A Cruel Kind of Beautiful (Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll Series Book 1)

by Michelle Hazen

  It’s why people like us talk about a muse. When it’s good, it doesn’t feel like it’s you, making stuff up. It feels like something reaching through you and into the world beyond.

  None of the statements claim they made a beautiful sculpture of a raven because their art teacher told them birds were selling big this year. But then again, none of these students are paying their rent with the proceeds of selling their art. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  I hug my arms around myself, chilled though I’m still wearing my jacket.

  “Sorry about that.” Jacob comes up behind me, brushing my hair aside so he can leave a kiss beneath my ear. “I guess it’s been a good turnout, so Cody was really excited and wanted to tell me about the pieces he’s sold, and people kept interrupting.”

  I clear my throat and shove back my own problems. There will be time to talk everything over with the band later, because I know Jax is as conflicted as I am. For now, I’m here to spend time with Jacob, and be supportive of his friend.

  “So, which stuff is Cody’s?”

  Jacob just smiles and turns me until I face a display of charcoal nudes. And I forget all about the band.

  “Holy crap!” My hands fly to my mouth and I whirl to look at him. “How could I forget your modeling? I didn’t even think to wonder if there would be any sketches of you here.”

  “There are a few.”

  “But I—” I purse my lips, taking a step closer so I can lower my voice. “I feel kind of dirty ogling your naked body with all these people around.”

  He smiles. “Do you?”

  I poke him in the side. “You don’t have to look so smug about that.”

  “Actually, I do.” He chuckles. “But I don’t think these drawings are what you’re picturing. It’s...I don’t know, it’s different. Just look.”

  I toss one more wide-eyed glance up at him, but he just slips a hand under my jacket to support the small of my back and urges me closer to the charcoals.

  The one of Jacob is unmistakable. It’s the largest, and the best, and it’s nothing like what I thought it would be.

  The drawing is a square of white, framed plainly in black, and arranged so it feels like you’re peering down from an open tile in the ceiling. His strong shoulders hunch under an invisible weight, and he sits on the ground as if he just collapsed there, his thickly muscled arms slack.

  “The detail work with your hair is amazing,” I murmur. It’s spiky and chaotic and somehow exhausted as well, giving the impression with just a few strokes that he hasn’t had time to care for it in a day or two. Every line lies confidently. It reminds me of “Out of Order,” how every word of that song felt permanent from the first moment I wrote it.

  Nearly the entire sketch is of Jacob’s shoulders and his hands cupped in his lap as he gazes down into them. They’re empty, and tautly helpless. A ragged scar crosses the swell of his right thumb.

  My heart squeezes and I take Jacob’s hand, my fingers smoothing over the unmarred skin as if to heal the scar the artist gave his picture.

  “Cody was on the team with me before I quit. Real good guy. For this sketch, he spent a couple of two-hour class periods standing over me on a chair.” He winces. “That slouched posture put a kink in my back like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, and my voice is broken.

  This sketch is the definition of art: pure creativity pouring emotion into the physical world until it feels so personal, the artist may as well have pulled it out of your own chest.

  Jacob’s head snaps toward me. He frowns, touching my cheek, and it’s not until then that I sense the dampness. “Hey, Jera...”

  I let go of his hand and take a quick swipe at my eyes. “I’m okay. That sketch is truly incredible, that’s all.”

  “Cody’s good, but...” He ducks his head. “Is something wrong? You seem a little off today, or something.”

  “I’m sorry. I was trying not to distract you from your friend’s show, and I think I did the opposite.” I peek up at him with a wobbly smile that turns quickly into a grimace. “It’s nothing. Just...Amp wants an answer.”

  Jacob’s eyes darken and he blows out a long breath. “Oh.”

  “Oh?” My brow creases. “What does that mean?”

  He stuffs his hands into his pockets and gives me a sidelong look. “So you’re still thinking about signing with that one, huh?”

