“No, not cat,” Harper corrects. “Cat shit.”
I shush her bad language and Harper rolls her eyes. “As if he hasn’t been swearing like a pre-teen the minute you drop him off at school.”
I look to Jamie. “He better not.”
“He’s a boy. He does.”
Jamie doesn’t add to the conversation, and I don’t expect him to, not when he’s so engrossed in his computer game.
“Thank you for watching him after school,” I say.
“And I’ll be back in time for you to get back to the office,” Harper replies.
“Are you sure?”
I love that Harper watches Jamie when I need her to. A few years younger than me, Harper is the quintessential twenty-something millennial who dabbles in temporary office jobs, spends most of her time in the arts, and therefore is always looking for a quick paycheck. She became our go-to babysitter soon after I moved in six years ago and Jamie was almost six. It was a big move where we left behind a lot of baggage—most especially Jamie’s father—and I was bereft and wary of putting my child in a stranger’s hands. Getting the job at CW&C was no small feat, and I was certain it would pay off for Jamie and me in the long-term, but until that term ends, our lives are one big question mark. With a child relying on me, I’m haunted by the constant fear that I’ve made a mistake. I should’ve stayed with his father. I shouldn’t have moved us from Ohio. So many questions, not enough answers.
Then, Harper introduced herself as our neighbor above, took one look at Jamie and threw a tennis ball at his chest, asking, “Wanna play catch in the backyard with my dog so I can gossip with your mom?”
I communicated that to Jamie in simpler terms, and his face split wide open with a grin. If Harper was surprised that Jamie couldn’t really understand her, she didn’t show it, and soon enough, I was sitting with Harper next to the window overlooking the shared common area behind our building, watching my son play with a mutt named Treebark and learning that Harper was CPR certified, a former daycare teacher, and was currently looking for a part-time nanny position. Oh, and that she was horrible with maintaining positive relationships with anyone above the age of ten.
I liked her immediately. Notably, Jamie liked her, too.
So here we are, with Harper continuing to be Jamie’s nanny (with much shorter hours) six years later, and Harper’s added bonus of maintaining a positive relationship with her first full-grown adult.
“It should only be for tonight,” I say to Harper. “There’s an emergency regarding this big case…”
Harper waves me off. “Say no more. You know I find Jamie’s company way more stimulating than cat shit.”
I laugh. “I’ll pass along your compliment.”
Harper kisses the top of Jamie’s head and he wrinkles his nose. “Hey.” Harper jostles him until he looks up. She gives him an over-dramatic wave with the slump and sigh of an annoyed teenager. “‘Bye, squirt.”
He smiles at her imitation of him then flutters his fingers in a lazy wave.
Harper moves to me and bops my head. “Don’t work too hard, T. That place has you doing slave labor.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“True. I guess slave labor doesn’t come with a six-figure paycheck.”
I shake my head. “You’re misinformed.”
“Sure I am, Miss hot-shot lawyer. See you later.” Harper pulls open the door, her laces untied since she just shoved her feet in for a walk up one floor.
“Good luck!” I call before she shuts it. “I’ll pray for some cologne!”
Smiling, I turn to my son. He’s back to his game, some sword-fighting thing in a field with a lot of explosions. I brush the side of his cheek.
“Jamie,” I say. “Hey. Look at me.”
I squeeze his shoulder until he turns to see my face.
“I missed you,” I say, enunciating my words.
His eyes crinkle as he softens and leans into my body. I kiss the top of his head, bringing my arm around him and squeezing him closer. I say into his hair, “I’m glad you missed me, too.”
9
Easton
This rehearsal is so fucked.
I’m one-arming the drums, and while the feat isn’t impossible—see: Rick Allen from Def Leppard, who only has one arm and is one of the best on sticks in this era or any others—it’s not my skill.
