Next In Line: A Cake Series Novel

by J. Bengtsson

  “You understand you’re not actually writing the songs, right? We’re just pretending. You know, like when people pretend to understand bitcoin?”

  “Oohhh.” She laughed. “Pretending. Got it. I’m joking, dork. You should’ve seen your face. And yes, Quinn, of course I’ll help you. But…”

  “But?”

  “I do have one request. I have a song I wrote. It means a lot to me because it’s about us when we were little. Jake thinks I could sell it, but I don’t want anyone else to have it because it was written for us. I just thought maybe you could…”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t even know what I was going to ask you.”

  “I know exactly what you were going to ask. And yes, Grace. I want that song.”

  15

  Quinn: Band of Brothers

  It should have been an easy decision. A slam dunk. Eighteen guys in total auditioned, seven of them standouts, so it really was just a matter of whittling down from that elite group. While all eighteen waited out in the hallway for word, me, Tucker, and the group he’d assembled to help us pick the contenders, were sorting through the final lineup when nature called.

  I was in the process of relieving myself when one of the musicians from the audition walked in and chose to stand at the urinal directly beside mine, despite there being a handful of free ones to choose from. I tried to focus on the task at hand, but the dude kept casting glances in my direction, not being the least bit subtle in his desire to talk to me. Still, I was confident he wouldn’t do it—couldn’t—because all guys know not to break the universally agreed upon etiquette rule: no talking in a men’s bathroom while dicks are out.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  Willing my eyes not to roll, I tipped my head up in a wordless greeting. It was enough to acknowledge him but not enough to encourage conversation.

  “I’m Mike. Bassist.”

  Good god. This guy didn’t take verbal cues very well, did he? I could feel him staring as if he were actually requiring a spoken response, and I had a strong suspicion he wouldn’t stop until I obliged him.

  “How’s it goin’?” I replied. No eye contact.

  “Goin’ fine.” He paused for a moment, and I thought I might be free and clear, but no. “Well-aimed steady stream with a nice flow. A little out of control but not dangerously so. Life’s good.”

  My eyes darted from the wall to him and back. His face was alive with amusement, forcing me to suppress a smile while I broke rule number two of men’s bathroom etiquette: laughing while dicks were out. But his jovial reply got my attention, reminding me of Kyle with just a splash of Keith to make things interesting. I remembered Mike from the audition. He was the guy who’d plugged his bass guitar into the amp and pretended to be electrocuted. Hilarity ensued—not. I saw Tucker cross his name off the list before he even played the first chord. And while he did prove to be a good bass player, there were better.

  “Crazy in there, huh?” he asked, keeping up the chitchat.

  “Crazier in here,” I replied, shaking off and buttoning my fly. Thankfully, I’d had a head start on the bassist, so it was still possible to wash my hands and be rid of him before that well-aimed, steady flow of his petered out.

  No such luck. He sped up—maybe even stopped in mid-piss—all in an effort to catch me before I left. And I knew what he wanted—to talk about the audition, make his pitch. He was wasting his breath. The reality was that unless a bolt of lightning hit the building and actually electrocuted the rest of his competition, this dude wasn’t getting the gig.

  He met me at the sinks. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Mike, and I just auditioned.”

  “I know. We were introduced at the urinals.”

  “Oh, right. I wasn’t sure how good your memory was.”

  It was at least good enough to remember the unusually tall, skinny guy with the long black ’80’s metal band hair that reached down to mid-back. He also sported a virtual landscape of ink, my personal favorite being the memorial tattoo of his dog covering the entire landscape of his right arm.

  “Quinn,” I offered in return.

  He grinned. “I know.”

  “Okay, I wasn’t sure how good your memory was, you know, after the electrocution.”

  “Ah.” He laughed. “Too much?”

  “Are you kidding? Who doesn’t love a good electric shock skit?”

  “Right? I’m always telling people that and they look at me like, ‘Dude, you’re fucking weird.’”