  I laugh uneasily. “As opposed to all the other imaginary record companies clamoring for a chance at us?” I glance at Cody’s drawings. “I don’t want music to be just a hobby, Jacob. My mom’s always been scared that I’d end up waiting tables forever to keep my schedule open for gigs. My dad supports my band, but he knows better than anyone how hard it is to make it as an independent. If I took this deal, it would solve all those problems.”

  Jacob hesitates, long enough that I shift my weight. Is he worried about me going out on the road? Are we about to get into an argument in the middle of an art gallery? My eyes focus again on the sketch of him, on his tortured, vacant hands. Even rendered on a flat stretch of canvas, they look gentle.

  “You’ve just been so worried about everything Amp wanted to change,” Jacob says, “and when we listened to the last album they put out, with Karma Puzzle? You said the mixing sucked ass.” He watches me while I avoid his eyes. “You don’t trust them. I can’t imagine working on something like your music with people you don’t trust, for any reason.”

  I look up to the ceiling, blinking rapidly, because that’s exactly why I’ve been stalling this entire time, and now I really freaking want to cry. Both because he somehow knew that about me, and because it’s still true.

  “But you’ve got to take a chance on someone, sometime,” I say hoarsely. “Or you’ll never know what it was you walked away from.”

  I let my gaze fall until it comes back to his face. The concern in his eyes makes the huge world outside this little art gallery feel more steady, if only for a second. He swallows, and it might be my imagination, but he almost looks...guilty. “That’s true. But you should still say no if something is wrong for you.”

  “I know that.” I purse my lips. “I would, if I knew working with them would mean selling out. It’s not that simple, though. I won’t really know how much this is going to change us until we’re already signed in blood and halfway through the new album.”

  A couple sidles past us in the narrow aisle, the woman’s purse bumping Jacob’s hip. He waits a second until they move away, and then lowers his voice.

  “You know, baseball used to be all I dreamed about. I loved being the pitcher, loved how the whole strategy of the team shifted depending on how I threw each ball. It gave me so much clarity and focus because I knew everyone was counting on me to do it right. After my parents died, though, everything changed.”

  The corners of my mouth turn down in sympathy. I don’t know what about my record deal made him think of this, but I’m certainly not going to interrupt when it seems like he wants to talk about it. And I can’t help but wonder if he might slip and give me a clue to the parts of his life he hides in his secret scheduling spreadsheet, and his bedroom. All the places he’s never invited me into.

  “My parents died when they were forty, and they had so many things left they hadn’t done yet. It got me thinking about how most professional ball players retire in their thirties. The schedule was tough on me, yes, but mostly I didn’t want to build my life around something so short lived.” He shrugs twitchily. “So I quit baseball and changed my major to the always humiliating ‘Undecided.’ It wasn’t until this year that I started to get passionate about engineering.”

  My chest twinges as I remember how self-conscious he always gets about his major. “Engineering is one of the hardest and most important majors there is. What could possibly be wrong with that?”

  He smiles at my defense of his career. “It’s not as sexy as business or premed, but engineering is all about working with a team to design a solution
for any problem that comes up. It’s even more perfect for me than baseball was, and this way I’ll get to keep my shoulders and knees intact. But the day I walked into my coach’s office to turn down my scholarship—to give up everything I’d worked for—I didn’t know I’d find a better career.” He swallows. “It’s still one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Quitting a Division I team is nobody’s vision of success, but for me, it was absolutely the right decision.”

  It’s all too easy to imagine how terrifying it would be to face a totally undefined future after so many years of focus and hard work. But he’s not telling me this just to share—he’s trying to make a point and I’m not at all sure I like what he’s leading up to.

  I hug my arms around myself. “Are you saying there’s a career that would be better for me than music?”

  His laugh startles me, and when my head jerks back a little, he rushes to reassure me.