When I play my kit, I go all in. It’s the one place I have to jump out of reality and into a world of Music Only. I am the backbone. I lead with beats. I conduct with my sticks and keep the rest of the band in line, but more importantly, I set the rhythm. The tension builds because of my drums. The audience screams as soon as my drumbeats reveal the next song.
I’m sweaty. My heart pounds tangibly in my chest. I tear off my shirt less than mid-way through a set because of the exertion. It gets caught on my fucking sling but I continue to pound. Play. Conduct.
I’m reminded of what matters, and it isn’t the people around me.
The music takes my soul, but there’s no possession, since that implies an unwanted visitor.
Even in practice. Usually.
This afternoon while the band gets ready for the European tour in two weeks, I’m missing my time signatures, flubbing my sixteenth note, and generally causing chaos in the songs we created and covet like they are our children.
I’m covered in sweat, like normal. Breathing heavily, which is standard after a grueling set. The only thing that’s different is the way I stare down at my left arm, remaining useless in a sling.
“You’re getting better, East,” Mason says, his base guitar hanging from a strap on his shoulders. Easy for him to say, since his ten digits are working in perfect order.
I shake my head as I sit in front of my kit, still holding a drumstick, but feeling more like a toddler banging on his symbols than a professional band member.
“Mase is right,” Wyn says. He takes off his electric guitar and leans it against the wall in our practice studio before ambling over to give what I’m sure is his latest pep talk.
“I’m messing up each and every note and rest. I can’t even get Nightbird right, and that’s the simplest percussion in our song arsenal,” I say.
“That don’t mean it’s easy,” Wyn says. He throws his hands on his hips, studying NOCTURNE COURT blazing in our signature font across my base drum. “You’re a determined fucker, I’ll give you that. But you gotta give yourself time to heal.”
“I’m not waiting for six to eight goddamn weeks,” I say.
“Why not?” Mase asks. He grins, trying for a joke. “The nurse who told you that was pretty hot.”
“East’s right.” Rex, our lead singer, steps in from his not-so-secret cigarette break and scratches the back of his neck as he strides toward our cluster. “You’re trying hard, East, but even you agree you’re not at the level we need you at.”
“There’s two more weeks before the tour starts,” I say. “I’ll get to the right level.”
“East…” Rex shakes his head. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
“What’re you gonna do otherwise?” I ask, and I make sure I’m looking Rex dead in the eye when I ask it. “Find a replacement?”
Rex meets my stare, unblinking.
I stand, the stool falling behind me with a clatter. “You’re not kicking me out of the fucking band.”
“Dude,” Wyn says to Rex. “What the hell?”
“We’ve been together since high school,” I say. “I fell off my bike. I fractured my collarbone. That doesn’t mean my career’s over.”
Wyn raises his hands. “He’s joking. Rex has to be joking. You write most of our songs, East. You have talent unlike any other on the drums and can step in with a guitar whenever we need it. We’re not kicking you out.”
“Guys.” Rex lowers his voice to a soothing tone. “I’m not saying for good. For this tour, maybe, we can find someone to take over until the minute—down to the fucking minute, East—you’re able to play.
I don’t care if it’s halfway through our tour. Or midway through a set. We’ll toss that guy out on his ass and put you in on your say-so.”
I grit my teeth. Feel the stares of my bandmates like they’re pairs of anvils weighing on strings against my shoulders.
“We can’t afford to screw up this tour.” Rex continues, “This is our shot. Our climb to legitimacy. If we go out there on our first night with you playing the way you are…”
Neither Wyn nor Mason have any defenses to that argument, and I don’t blame them. Yet, the swell of betrayal lingers.
Mason rubs at his jaw. “Playing live the same way our we sound on records is crucial.”
“I know all that,” I say. “This isn’t me trying to sabotage the band.”
“Then why were you so reckless?”
Wyn’s question silences the room. I’m no idiot; they expect me to fill it. I simply don’t know what to say.
Mason breaks it first. “Give East a few more days to figure his shit out and see what he wants to do.”
He’s talking to Rex but leaving it up to me on whether I want to jump into the fire.
