by J. Bengtsson
We sat and watched the waves roll in. What a difference a day made. This time yesterday, hope had been slowly fading, and now our lungs were filling with fresh ocean air.
“I called Andrea this morning,” he said.
I looked over, again stunned. “My goodness. Where did you find the time?”
“She’s accepted my offer to buy her soon-to-be ex-husband out of Angel Line Tours—in exchange for fifty percent of the company going to you.”
Thank god I was sitting because I probably would have fallen over from hearing that news. “Me? Why?”
“Because this is your family business as much as it’s hers. And this way, she can still partially own… and run… her grandfather’s company. Oh, and as part of the deal, your dad can go back to the workplace he loves—under his daughters’ supervision.”
“Quinn…” I was still too stunned to process everything. “It’s like everything stays the same, but it’s all different. I don’t know what to say. How can I ever thank you?”
“I accept sexual favors.”
“And you shall receive them.” I laughed, grabbing his jaw and kissing him.
“Just know it wasn’t done for altruistic reasons, Jess. I wanted you to be able to go on tour with me, at least when Noah doesn’t have school.”
Every word he spoke fell on eager ears. I wanted everything he was offering. “Your face,” I said. “It needs my kisses.”
I proceeded to shower him with them. “You just lifted the weight totally off my shoulders. Look! I can shrug again.”
“That a girl.” He wrapped his arm around my waist. “I think I’m going to be okay, Jess.”
I leaned into him. “I think so too.”
“I’m just not sure what I want to do about the band. I hate the thought of going on without Brandon, but I also hate the thought of starting over. Despite everything, I love that band.”
“You need to talk to Mike and Matty. They’re as lost as you are. They’ve been trying to reach out to you, but…”
“I know. They’re next on my list. I just needed to make things right for you first.”
“You’d never been wrong.”
His fingers folded into mine, and we kissed. It was soft and sweet, filled with the promise of a future that hadn’t been there only hours earlier.
Quinn stood and pulled me to my feet. “Come on. I need a fix.”
“A fix? What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
It didn’t take me long to figure out what type of fix Quinn was referring to when I saw Keith’s surf shop up ahead on the beach walk. The shells jingled as we entered and I was instantly struck by the relaxed feel of the place, matching perfectly with its owners.
“Quinn! Jess!” Keith bounded over to us, like a grown-up version of Noah. “You should’ve told me you were coming. I would have slipped into something a little more formal—like shoes.”
I glanced down at Keith’s bare feet. Clearly there wasn’t a ‘no shirts, no shoes, no service’ rule here.
“I can’t believe my eyes,” Sam said, skipping out from the back room in a long, flowing dress with a beautiful baby accessory strapped to her chest. She too was barefoot. Sam enveloped us in welcoming hugs. “What are you two doing here?”
“Came to do some research,” Quinn said, sliding his fingers over the soft, wispy hairs on his nephew’s head. “I’m thinking I want one of these soon. What do you say, Jess? You wanna make a baby with me?”
“I just might,” I teased back.
Keith glanced between the two of us. “There’s a cot in the back. Be our guest.”
35
Quinn: Fragile Dream
We’d been summoned. Matty, Mike, and I sat at the large oblong table occupied by the top tier at our label. These were the wallets. The deal makers. The ruthless dream killers. But today they were mere humans with their heads hung low.
“The decision is up to you,” one said.
Situations like this didn’t happen every day. There was no playbook, no right or wrong answer. We were just people trying to make the best of a horrible situation. At first glance, it would seem an easy decision. Retire Sketch Monsters. Brandon was dead. The rest of us were traumatized. But not so fast. Our first album, conveniently released a week after the shooting, went straight to the top of the charts and had not left. The album had even earned us two Grammy nods.
Was some of that success due to tragedy porn? Yes. Just like Jake before me, doors may have opened because of our backstory, but that didn’t mean they’d stay open. Our future was a decision away. If we wanted it, we could have it all. The money, the arena tours, the fame.
If we wanted it.
