by Scott, S. L.
4
Jet
Hannah and I exchange texts twice in the next forty-eight hours. Both times regarding Alfie with her insisting he stay where he is until the family court judge hears our case next Wednesday.
Five days.
I think about arguing, but I’d do the same if our roles were reversed. Despite our personal feelings on the matter, she’s let him call me four times each day, including some video chat where I give him a quick tour of my small home on one, played a song for him so he can see the “ka-tar” he’s so fascinated by on another, and then introduced him to his uncles yesterday. It’s not how any of us ever envisioned meeting family, but this is where we are, and I wanted him to meet Rivers and Tulsa so he knew he had more than just me. He has a family who welcomes him with open arms and open hearts.
I’m already learning so much about him in these calls that I get even more excited to bring him home. Speaking of home. “Star Wars or plain sheets?”
With a huge stuffed animal in the shape of a shark in his hands, Tulsa replies, “Are there Metallica sheets?”
“He’s six.”
Tulsa tosses the sheets into a pile of pillows. “And your point is?”
Rivers knocks into me when he comes from behind, grabs the discarded sheets, and puts them back on the shelf. “We were listening to Metallica at six.”
“Not when Mom was around.” I laugh from the memory of my mom yelling at us to turn down what she called racket. Being the oldest, I have the most memories of her out of the three of us. Rivers once claimed it wasn’t fair. But neither was her death when I was only nineteen.
While the guys goof around in the aisle of Target, I stand with pillows in one hand, gray flannel sheets in the other, and a gamut of emotions twisting in my head.
My mom should be here. She’d know what to buy for Alfie’s room. She’d know what he needed and what was junk. She’d be able to help me. I try to brush it off because it doesn’t matter what I wish. Nothing will bring her back.
A drunk driver made sure of that the night of Rivers’s seventeenth birthday. I find him down the aisle grabbing a mattress pad for the twin bed in my spare room, Alfie’s soon-to-be room. He carries a lot of guilt with him, guilt that’s caused more than his fair share of pain. He was a kid . . . I can’t dwell on this.
I’m going to make sure that Alfie has a good life. I tried my best with my brothers. They’re happy and the best friends and brothers a guy could ask for, even if disorderly and sometimes embarrassing. Tulsa lands a pillow to the back of Rivers’s head just as I say, “You guys are going to get us kicked out.”
When Rivers turns, Tulsa takes off. Rivers laughs. “He’s such a pussy.”
“C’mon, I need help here.”
After I throw the pile of bedding in the cart, I grab some essentials, like the seat I saw Hannah had. Of course, this came with Tulsa flirting with the girl who works in the department. He walked away with not only her number, but also a coupon for twenty percent off. It’s going to be needed. I’m wondering how we can add a gig to our already full schedule for the added expenses of raising a child.
The trip to the store took longer than planned, and now we’re rushing to get ready for tonight. After tossing all the bags in the spare room, I jump in the shower.
Hannah crosses my mind when I close my eyes. I lose track of time, my body hardening and demanding release when I remember how she felt pressed to the wall as the water rained down over us—the feel of her tits as I squeezed them, when I pinched the nipples, the sound of her moan echoing off the cold tile. I remember so much about her because she’s too hard to forget.
Smart. Her beauty caught my eye. The ability she seemed to possess of seeing the real me in the lyrics that night, the person I tried to hide from others is what kept me there.
Gorgeous inside and out. Her whole body shook, whiskey tipping over the edge of the glass when she laughed at my bad jokes. She kissed me, pulling me to her smiling lips, her happiness spilling over. Her eyes were bright, and she was playful as we ate junk food and got drunker.
She’d been so goddamn gorgeous in that blue dress and even more stunning wrapped in my sheets with a glistening sheen of sweat from sex, kisses, and a hot summer night too long ago.
The window was cracked open, humidity filling the room. We were drunk on each other, careless with our hearts and bodies. The way the tips of her fingers ran over my unshaven face as if it was slick as ice. She didn’t complain about the stubble or when I got up to smoke. I sat in a chair by the window, holding my cigarette through the opening, and watched her.