  I waved off his personal insult. “Fucking inspired if you ask me.”

  He tossed his head back, laughing. Even though looks-wise, Mike wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted to meet in a dark alleyway, just by talking to him I could tell he was a decent, good guy. Hard not to like him.

  “Do you always follow random dudes into the bathroom, or was there something you wanted? I’ve gotta get back.”

  “Now that you mention it, yes, there was something I wanted,” he said, pausing as the first outward sign of nerves hit him. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. ‘No earthly way is this dude getting the gig.’”

  Good god. Not only was he a comedian, but Mike was also a mind reader.

  “I’m well aware that I’m not as good as half the musicians in there. Hell, I’m sure Russ and Echo were frontrunners before they even auditioned, and I don’t blame you. Those dudes are…” He shook his head, almost wistful in his worship. “I mean you heard them; you know. They could play in any band or behind any big-name artist. So, you gotta ask yourself, why are they here?”

  That was a good question. Why were they here? Both Russ and Echo had been in the business since I was popping pimples in the eighth grade. Each had impressive resumes a mile long. So what did they need me for?

  I caught Mike’s eye in the mirror, silently questioning. And then I got what he was saying without a word being uttered. Those guys weren’t band-hopping because they wanted to. They were band-hopping because they had to. Russ and Echo did not play well with others.

  “I’m not going to talk bad about anyone.” He shrugged. “You can do your own research. But listen, man, this is going to be the ride of your life. Who do you want to share it with? Do you want the best musicians standing up on stage with you? Because Russ and Echo, they’re it. Or do you want to have guys up there who’ll have your back no matter what? Because I’m telling you right now, bro, I’d be proud to stand behind you, and there are a few others in there that feel exactly the same way.”

  I took a moment to really process his words. What he said would make sense… if we were a real band. But what Tucker was suggesting wasn’t a real band. It was me… and them. Was that really what I wanted?

  “Like who?”

  Mike startled, like he couldn’t believe I was actually entertaining his theory. “Uh… Johnny, Joel, Matty. All solid dudes.”

  I nodded.

  “Anyway.” He grabbed a paper towel, dried his hands, and dunked it into the trash like a pro. “Whatever you decide, I wish you luck, man. You’re going to go far.”

  Once he left, I stood at the sink staring into the mirror. What was I doing? I couldn’t sleepwalk through this process. There were a bunch of studio types back in that room ready to choose for me, but this wasn’t their decision; it was mine. There was a reason none of my other bands had worked out. I’d always been the odd man out, the front man hired into an established group. The outsider.

  What Tucker was proposing—that I’d be the star and my bandmates nothing more than musical accessories—would thrust me into the same bad situation I’d been in before. I’d be alone on the road. Together but separate. That wasn’t what I wanted. Not this time. I was done with short-term fixes. I wanted more this time around, and the only way for this band to succeed was for us to be just that—a band.

  I passed by the waiting musicians on my way back to the studio. Normally they would have been sent home after the audition, but this was a unique situation, a
nd Tucker’s plan depended on speed. Whoever got the gig would be starting right away, and not like tomorrow or the next day. No, right away meant like immediately following the announcement.

  I made eye contact and wordlessly greeted the guys with a nod of the head. All of them acknowledged me, with a few notable exceptions—among them Russ and Echo, neither of whom even looked my way.

  “Ah, perfect,” Tucker said as I reentered the room. He handed me a piece of lined paper. “I think we got it.”

  I glanced down at the list in my hand. Eighteen names, fifteen of which were crossed out. I searched for Mike’s and found it solidly executed under the slash of a red pen, as were Joel and Johnny and a few others I’d gotten positive vibes from during the auditions.

  Tucker saw me analyzing his list. “We good?”

  I handed it back to him. “No. Not yet.”

  He blinked, then glanced around at the other guys in the room. “Quinn. This is a good list. These three are the best musicians of the bunch.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then what’s the issue?”