  “No, hey, I didn’t mean it like that. The way you play...You’re meant to make music, Jera, in a way few people are meant for anything. But sometimes the best risk to take is walking away from the wrong thing.”

  My back stiffens. “I don’t think you understand how competitive the music world is. There are thousands of musicians out there dying for a chance like this, Jacob, and most of them have way more experience than I do.”

  “I know that, but—” He stops and blows out a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not helping here, am I?”

  My shoulders slump. I don’t even know why I’m arguing with him. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I know the deal sucks. I’m just afraid it might be the only one we ever get.”

  “Okay...but if your songs right now aren’t good enough to attract another record company, maybe you could use Amp’s help to change your sound.”

  I suck in a hard breath. “You’ve heard the albums that they’ve put out lately. I’m not against input, but everything they’ve suggested has pushed our songs toward EDM, instead of strengthening the core of the post-grunge rock we’re good at. Maybe we haven’t gotten many bigger shows yet, but our music? Is fucking solid.” My skin flushes hot, a heavy, betrayed lump growing in my throat. I thought he liked our band. How can he say my songs aren’t good enough? I drop my voice to a hissing whisper to keep from causing a scene. “There hasn’t been a new band in years who could match Danny’s creativity on the bass, Jax has a voice Mick Jagger would sell his soul for, and I’ve had people come up in tears after a show, telling us how much my lyrics meant to them. In tears, Jacob, in a venue so small I practically had to set up my drum kit under the Coors Light tap. If that isn’t good music, then screw being good.”

  I shake my head, drawing my weight up onto the balls of my toes until I’m all but bouncing in place.

  “And not only that—” My voice drops off when I finally see the smile waiting on his face, and I realize I’ve just given the closing statement to his argument.

  Shutting my eyes, I swallow, everything I’d pictured about my future beginning to waver as the conviction in my words echoes in my ears.

  The air around me warms as Jacob leans close, and his breath stirs the tiny hairs at my temple when he whispers, “Your music? Is fucking incredible.” I startle and my eyes fly open, because he has never said that word in front of me, not once. He straightens to his full height. “Your band is way too talented to commit to working with a record label until you can find one that appreciates everything you have to offer. You guys need somebody who can help you grow and improve, instead of sticking you in some pre-shaped hole they have in their lineup.”

  Nervousness skitters through me as I picture calling Rob to turn him down, as I try to imagine telling my dad what I’ve done. But this time, it doesn’t feel like the bottom has dropped out of my stomach when I think about all the months—maybe years—of waiting until another opportunity comes along.

  Because Jacob is right. In a very quiet place inside me, I know our music is meant to go somewhere. I know the sounds and words coming together in my garage are making something that speaks to people. It’s not the kind of thing you say out loud, to anyone. But it’s real.

  And if I don’t start acting like it, no one else will either.

  I tilt my head at Jacob. “How do you feel about putting this date on hold for a few minutes? I have a few calls to make.” I manage a half a smile, and the longer he holds my eyes, the more genuine it starts to feel.

  “I think I would like that very much.” He bends down and kisses me, intimacy trembling in the moment between us. This man knew, somehow, exactly what I needed to hear to cut through the fog of uncertainty and do what is right for my band. By the time he pulls away, my back is a little straighter.

  “Tell Cody I loved his charcoals, will you?” I hitch my messenger bag up higher on my shoulder. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  I HANG UP MY PHONE and drop it into my lap, the wooden bench cold beneath my legs as my lungs empty themselves in a long, long exhale. In the end, I made three calls. To Jax, to Danny, and then to Rob at Amp Records, for the last time. Jax agreed with me, and so did Danny as soon as he heard Amp was lining up keyboardists without even asking us.