My pace picks up, getting closer to coming like every other time I let Hannah devour my thoughts the way I devoured her that night.
She’s not like the other women who’ve entangled me. Her grays held a longing for something unforeseeable by a mere bystander to her beauty like me.
When I sobered, I started laying the foundation. With each minute that ticked by, I added a brick, building a wall to protect myself from the only person who seemed to be able to navigate my carefully constructed foundation. She perplexed me, making me want to know how she spent her time when she wasn’t caring for her family. Does she go out often? Hook up with others? Was she seeing other people? I felt like a spider caught in her web. That’s when I knew she would be the one to damage me. Would I let her?
Yes.
As she sobered, her touches became rough, her patience more hurried as dawn consumed the moonlight. When I took her from behind, her pussy tightened around me. Her moans for more became louder. My name was a curse, a blessing, a sin, a saint. I became all those as she became one thing to me—my salvation.
Could she save me? Would she be the one who could change me? Make me believe in something more than the life I was living. Would she be the one who would hurt me just to teach me the pain of having loved someone so hard that her absence could collapse me?
One night is all we’ll ever have. She’ll torture me mentally for eternity because I’m taking what she loves most away from her. Before this situation with Alfie, she intrigued me, making me think I wanted more with her. Often. I had believed it impossible six months ago, perceiving in her eyes that she didn’t want more than one night.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about her since then, even when fucking another woman.
Our fate has now been sealed. It must be this way.
If I could, I’d work out a way to make this better between us now. There is no way I’ll keep Alfie from his cousin and grandmother. Of all people, I know how important a mother is to a boy. What about when Hannah starts her own family?
Fuck.
No. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about Hannah that way at all.
This is not about us.
This is only about Alfie.
* * *
Tulsa grabs a beer from the mini-fridge backstage and twists the top off. After a long pull, he says, “I think he sucks, but he’s all we’ve got.”
“How do we live in the Live Music Capital of the World, but we can’t find a drummer who can hit basic beats?”
He shrugs. “I can fill in again.”
Tulsa is our backup. He learned drums before guitar, but his lazy ass hates carrying the drum kit around. He also claims chicks love when you pull out a guitar and sing to them.
He’s right. It’s worked for me many times.
I try not to harass him too much about playing the drums, but we’re getting desperate.
Right when he gets comfortable on a ripped vinyl recliner, the bar manager comes in. “C’mon. We need to wrap it up. We’re behind tonight.”
Tulsa’s shoes hit the ground. Rivers pops a mint and follows him out. The bar is elongated, and there’s a good crowd considering it’s a Tuesday off 3rd Street. I grab my guitar and sling it over my shoulder. Tulsa takes his spot, back left. Rivers to my right, the guitar strap settling on his shoulders. I nod to the drummer, a fill-in we hired, and count. “One. Two. Thr
ee. Four.”
We’re supposed to hit the first note together, hence the countdown, but the drummer misses it for the second night in a row. Fuck it. I was pissed last night, but tonight, I’m over it. We need to find a steady drummer. In the meantime, the show must go on.
This bar is small, but I like it. Ten tables deep. Five wide at the most. One spotlight hits just to the left of me. I could shift, but I don’t mind sharing with my brothers. I can see better when it’s not directly in my eyes anyway.
I turn around and start singing into the microphone. Never let the audience in on the screw-up. We recover, but the feedback from the speakers is throwing my rhythm. One shitty mess up after another. We keep playing, praying it comes together.
Our sound guy graduated from college with honors in computer science a few weeks back. He got offered a job out in San Jose he couldn’t refuse, leaving us high and dry ever since. I’m about to hop the stage to get rid of the reverb when some guy gets up from a table and steps behind the board. I’m about to warn him not to fucking touch it, but then I see who it is.
Johnny Outlaw.
He’s back.
Fuck, yes!
I’d fist pump, but I’m not screwing up this second chance.
