Yet I was grateful that only the records bore witness to my mood and my passage to the end of the hallway.
I desperately needed the extra income I received from my recording work, but I didn’t want to run into any of the studio’s artists. Two in particular. Dizzy Lowell, the rhythm guitarist for Tempest who surely despised me, maybe as much as I loathed myself for nearly getting his girlfriend, my former best friend, killed. And tall, dark and sexy, but not-the-chance-that-I-had-deluded-myself-into-believing-he-could-be Sager Reed. My breath hitched as the handsome bassist’s face flashed into my mind. I hadn’t spoken to him since I had ended things between us, not that there had ever been anything real to end.
Except one night of really amazing sex.
And the secrets he shared, my dissenting inner voice reminded me. Not to mention the wonderful way he made you feel.
Yeah, but that was before I predictably ruined everything with one phone call to April’s husband.
So, if I saw him…them…If I ran into any of the guys from Tempest, the ones I used to hang around with as if I were an unofficial sixth band member, I would handle it then.
The way you handled them at the party for April’s mom?
Thanks for the reminder, stupid whispering inner voice.
Ok, well, maybe not as badly as that perhaps. I had been a little flippant. But they had all snubbed me. Even Justin. The new lead singer of Tempest. He had problems of his own that were driving a wedge between him and his bandmates. His announcement that he intended to leave the group after only an enticingly short interlude had not gone over well. I had heard that the group had been put on a temporary hiatus by Mary Timmons, the CEO of Black Cat Records, a woman most thought of as cold and impersonal, but I knew better. After all, would an ice queen let a lonely little girl play with Barbie dolls under her desk?
If I wasn’t mistaken the thirty day cooling off period for Justin to reconsider his resignation was ending this weekend.
I wondered what he had decided to do.
CHAPTER TWO
Sager
The Acenado house was home, the only real home I had ever known. The only one that really mattered. The rosary beads tacked above the doorframes, the family photos; many including me, the statues of saints scattered in positions of prominence, the earth tones with vibrant splashes of red and green and the love and affection that bound everything together. The years before I had come to live in the Acenado household hadn’t been pleasant ones. Couch surfing from one inhospitable place to another, first with my old man before he had been put way, then later with my older brother behind the steel door of his apartment. All the while watching over my little brother Jude. He had been the only bright light in those years of abandonment, violence and uncertainty. But I didn’t dwell on the past anymore. The void left behind in my little brother’s absence would never be filled. I kept all the memories of him and everything else prior to my adoption by the Acenado family locked up as tight as a cell in county services, only allowing myself one time each year to remember.
“Nieto,” grandson, she called, the familiar sound of her beloved voice bumping me out of my head just before the hard rubber wheels of her chair rolled across the entryway tile and bumped my foot.
“Yes, Abuelita,” I answered, crouching down to be on her level. Her dainty chin lifted, her long grey hair held back in a tidy bun. Juaquin’s grandmother remained as elegant and proud as she had ever been even after the stroke that had taken away much of the use on the right side of her body. I loved to draw her. My favorite feature were the creases of laughter surrounding her sparkling eyes, ones the same tawny hue as Juaquin’s. She shared the same agile mind that he possessed but not his quick temper. One hand to my chest, my fingers reverently closed around the cross that dangled from the end of the beaded rosary she had only recently given me. I placed my other hand tenderly over both of hers where they rested on her knees. Meeting her warm gaze, I waited respectfully for her to speak.
“Watch over him.” Her gaze shifted to Juaquin or King as most everyone outside the Acenado family called him. Arms crossed over his chest, his feet wide apart, her biological grandson stood a couple of feet away, his parents flanking him in the middle of the tiny living room. Anytime we had a break from touring or other commitments we always came home, but lately for me the twelve hundred square foot, three-bedroom house seemed confining, even though it had recently been expanded by a garage conversion to include a wheelchair accessible suite for Abuelita. I knew the issue was fear, an irrational echo inside my head warning me that if I stayed too long I might slide backwards in time and revert to being that angry, out of control fourteen-year-old boy again, the one I had been before Juaquin and his family had taken me in.