I want to demand the time to get my arm back in gear. Explain to these guys in no uncertain terms that I am Nocturne Court’s drummer and there’s not one fuck any one of them can do about it.
But I can’t. My terms are uncertain.
I say to the room, “You can look for a temporary replacement.”
Rex cuts his gaze over to me.
“Seriously?” Wyn says.
Mason’s throat bobs. “Think about what you’re saying, East.”
“As a backup,” I add. “And only that. My arm will be ready in two weeks. This tour is important to me. More than you”—I catch myself—“Just hold off on making a new lead on drums.”
They don’t respond. I prompt, “Okay?”
“Fine,” Rex says. “I’ll talk to Spin, get some auditions going asap.”
Spinner is our manager. A slim, fast-talking car salesmen, but he gets the job done, which is why we keep him on.
I nod instead of voicing any gratitude, because fuck, this isn’t just my livelihood on the line—it’s my dream.
And like all dreams, it’ll end when morning breaks. Or, on a restless toss, when I roll over and blink my eyes open, only to realize my dream ended too early, and I’m awake in the silent black.
10
Easton
Two Weeks Later
“Yowza.” Ben grimaces as he sets his empty shot glass down, pushing it away like it’s a live python. “Who invented that fuckin’ thing?”
“Some dude who thinks he’s a cool-ass pro athlete,” Ash says as he swipes the glass and drops it in the dishwasher behind the bar. He throws a hand towel over his shoulder and pulls out straight whiskey from the line-up of liquors and pours into three fresh glasses. “But really he’s just a pussy who can’t stand hot sauce in his moonshine.”
“And an oyster,” Locke adds as he sits on a stool, nursing a Coke.
“Pickle juice,” I add. “Don’t forget that.”
Ben glances between all of us. “I invented this?”
“You were drunk off your ass,” Locke says. “But yeah.”
“Jesus,” Ben says. “Don’t let Drunk Ben make decisions anymore. Make him go home.”
“Nope. He’s way too much fun,” Ash says. “Hey—remember when we convinced you to be a male stripper for a night?”
Ben goes white. “No fuckin’—”
I lay a hand on Ben’s cotton-clad shoulder, patting lightly. “He’s joking.”
Ben visibly slumps. “Thank God. I’d never hear the end of it from Astor. Or the press.”
“This is why I kicked alcohol.” Locke discards the straw in his glass and takes a long sip off the rim. Swallowing, he adds, “So my public selfies could stop being compared to a Justin Bieber-Cyclops hybrid. Swear on my life, some blogger called me that in my hey-day.”
We all grin and take our requisite shots.
“Don’t you have a hot chick to get home to?” Ash asks Locke as he cleans up our round of drinks and wipes down the bar. His restaurant isn’t open for dinner yet. It’s just us, hanging out at his bar. These days, all of the guys are coupled up, some even with kids. Gone are the college days when we took dares the way we downed shots, screwing women and owning the campus with our requisite talents. Ben and Locke were the football guys. Ash was the budding chef, specializing in the most difficult specialty, pastries, and back then, I was with my guitar and my notebook, strumming long into the night or beating two pencils against my legs during the long professorial lectures.
I guess we still do all those things. Just with less fervor and more maturity.
“I do. Carter and I have date night.” Locke stands. “Sorry for stealing your date to babysit, bro,” he says to Ben.
Ben shrugs. “Seeing Lily always puts Astor in a good mood. Which is great, since she’s been pretty strung out lately.”
“Oh yeah?” Ash asks. “What’s up with her?”
“Something to do with work. She won’t really talk about it,” Ben says. He dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin, then stands with Locke. “I should get going, too. See my lady before she goes and plays babysitter in Brooklyn.”
“Could be hot when she gets back, though.” Ash winks.
I rise as well, but don’t tell them about my plans, or who I’m meant to see tonight. I love these guys, but mentioning to them that I have a date is like asking someone to pour kerosene on my body and light a match.