He puts his hand up and mouths, “I’ve got this.” Two turns of some dials and the quality of our indie rock sound returns. When I see him nodding to the beat of the song like he’s enjoying it, I ease back into the rhythm and do what I do best—play guitar and sing.
Our last song wraps, and if I didn’t have to clear the stage, I’d hop down and talk to him. I should play it cool anyway. If Johnny wants to talk to us, he will.
And he does.
When I come back in from loading the Bronco, he’s winding a cord like he’s a roadie. “Need some help?” he asks.
“Always. Free help is hard to come by.”
Laughing, he says, “I bet.”
I try to keep it casual, though I’m kind of freaking out inside. He’s a master guitarist, lyricist, and all-around musical heavyweight in the industry. Cool is my MO, though. I pick up my guitar and glance over. “You know your way around the board.”
“I’ve had a little practice.”
His friend, who is sitting on the edge of the stage, laughs. I set my guitar down and make the introduction. “I’m Jet Crow.”
“Jack Dalton, but you can call me Johnny.”
“So you’re looking for a job, Johnny?” I tease.
“No. I’m pretty set right now.” He’s a big guy, not a typical build for . . . well, for anyone. Looks like he would take most guys in a fight. Lean and tall, but not scrawny. Works out. I stand to my full height and hit his. He says, “We heard if we were to see one band while we’re in Austin, it was The Crow Brothers.”
“Our reputation precedes us. In a good way, for once,” I reply.
This time he laughs, and I start to relax. He asks, “Are you really brothers or is that just a name?”
“Some days, I’d like to disown them, but they’re all mine.”
“It’s cool that you formed a band with your brothers.”
“As hard of a time as I give them, I wouldn’t want to play with anyone else. Unless you’re hiring?” I start laughing.
He gets my humor and volleys back, “We’re set for now. How long have you guys been performing?”
“We’ve been hitting it steady for seven years now.”
He nods, analyzing me and then turning his attention to the guys packing up on stage. “Why don’t you have a crew?”
“We’re saving money.”
“For studio fees?”
“Something like that.”
Signaling back to his table, he says, “Once you’re done, we’d love to buy you guys a round of drinks and discuss your music.”
“Our music?”
“Business. Maybe recording music on my dime.”
“Okay,” I reply. “We’ll hit up your table when we’re done.”
He asks, “What do you drink?”
“Whatever’s on draft.” I take another amp and start for the back. Tulsa is coming inside from the back door when I stop him. “Don’t leave. Outlaw’s here again and wants to buy us a beer.”
“Johnny Outlaw?” he asks, trying to look over my shoulder to the crowd in the bar. “Fucking right, he’s back. I’ll go park and meet you guys.”
When the pedals and last bits of our gig are in his truck, Rivers and I head inside.
Some asshole is homing in on our opportunity. Ripped jeans, baggy shirt stretched out at the collar, and leaning over the table Johnny’s sitting at as if he had a personal invite. The guys don’t seem interested in whatever this punk is peddling. Johnny says, “Good to meet you, Hunter. We’ll keep your band in mind.”
“Cool. Cool. Yeah. Come see us play,” he says again.
From their body language, they’re done with the intruder. Rivers and I take the available seats at their table and pull a spare from another for Tulsa when he gets here. Rivers rests his arm on the back of a chair and asks, “Who are you guys?”
This Hunter guy starts to laugh like he’s a part of the conversation. The other guy stands, becoming a barricade between Johnny and Hunter. “We got the information. Now if you don’t mind, this is a private conversation.”
“Yeah. Cool. Cool. Come see us play before you leave town,” he repeats.
When he’s gone, Johnny looks around, side to side and over his shoulder before the other guy—lighter hair, familiar to me from photos only—asks Rivers, “Have you heard of the band The Resistance?”
Rivers laughs. “Who hasn’t?”
Johnny says, “We haven’t met.” Sticking his hand out, he says, “I’m Johnny.”