King’s father was scowling at him. His legs spread apart and his arms crossed, a stance his son mimicked. King favored his father in more than mannerisms. He had the same jet black hair and engaging smile, though his father had a gut that hung over the belt of his creased jeans. King had shed his extra weight. He was impressively ripped now. His father’s recent heart attack had added the extra incentive for him to commit fully to being physically fit. We both worried that his father didn’t seem to be complying with his doctor’s directives. He was stubbornly prideful, determined to live his life on his own terms, like his mother, Abuelita. I knew that his pride was also the main reason he had refused the money King and I had offered him to move the family to a better house in a better neighborhood.
“This is our home, mis hijos,” he had told us. “Abuelita’s doctor is close by. St. Mary’s is up the street. I can walk to work.” He was now the head janitor at the high school all of the original members of Tempest had attended. “Keep your money. Save it for the families I know you both will have someday. We are content here.”
King’s mother placed her hand on her son’s stubbornly crossed arm and started speaking to him in rapid fire Spanish. Flames flashed in her dark brown eyes. Though I was fairly fluent, she talked so fast I couldn’t quite keep up. She was bossing him, which was cute because she was so tiny, nearly a foot shorter than her son. She wasn’t afraid to lay into either of us if we stepped out of line. That bossiness was balanced by her ready affection. King’s father was more reserved, especially after his only other son Adrian had been killed stepping in front of a bullet meant for his jefe, his boss in the gang, La Raza Prima.
King, my best friend, mi hermano, my brother, credited my arrival into his home as being the catalyst that had breathed life back into his family. I knew that it was more like they had resuscitated me, showing me that families could be different, that I could be different, valued and loved. But we didn’t talk about those things much. King worked out his heavy shit through his poetry and drumming while I worked out mine in my drawing just like when we had first met.
“Juaquin’s ok,” I reassured Abuelita, refocusing on her. “But I will look out for him. Always. I promise you.” I straightened and leaned down to kiss the top of her silvery head, catching the honeysuckle scent of the shampoo she had used for as long as I had known her.
“Nieto de mi corazón.” Grandson of my heart. She tilted her head back to look at me. Tears she didn’t try to hide misted her eyes. I felt my own burning in response. She always took it hard when King and I had to leave. I loved my adoptive parents. They treated me the same as they treated King, equally in tough discipline and unconditional love. But Abuelita was mine. We processed the world through similar sensitive filters, feeling more keenly than most people the things we experienced. Her losses had chipped away big parts of her heart just like mine had. A stillborn child. Her husband’s death from a heart attack. Her grandson Adrian’s murder. Whenever the world had gotten to be too much for either of us to deal with we had learned to lean on each other. “You hurt, I hurt,” she reminded me. “Do you think I cannot see your pain? It’s the niñita with the blue hair, the one you brought to visit me, sí?”
“No, Abuelita. That’s over.” I looked aw
ay. I didn’t want her to see the lie inside my eyes. It was over in Melinda’s mind, absolutely, without a doubt. She had moved on. But it was going to take longer for me to get over her. The way I had felt with her, like maybe I wasn’t a fuck up beyond redemption, had me almost believing that King’s dad was right, that I could have a family of my own one day. I had begun dreaming about a future that included Melinda among many other things that I now had to accept were impossible.
“I am sorry to hear that.” She shook her grey head. “That one seems as sad and lost as you were when you first came to us.” Abuelita was right, though the pixie would disagree vehemently. She hid her wounded heart, her doubts and insecurities behind her effervescent personality and beautiful blue eyes.
“Abuelita.” King joined us, putting his hand on the wheelchair armrest, and his grandmother lifted her cheek to receive the kiss he leaned down to place upon it.
“Nieto,” she returned taking his hand and then reached for and clasped mine. “Mis nietos.” My grandsons. “I would give you a bendición before you depart.” We dutifully bowed our heads as she had taught us to do. “O God, I commit these to Your perfect care. Give Your angels charge over them to keep them in all their ways. Let no evil befall them or harm come to them. Bless them, O Lord, that they may complete their journey safely under Your ever watchful care. Amen.”