“What happens if we decide to dissolve?” Matty asked.
“Then we’ll amend the contract to a one-record deal instead of three. There will be no further albums and no legal ramifications. The only catch is, should you decide to ever use the Sketch Monsters name again, you’ll be required to fulfill the remaining two albums from the contract.”
“And what happens if we decide to continue”—Mike paused, glancing at both Matty and me—“as a band?”
The label head scooted right back up in his chair, hope playing out over his face. Of course they wanted us to stay. Sketch Monsters might possibly be the most recognizable band in the world right at this moment in time. The name alone stood to make us all a fortune. But the question remained—did we want it? Could the three of us stand on that stage and perform not only without Brandon but also without fear?
“Should you decide to stay, we’ll set you up in the studio to get going on your next album and, when you’re ready, a tour. I’m sure Tucker has told you about the offer to perform at the Grammys. It would be the perfect opportunity to show the world you’re back but also to help ease you back into performing.”
All eyes shifted to me, waiting on my response. I pushed a pencil around on the table with my finger, weighing my options, which were: everything or nothing or something in between.
“Can we have a minute?” I asked. “Just the three of us, please?”
I’d never seen men of such stature clear a room as quickly as these guys did. They’d stood by our side in solidarity hoping, maybe even praying to whatever god men like this prayed to, that the decision we made would be in their favor.
Once the door was shut behind them, I looked up at my bandmates for the first time since the shooting—really looked at them—and as our eyes met, I realized we were all suffering the same. We all felt the loss and the pain. What would be the benefit of breaking up and going our separate ways?
“Can you do it?” I asked Mike. “Can you perform?”
“I can,” he said, holding my eye. “I’m ready.”
I turned to Matty and asked the same question.
“I’ve got some things to work through, but if you guys are going on stage, I’ll be standing up there with you.”
“What would we do about a drummer?” I asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Mike said. “I think we should wait awhile before replacing Brandon. I say we get guest drummers. At least until we go on tour.”
I liked the idea of keeping Brandon’s spot open for the right guy. And by right, I didn’t mean the best drummer. I meant a brother from another mother.
“What about you?” Matty looked my way. “What do you want?”
What did I want? I thought of Jake, that wronged kid who’d put everything on the line for a fragile dream—his safety, his sanity, his happiness. That’s what had been necessary for him to be great. And what would be necessary for Sketch Monsters, too.
“I want to keep drumming.”
“Are you sure about this?” Jess asked as I pulled the guitar strap over my shoulder.
“Oh, I’m sure.” I nodded.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Tucker came ambling up, his cane barely slowing him. He saw my guitar and frowned.
“Quinn,
this is the Grammys.”
“Yes, Tucker. I’m aware.”
Mike and Matty joined us.
Tucker’s lips flattened as he shook his head. “This is not the stage to make a stand.”
“We disagree. This is the stage to make a stand.”
“So, is this your new thing?” he asked. “How you’re going to tackle every concert?”
I laid a hand to his shoulder to calm him down. “One stage. One stand. One time—for Brandon.”
Tucker met my eye, emotion passing through his as he nodded.
“Well, at least that’s settled.” Mike grinned.
Our guest drummer walked up.
“Echo,” Tucker called out. “Great job in rehearsals. I knew you’d master the song in record time.”
“Getting the song down wasn’t the problem. It was stepping into Brandon’s shoes.” Echo turned to me. “Thanks for trusting me to fill them.”
“Thanks for doing this, dude,” I replied, bumping fists.
“Happy to help. Hey, they’re calling me over. See you on stage, boys.”
We watched Echo walk away.
“Excellent. You four seem to be getting along well,” Tucker said with just the right amount of smugness. He was, after all, the one who’d suggested Echo fill in last minute.
“Hate the dude,” I answered.
Mike nodded. “Fucking douche.”
“He’s like my older brother who used to stick his armpit in my face and wouldn’t let me up until I licked it,” Matty replied.
Tucker’s eyes widened. “All right, well. It looks like Echo won’t be staying.”