As if you can see the pieces fall together all at once in Rivers’s eyes, his mouth falls open.
Johnny.
The Resistance.
I nod, already mocking him for not figuring it out sooner.
“Oh, fuck,” Rivers exclaims. “You’re Johnny Outlaw.”
Johnny’s nodding in response but lowers his head again and tugs on the bill of his hat. “Yes, if you could keep it down, that would really help us out.”
The other guy sits forward. “We don’t have security detail tonight. We’re just out scouting covertly. We’d like to keep it that way if possible. I’m Tommy—”
“The band’s manager,” Rivers says. “You’re a legend.”
“Hear that, Outlaw? I’m a legend.” Turning back to Rivers, he asks, “I like you. What’s your name?”
“Rivers Crow.”
“Rivers is a unique name. So is Jet. What’s your brother’s name?”
Rivers responds, “Tulsa. Cheesy as it sounds, we were named after the places we were conceived. I was made in Twin Rivers, California. My parents took a road trip that summer. Nine months later, they got a surprise.”
By the grins on their faces, they’re entertained. The manager asks, “So your parents joined the mile-high club on a jet?”
“Yeaaaaah, let’s not talk about that.”
Johnny says, “We don’t have much time. We’ve heard you play twice now. You’re good. Really good.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tulsa replies, spinning the chair around and sitting.
The guys laugh, and Johnny says, “You don’t have to call me sir. I’m a guitarist like you.”
“No, you’re Johnny fucking Outlaw is who you are.”
Our laughter doesn’t compete with the murmuring in the bar. Looking around, I’m still trying to reason through how in the world I’m sitting across from the legendary Johnny Outlaw, when he asks, “What do you think about continuing this conversation somewhere more private?”
Maybe Tulsa’s in as much shock as I am because we just stare at him. The other guy asks, “Would you be interested in meeting tomorrow? Maybe we can have a meal.”
“Yeah, sure. We can do that.” Then to Johnny, I say, “I taught myself how to play guitar listening to The Resistance’s d
ebut album. Man, that album was fucking brilliant. So strong. Heavy notes and the lyrics—poetry.”
Johnny chuckles, looking down as if the compliment actually means something to him. “I like you, Jet.” He stands and hits the back of his hand against his friend’s chest. “This is Tommy, by the way. He’s our manager.” Tommy drops a card on the table, and then Johnny continues. “We’ve drawn more attention than I prefer in my off hours. I’m launching a label and I like your sound. We leave town tomorrow afternoon. I’d really like to talk to you about a potential collaboration. Give Tommy a call and let’s meet up before we fly out.”
I stand and shake his hand. “We will.”
“Cool.”
Turning to Tommy, I shake his hand. “Thanks. Nice meeting you.”
Tommy shakes our hands. “Great set tonight.”
“Thanks,” Rivers replies.
Johnny says, “Good meeting you guys. Really great sound.”
“You too, man,” Tulsa says, “Wow. You really want to talk to us.”
Johnny laughs again. “I dig your music. Great set.”
We stand there with our mouths hanging open, trying to process how we were actually sitting at a table with them in a run-down bar in downtown Austin on a random Tuesday night. They want us to call them, and even better, potentially collaborate. Flashes go off around us as they work their way out in a hurry.
Tulsa and I face each other. He pushes me in that way he always does when he’s in shock. “What the fuck just happened?”
“I think Johnny Outlaw just said he wants to work with us.”
“Holy fuck. No fucking way.” He jumps, his arm in the air. “Yes, fucking way!”
The crowd around us cheers, and he slams one of the shots the waitress sets in front of us. With a wink, the waitress asks, “Give Johnny my number, will ya?”
Tulsa makes his move. “First, I’m gonna need it, honey.”
Her hand presses to his chest with her tray tucked under her arm. “I gave it to you two years ago, Tulsa Crow, and you never called me. Even after the fun night we had.”
“How about a redo?”
Annnnd it’s working, like it always does for him. Rivers and I roll our eyes and watch him work his magic.