“Gracias, Abuelita. Adiós.” King straightened first and hitched the backpack I knew held his practice drum pad and sticks higher on his shoulder before meeting my eyes. “You ready, mi hermano?”
I nodded squeezing Abuelita’s fingers before I stood then opened my arms to receive hugs from both parents. Afterward, I snagged my bass by the handle and followed Juaquin through the front door. On the concrete stoop outside, we both scanned the street, out of habit, assessing for possible threats. The sun was setting over the row of modest sixties-era frame houses opposite ours. Old cars sat in driveways or on the street as many of the garages had been converted to extra living space. A couple of kids pedaled past us on their bikes, but a group of teens wearing black and grey bandanas around their heads caught my attention. They were eyeing King’s H1 Alpha in a covetous way that spelled trouble.
“You wanna go over and send them a message, esé?” King inquired. Obviously he had noted their interest, too. He arched his dark brows sounding as eager to unleash the beast as he had been all those years ago in the courtyard of St. Mary’s after we had bonded over lost brothers and a piece of gum.
“No, another time maybe.”
“Alright, your call.” He nodded once but gave the teens a formidable glare that had their eyes widening as he strutted toward the driver’s side of his vehicle. Shoulders thrown back, he exuded confidence, an easy blend of Latin bravado and rock star cool. The Hummer’s lights blinked as he clicked the key fob. He slid behind the wheel, tossing his backpack into the backseat. I put my Fender case right beside it and took shotgun. As soon as he fired up the engine, Cannibal Corpse rage blasted me backward into the leather.
“Dude, seriously?” I raked a handful of hair off my forehead. The ends of the longer angled bangs from a recent cut slid into my eyes constantly, but I still liked the new style and the lighter brown color better than the jet black. I messed around with my hair about as often as I got a new tattoo. “How many times we gotta listen to that same album?”
“Tomb of the Mutilated is a death metal classic, and Paul Mazurkiewicz kicks ass on it.”
“So you’ve told me about a million times.” At least back when we had shared a room growing up, I could pop in my buds to tune it out. Not so much here in the SUV. “Things seemed pretty tense with you and your dad,” I noted carefully.
“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “I told him that he should stop eating migas and shit like that every morning. He’s gonna kill himself. And he told me he already has one mother. That he doesn’t need another.”
I sighed. “Why do you always have to get on your father’s case every time we come home?”
“Why’s he always have to get on mine?” he returned with his brows raised.
“Because you’re just alike.” I blew out a breath. “Too opinionated and too stubborn.”
“Sí,” he concurred. He shot me a look. “Heard you talking in your sleep again about Jude last night.” Apparently since I hit on a sensitive subject he was going to bring one up, too.
“It’s not like the nightmares are something I can control,” I said tightly.
“Now you know how I feel about things with my dad,” he commiserated, breaking into a wry smile. We might have our issues, but we understood each other, like best friends and brothers should. “Está bien.” Ok. “You pick something for us to listen to.” He tossed me his cell before he backed out of the driveway. As he turned, the late afternoon sun hit my arm through my open window warming my skin. I scrolled through his catalog with my other hand. I made a selection as King turned the vehicle yet again, steering us onto a street that was mostly businesses with boarded up windows.
“Shinedown. Great choice.” King drummed his approval on the steering wheel.
“Hey, what was your mom bending your ear about before we left?”
“Our Facebook page. Apparently, she’s discovered social media. She took exception to those pictures I took of the last titty contest we judged.” He rolled his eyes and flipped on the blinker before gunning the engine and turning the Hummer into the parking lot at Footit’s. “Don’t know why she didn’t lay into you about it,” he complained as he pulled into a spot.
“Probably because I’m more charming than you.” I grinned.
