reading this, do that shit every once in a while. Chicks dig it.)

  She doesn’t press the issues as we walk across the parking lot and into the building. There’s still about an hour before it opens, and she either doesn’t notice or she doesn’t say anything. Either way, I appreciate it all the same.

  I turn to Maura as the door slaps shut behind us. “This isn’t public knowledge, so what you’re about to witness stays between us. Okay?” My request is met with a nod. “No, I need you to promise me. Say it out loud.”

  Her eyebrows slant instantly. “You’re starting to scare me, Tuck.”

  “Trust me. Please? This is part two.”

  She considers me for a moment, staring at me with a heavily confused expression on her face. It takes a moment or so for her to relax and agree. “Fine. I promise I won’t say anything. But if you’re a damn drug dealer or doing anything illegal, I’m out. Of all of this.”

  I bristle instantly at her accusations and offensive words. Illegal? I mean, a small part of me gets where she’s coming from, because I’ve given her zero information and asked her to trust me. But still. She should trust me. We’ve been friends for too long and been…whatever long enough for us to build trust. Or at least that’s what I thought.

  “Yes, Maura, please assume that the musician with two full sleeves of tattoos is into drugs because that’s what all rock stars do. Thank you for that stereotype. I’m glad you think so highly of me. Oh, wait. You don’t. You assume that because I ask you to keep quiet about something, it’s automatically illegal.” I shake my head in disgust. “Wow. I honestly thought you were better than them. You know, maybe you aren’t ready for this.”

  I brush past her, heading for the door because this is too important to waste on a person who doesn’t view me as their equal.

  Maura quickly follows behind me and grabs on to my arm. “Tucker, wait. No, no. Please, don’t leave. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Seriously? I spin around, and she steps backwards. “Then how did you mean it? How is there any other way to mean it?”

  “I-I,” she stumbles in that cute way of hers. Which is annoying because even when I’m pissed at her, she’s still fucking adorable as hell. “I only meant that this whole thing is…ominous. You’re acting secretive, and my mind went directly to something illegal.” She wrings her hands together in front of her. “It’s nothing to do with you and everything to do with how this all looks.”

  I stare her down as I consider what she said. She may have a point, but it still doesn’t alleviate my irritation over how little faith she has in me.

  “It’s the fact that you obviously don’t trust me, Maura. If you did, your mind wouldn’t have gone there.”

  She winces. “Fair enough. I’m sorry. I wish I had an excuse as to why I don’t, but there isn’t one.”

  “Maybe it’s all the other shitty people in your life?” I try. I must admit that her honesty about that is much appreciated in the moment.

  She shrugs. “Probably. Can…can we stay?”

  I clench my jaw and stare off above her head. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, but still pissed, I nod. “Yeah, we can stay.”

  “Good. Now, where is everyone? I notice we’re here early.”

  We walk toward the bar, and I yell, “Yo, Gary!”

  “In the back!”

  “Come on,” I say.

  We make our way back down a narrow hallway, passing the restrooms and stopping at a bright red door at the end.

  I knock once on the frame and step into the small office, Maura on my heels.

  “Hey, kid,” he beams at me. “Who’s your friend?”

  I glare over at the old man because he knows damn well who Maura is. Well, not officially, but he’s heard me talk about her enough.

  “Hi. I’m Maura, Tucker’s…” She trails off, glancing to me for help.

  “Friend,” I say awkwardly.

  “Friend,” Maura repeats.

  Gary gives a hearty chuckle.

  “Maura, this is Gary. He owns Mic’s. He’s, uh, he’s my father.”

  I watch as her jaw flies open. “F-f-father?”

  “Surprise?”

  Her eyes are wide and confused, unsure of how to take this news. “I-I had no idea.” Then they fall to slits, and she hisses out, “And you said for me to trust you. Surprise my ass, Tucker.”

  “It’s not common knowledge,” I shrug.

  “Tanner?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. He has no idea. We’re only half-brothers.”

  “Wow,” she says quietly. “Wow.”

  “Yep. See why what I said earlier about this being kept on the DL is important?”

  I watch her anger fade away, and she nods.

  “What brings you by?” Gary asks.

  Shoving my hands in my pockets, I watch the older man sitting behind the desk. At first glance, he appears to be
any other old bartender. But upon further inspection, he looks like an aged version of me. Only thinner. Much thinner.

  “Wanted to check in on you. How you feelin’?”

  Gary arches a brow at me. “Tucker,” he draws out. “Come on, kid. You can’t keep coming in here to check on me.”

  “Of course I can. I got that right when you came into my life. I’ve got a lot of years to make up for. Suck it up, old man.”

  He lets out a huff. “Fine, fine. I’m doin’ all right. No flare-ups.” I give him a disbelieving look. “Kid, you’re killing me. Had one headache yesterday, but it’s the first I’ve had in months. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  I stand up straighter and brace my legs for a fight of the verbal variety. “Call your doctor. You’re going this week. I’ll take you.”

  Gary doesn’t argue. “Okay. I’ll call now.”

  Huh. Not what I was expecting.

  “Good,” I say. “We’ll be out front. Come find us when you’re done.”

  I usher Maura out of the office as Gary picks up the ancient corded phone on his desk to make the phone call.

  Maura doesn’t say anything as we walk back down the blackened hallway and into the brightly lit area. Seeing it all lit up like this is still something I try to get used to since it’s typically fairly dark in here. With the lights all kicked on, you can see how much junk is plastered across the walls. Hundreds of photos, framed tickets and set lists, posters, a couple instruments, all kinds of music paraphernalia. I asked Gary one time how he acquired it all, and he said it was all from the road and people who have come through Mic’s since he reopened it after he had his surgery, which is saying something since that was only a few years ago.

  The place used to belong to a guy name Mic, an old friend of Gary’s that passed away as Gary was coming into town. He thought it’d be fun to name the place after himself since he pronounced his name like “Mike” but the spelling resembled the shortened form of “microphone.” I think most people thought it was a grammatical error. And Gary loved to stir up shit and confusion, so he never changed the name. Plus, it fits the place.