  “I want to talk to them first.”

  “Oh. Sure, we can do that. Robbie, get these three guys in here, would you?”

  “No,” I said. “Not just them. All of them. I already know how they sound. Now I need to know who they are.”

  “Does that really matter?” Tucker asked. “You know we’ve got a bit of a time crunch.”

  “I know. But, Tuck, I don’t want to be Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. If this is going to work—really work—I want to be the Rolling Stones.”

  His eyes fixed on me curiously. “That’s what you want? I’m promising to make you a star and you want to be… what… a team player?”

  Yeah, I supposed that was exactly what I was proposing. The revelation was as surprising to me as it was to Tucker. I’d been a lone wolf for a long time now. Never asking for help. Never letting them get too close. Somewhere along the way, it had become engrained in my head that I was solely responsible for my own survival, because no one would be there to catch my fall. And maybe that had been true for a very short window of time in my life, but it wasn’t true now. People were there, waiting and willing to take up arms for me. If I needed help, all I had to do was ask.

  “I don’t want to be a team player. I don’t want to be a star. I just want to play in a band of brothers.”

  Tucker pondered for a moment, really taking in my words before responding. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I confirmed.

  He shook his head, laughing. “Okay, Mick Jagger. Let’s make this happen.”

  “Far out.”

  “Oh, and Quinn, if you ever call me Tuck again, you can find yourself a new spin master.”

  “Mike, Brandon, Matt,” I called out the names. “Everyone else. Thanks for coming out. You guys didn’t make this an easy decision.”

  I wasn’t sure who was more surprised—Mike, Brandon, and Matt, or the guys who’d assumed they were shoo-ins for the job. Echo was out the door before the dust had even settled, and Russ swore under his breath, something about not needing this shit, before stomping out.

  Mike caught my eye, acknowledging my choice with a stoked nod of his head. I nodded back, grateful for the clarity he’d provided. Had it not been for him and his steady flow, slightly out-of-control stream of piss, I would’ve walked headfirst into another disaster. And while it still remained to be seen whether we could make something of our ragtag band of musicians, there was one thing I knew for sure—if I had to circle the drain, these were the guys I wanted to do it with.

  The celebration was short-lived. There was a lot of work to do and a dwindling amount of daylight to do it in. With only two hours left of studio time, the focus shifted to putting all of our individual pieces together into a functioning musical unit. The four of us were left alone to plan, and even though I knew I was the front man of the band, I was still surprised when the guys took a step back and allowed me to lead. It had never happened in my professional life that others had yielded to my vision. But my bandmates seemed to trust the musician in me, and with the ideas flowing freely between us, I’d never felt so respected or welcome.

  It was then I got my first real inklings of excitement. This could work. This was already working. It made me wonder how much of my earlier struggles had to do with the feeling of being pushed aside. Being overlooked, neglected, ignored. But it was time to stop living in the past.

  A new dawn was coming.

  “Give me something inspired, boys,” Tucker said, fixing to leave after setting us up with dinner at the brewery down the street. The tab was on him, but he wasn’t doing it for free. We owed him not in money but in brainpower. We’d been tasked to do what was arguably the hardest part of forming a band—picking the name.

  “Hey, Tucker. Hold up,” I said, sliding out of the booth and jogging over to him.

  He turned back toward me, questioning. “Everything okay? Are you not happy with these guys? Because…”

  “It’s not that. It’s something…uh…personal.”

  I pulled him out of earshot.

  “I need your help with something, and you look like you’ve hired a few hitmen in your day.”

  His brow lifted. “Uh…how kind of you. Who do you want dead?”

  “Nothing so drastic. I’m trying to find someone—a girl. Her name is Jess.”

  I told him the story of our meeting and then of her hasty retreat.

  “What do you know about her?” he asked, pulling up notes on his phone.

  “I don’t have her last name, but I do know her real name isn’t Jessica. It’s Jesse. She works for RYde. She’s originally from Norwalk. And she drives a tan Hyundai Elantra.”