  I didn’t call Dad, because I know he’s going to freak out. Which is fair. His job is to manage my band’s career as if we’re a business that needs to make sales to survive. At this point, turning down Amp is a bad business decision. Except I don’t think I really grasped until today that for me, making it big isn’t enough. The only reason I wanted Amp’s money was to buy me more time to make my music, and give me a chance to share it with more people. If it were about the cash, I could switch my major tomorrow and become an investment banker, but every dollar would be another reminder that I had failed because my life would have nothing to do with who I am, or what I stand for.

  My band is my family, our songs are our soul, and I believe in the music we make together. I believe in us, and I won’t compromise that for anything.

  I push to my feet.

  Beyond the roof of the art building, the bleachers of the baseball stadium stretch to the sky. All those seats used to be filled by people watching Jacob play ball. He doesn’t have to be delivering papers to buy groceries. His baseball scholarship came along with a hefty living stipend, and even though that would have made his school years so much easier, he turned it down when he realized it wasn’t right for him.

  Somehow, it makes me a little more satisfied with my decision to know it’s a choice he made, too.

  I start toward the art building and as soon as I approach the glass doors, I spot him: head bent and hands stuffed in his pockets as he paces the lobby. My heart expands in my chest, because of course he wouldn’t pass the time chatting with his friends in the gallery. Of course he would wait, far enough away that I had privacy, but close enough he’d be right here if I needed him. He always gets the balance just right with me.

  As Jacob swivels to begin another round of pacing, he tosses an anxious glance at the doors and spots me just outside. He heads toward me right away, shoving the push bar so fast that the glass in the door rattles in protest. He lets it drop closed behind him without a glance.

  He doesn’t ask how I feel: he just studies my face, absorbing every bit of the sadness, the relief, the regret and longing, and the smallest hint of pride. “Tell me what I can do.”

  I smile, even though it’s a little wobbly. “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink to celebrate?” My stomach feels like I just leapt off the top of a roller coaster, but in a good way. Now, if my band ever makes it big, it’s going to be because of who we are, not because we pretended to be something we’re not.

  Jacob grins. “I would love that.”

  The admiration in his handsome face echoes guilt in the back of my mind. I wish I could put as much faith in myself as I just put in my music, because with a guy like Jacob, I should be celebrating in bed rather than a bar. In so many ways, I’m better with him than I’ve ever been wi
th another man. He laughs at my jokes and listens to my band rehearsals over speaker phone when he can’t come in person, and loves everything I wear, from nerdy tee shirts to mini skirts. When I get nervous and start trying to impress him, half the time he pulls me out of it before I even realize what I’m doing. But I’m glaringly aware that we still haven’t slept together. If sex might spell the end of inflatable trout surprise dates and sharing terrible puns, it’s a leap I’m not willing to take. Not yet.

  Chapter 23: Permanent Ink

  I tap my hand on the steering wheel, impatient with the heavy Thanksgiving-weekend traffic. It’s the first Saturday I’ve had without a gig since the Bump In The Night festival and I’m eager to start cashing in my free time.

  As I predicted, Dad wigged out that I’d blown our big opportunity. He only lectured me for a minute though, because he was too busy getting on the phone to every reporter in Portland, trying to spin the situation in our favor. Thanks to him, we got one newspaper article and several music blog features that praised us for refusing to sacrifice our musical integrity for a lucrative record contract. Not that it was that lucrative by industry standards, but whatever. It must be the thought that counts, because the Portland indie scene loves a rebel, and that’s been keeping us busy as hell playing shows.

  The gigs help, a little bit, with the fact that we’re back to being a local band with no real career prospects. What also helps is that whenever I get down, Jacob is there to tell me I did the right thing, and it’s only a matter of time until we attract another label. I smile at the thought but it fades when I realize it’s going to take me another ten minutes before I can instigate my own surprise date by showing up at his house. I’m not sure I can wait that long to hear his voice. I’ve been waiting way too long already. I dial his number, put the phone on speaker, and drop it into my lap so I won’t get pulled over.

  Jacob answers his phone, a little breathlessly, on the fourth ring. “Hello?”