Rarely, if ever, do I single out a woman for a date, and my friends would feast on that with their overly eager fangs.
“I’ll see everyone later,” I say, lifting my hand.
“That shoulder doing better?” Locke asks before I can turn to the door.
“It’s not smarting as much, but if I swing my arm too hard, it sings for mercy.”
I threw the sling off a few days ago, despite the doctor’s insistence I keep it on for at least six weeks. Fuck that. I may not even have six weeks.
“Too bad.” Locke pats my back and we wander to the front. We nod our farewells to Ben and Ash. “You think you’re gonna make it on tour in a few days?”
“I’m not allowing anything less.” I grunt, shadows growing over my vision despite the sunny, late afternoon cresting through the storefront windows.
The multiple failed practices with my band add to the storm clouds. I cannot miss this tour, not for anything. If I re-injure my shoulder or make it worse, unfixable, so be it. So long as I play the tour.
“It’s amazing how the mind works,” Locke muses. “Determined use the body the way it always has, despite witnessing the damage our limbs sustained.”
Locke has no idea how close he is to speaking the truth.
“This isn’t irreversible.” I clamp my mouth shut the minute I say it.
I remember Locke’s knee blow-out and how it ended his soaring football career. How he had to do an about-face and completely change his life. I can see where he thinks he can empathize with my situation, and I’m surprised that instead of fighting against his misguided notion that we’re the same, I want to confide in him. Tell him the real story.
“East? You hear me?”
Sound soaks back into my ears. “Huh? Sorry bro, I must’ve phased out for a second.”
Locke frowns as we step outside into the cool spring air. “You’re putting up a really good front. I’ll give you that.”
“It’s not over until the guys fly to London without me,” I say. “And likely, I’ll be stowing away in the plane’s underbelly if they do.”
Locke studies me like he wants to push for more, but a car beeps its horn at the curb.
“That’s my car. I’m here for you, East.” Locke claps me on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you be, but you call me anytime you want to talk.”
I nod, the moment of pulling Locke aside and confessing long gone. “Later.”
My apartment is
on the other side of Brooklyn to Locke, so I order another car, taking my time, the day still too early for my date with Taryn. She said yes two weeks ago, but was patient enough to wait until tonight. I wonder what that means, and if she’s into me, or if the intrigue of dating a drummer is winning out against interest.
I hope she’s not a groupie.
Rubbing my jaw as I wait, I’m also hoping I’m not thinking too much about her.
We spoke once within the past fourteen days, and it isn’t enough. Especially considering how professional she was…
“Easton? Hi, it’s—”
“Taryn. I know. Hey.” I had to walk away from my drums and the rest of the band when I took her call, deliberately ignoring the curious stares trained on my back.
“Hello. Wait, I already said that.” She let out a nervous breath—or, what I sensed was nervousness. But she recovered before I could offer any sounds of ease … or solidarity. You make me nervous, too, Miss Maddox.
“I’m calling to let you know the judge signed off on the papers. We have a private agreement for you to do a few talks at the local high schools and advocate against drunk driving.”
“I’m happy to do it.” Glancing behind me, where my bandmates were not-so-subtly cleaning their instruments with one ear cocked my way, I said, “How about if I get the whole band to do it with me?”
Pause. “That’s not necessary or what we agreed to. You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m an ass-hat for even being slightly over the limit. I want to do this right, and if it means getting the whole band to help drive home the seriousness, I’ll do it.”
I think I heard soft laughter, but couldn’t be sure. I pressed the phone closer to my ear.
She said, “I’m not sure how serious teenage girls are going to be once they get a load of you four.”
“We can be scary when we want to.” I grimaced, unsure if I was attempting to flirt or not. If so, I was very bad at it.
“They’ll probably ask you to play acoustic,” she says. “Maybe you should change the lyrics of Heartfall to the Downfall of driving under the influence.”
Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4 Page 6