“A better ass-kisser you mean,” he returned, and I shrugged. He cut the engine and I swept a glance through the lot recognizing the other vehicles. Dizzy’s Panerma. War’s Camaro. Justin’s Triumph.
“Has anyone found out what Justin has decided?” I asked inclining my head toward the gleaming black motorcycle.
“Not me.” King unbuckled. He clicked the locks and alarmed the vehicle as soon as I stepped out. “He might’ve told Dizzy,” he added as we headed into the building side by side. “But I haven’t seen or heard from him myself in the last month.”
I wasn’t surprised. Everyone in the band had taken advantage of the thirty-day hiatus to decompress after basically having been thrown together nonstop for over a year. Dizzy Lowell, our peacemaking rhythm guitarist had gone off the radar with his new girlfriend, the Mine bartender April Reynolds. Bryan Jackson, our flashy lead guitarist, and Lace Lowell, the former songstress for the band, had hunkered down together in her Sutton Place apartment. As far as I knew Warren “War” Jinkins, our divisive original lead singer, was hanging out at the swanky Pan Pacific hotel with his celebrity girlfriend, Shaina Bentley, who was currently filming a movie in Vancouver. Justin Jones, our current lead singer, since Warren had walked off, was alternating time between Vancouver with his hotel heiress fiancée, Bridget, and Vancouver Island where his dad was grappling with end stage kidney disease. I didn’t know if Justin was sticking with us, but I guessed we were about to find out because we were all meeting together tonight within the familiar walls of the Southside bar that had been the preferred hangout in the early days of the band.
“What’ll it be, guys?” Addy Footit the owner of the dive that bore her last name greeted King and me from behind the long Formica topped counter. She flashed her familiar smile while attempting to smooth her blonde hair that was done up in the usual sloppy bun.
“Maestro Dobel,” King replied before moving among the others who had loosely congregated in front of the bar. He bumped fists with Dizzy first, then Bryan and War.
“Same for me, Addy. Thanks.” I leaned in on an elbow. “How are you? Don’t tell me you’re the only one working tonight. Your daughter’s off at college now, right?”
“Yeah.” She beamed. “Full scholarship.” She told everyone who came in how proud she was of her daughter. It was a wonderful feeling to have that kind of support. I knew because King’
s family was the same way about Tempest’s success. I only hoped that it would hold. “I’ve got a new girl who’s picking up the slack, but she doesn’t clock in until later. I don’t mind taking care of you guys. It’s like old times seeing you all here.”
I smiled. I was feeling nostalgic, too as I cast a glance around the large room with the neon beer signs on the wall and the small raised stage. Memories paraded through my mind. How King recognizing an aptitude that I had yet to see in myself had encouraged me to take up the bass. How the two of us had quickly fallen into rhythm musically as effortlessly as we had forged our friendship. How we had gotten together with Dizzy and the rest of the guys and formed the band in high school. Our first meeting with Addy, when War had begged her to just give us a try on Tuesday nights. Our first show when only our parents and a couple of friends had shown up. How we had practiced our asses off in Dizzy’s uncle’s garage after that to improve. A few months later we had gained a decent following. Addy had moved us to Wednesdays, then Fridays, until we had finally earned the prime spot on Saturday nights. By then we were packing them in the place. The record contract from Black Cat had followed shortly after. We had signed the paperwork and celebrated right here at Footit’s.
The gazes that greeted me as I swiveled around from the bar seemed a shit ton wiser. The stress of the tour and the events that had followed had affected all of us making us grow up in one way or another. But in many ways we were the same unpretentious set of guys dressed in worn jeans and old t-shirts. Music was still our priority, our escape, our solace, even though hundreds of thousands now instead of only hundreds knew our names. But the smiles didn’t come as easily as they had in the past. The tension in the air was measurable. No one was looking forward to starting over again. We all hoped Justin had reconsidered. King’s gaze met mine. We shared a commiserative look. He took a sip of his drink, set the glass tumbler on the bar and started in on a retelling of his latest outlandish escapade to break the ice. His humor usually had a purpose.
The Complete Tempest World Box Set Page 128