  “No problem. I’ve had people whacked with far less information,” he joked—I think. “Phone number?”

  “No. I have the wrong number for her. And I know her last initial, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it is. Maybe L.”

  Tucker shook his head. “Jesus, Quinn. Maybe pay more attention next time.”

  “I wasn’t expecting her to leave so fast. Otherwise, I would have asked all the pertinent questions.”

  “I’ll see what I can find. Now go back and get me a damn band name.”

  I headed back to the table before calling over my shoulder. “Hey, Tucker. You’re all right.”

  “What was that all about?” Mike asked, clear suspicion in his voice.

  “Relax.” I slid into place beside him. “Your name’s already on the banner.”

  He wiped the fake sweat off his forehead and laughed. “Whew. I’m not used to winning, as you can tell.”

  “Well, maybe you should get used to it.”

  “All right. That’s what my landlord likes to hear,” Matt said.

  Matt, aka Matty, was the most unassuming guitarist I’d ever met. Unlike Mike, who screamed dysfunction, Matty, with his short-cropped hair and striped polo shirt, looked like a stockbroker who played Guitar Hero on the weekends. But Matty was the real deal. A former member of a now-defunct Swedish death metal band, he had the quickest fingers I’d ever seen. And having only returned home to LA a few weeks earlier, no one had had a chance to snap him up. He was a true find—and the only one on Tucker’s original list to make the band.

  “I’ve got an idea for a band name,” the drummer said, lifting his weary head off his arms to speak.

  And then there was Brandon. Let’s just say every group needed a Shia LaBeouf, and Brandon was ours. Not that he looked like the actor, with his platinum-blond roller-coaster hair, but he sure as hell gave off the same vibes. Narcissistic, defiantly handsome, with just a touch of the creep factor, he was the only fence sitter for me. But out of the three drummers who’d auditioned, one was dogshit, one was Echo, and one was Brandon. We had a winner.

  “I think we should be called Shaft,” he said, simultaneously grabbing his own for reference.

  “Right, because what could possibly go wron
g by naming ourselves after a phallic symbol?” I reasoned.

  “What? It’s edgy. Fun. But whatever, man,” he said, shrugging as if it didn’t matter, although clearly it did.

  “Sorry, Brandon,” Mike said. “But I’m using my veto power on this one.”

  “We have veto power?” Matty asked.

  I shrugged. “News to me.”

  “I think we should all have one no-go name that we can nix. Shaft is mine,” Mike said. “See, I was once in a band called Defecation, and my poor mom was so embarrassed, she lied and told everyone who asked that our name was Def Vacation. I can’t do that to her again.”

  “You were in Defecation?” Matty gushed. “I saw you on the Sewer Tour. Shit Happens was inspired, man. Loved that album.”

  Mike sighed. “We broke up on that tour. Never got to drop our second album, Number Two, or go on to release our Greatest Shits.”

  I grabbed his shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Eh, it was just a shitty band anyway. Nothing like this one. We need a name that will stand out, not up,” he said, eyeing Brandon.

  “Okay, you pick a name, then,” he challenged.

  “Uh…” Mike scanned the restaurant before adding his suggestion to the mix. “How about The Wrap?”

  “As in the spinach wrap on your plate?” I asked.

  He flashed me a sheepish grin. “I’m not good under pressure, and you make me nervous.”

  “I make you nervous?” I asked, more than a little surprised.

  “You make us all nervous,” Matty agreed.

  “He doesn’t make me nervous,” Brandon replied, all blustery Shia confidence.

  “Right,” Mike addressed him. “But you were raised by wolves. The rest of us were raised by humans… except for Matty, who was raised by Travelocity trolls.”

  “Trolls?” Matty questioned. “Why trolls?”

  “I don’t know, weren’t you living in Norway or something?”

  “For two years. Not enough time to get adopted by hobgoblins.”