“We told you, Tucker. None of them will. We aren’t filling Brandon’s spot permanently until we’re ready.”
A stagehand hurried over. “Okay, guys. It’s the commercial break. You can take your places.”
I turned to Jess. “Wish me luck, Getaway Girl.”
“I can do better than that.”
She stepped in and kissed me. This was not a quick peck that said, ‘Good luck, honey,’ but a kiss with full-on tongue and the promise of treasures to come.
She shooed me away with a swat on my ass. Just the sendoff I needed to make this performance count.
The stage was dark when we stepped out and took our places. My new guitar was sitting against the amp waiting for me. I grabbed it and moved it around the back. Tonight it was going to be about me and Lucia… her white wood still stained with blood and the hole blasted into her body visible. But I’d had a change of heart. I didn’t want the guitar to remain locked away and neglected forever, so I had Lucia meticulously repaired to honor its history while still allowing me to work the strings.
Not to be outdone, Mike and Matty were wearing matching shirts with dates, one marking the day Brandon was born and the other, the day he died. Dangling from each of their guitars was one of Brandon’s drumsticks. From my back pocket, I removed Brandon’s signature Iron Maiden baseball cap, and combing my hair back with my fingers, I fixed it on my head.
We would not let these people forget, or worse, pretend it had never happened. We would go out there and wear our pain and anger and sadness… and we’d be great.
Only then would we move on.
36
Quinn: Bucket Boy
I looked down at the address on my phone. Then up at the apartment complex. Then back down. Wow, talk about false advertising. Someone had taken creative license when they’d slapped up a picture on their website. This place was a dump—and that was coming from a guy who used to have a freeway going through his backyard.
Broken windows. Rickety stairs. Trash strewn about. Of all the days not to bring security—or bug spray—this was it. I considered going back to my car and waiting for backup, but this was a delicate matter, and one best done alone. We needed this. We needed him.
I zipped up my sweatshirt and yanked the string tight, sculpting the hood to contort my head into a snug-fitting condom. A pair of sunglasses completed the ensemble. Couldn’t be too careful nowadays. Sketch Monsters had hit the big-time after the Grammy performance, and with only weeks away from a sold-out arena tour, this secret mission of mine—and by secret, I meant that Tucker did not know—was all the more important. Although our plan had been to employ guest drummers indefinitely, that was easier said than done. We needed something more permanent for the tour, but no drummer we’d auditioned fit the bill. However, there was one… one drummer I couldn’t get out of my head.
I climbed the outdoor stairs to the second floor and arrived at 217, the apartment I’d been assured he lived in. He’d gotten no warning of my arrival. If he had, no doubt he wouldn’t have been home when I knocked. We hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms, and my guess was, he still held a grudge.
I could hear music inside blaring as I walked up. I rapped my knuckles against the splintering wood. The blinds next to the door shifted as a finger lowered one of the slats. I pulled my sunglasses off and loosened my hood.
“Surprise,” I said.
He let go of the blinds. The door remained closed. Really? The fucker wasn’t going to open it. “You’ve got thirty seconds to open this door before I start blasting an Oingo Boingo song and telling your neighbors you’re the lead singer.”
“Go away, Quinn.”
“No can do, bud.”
“I got nothing to say to you.”
“Fair enough. Just open up and listen, then.”
No movement. I checked my watch. “Fifteen seconds. Let’s see, should I play ‘Weird Science’ or ‘Just Another Day’?”
The door swung open, and I jumped back. Wow. Hello, Chewbacca. It was clear he’d fallen on hard times, but then, when had he ever not been in the throes of a hard time? His hair fell down to his mid back, which in and of itself wasn’t bad, but his coif had begun matting, and not in the cool way. Deodorant: needed. Toenail clippers: industrial-size needed. But that beard. Holy fuck. We might need a weed whacker for that monstrosity. Clearly I’d underestimated the project he would be.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“There’s this thing called a razor, dude.”
“I like my beard.”
“Ah, high self-esteem. Way to go. Just one question: isn’t your beard annoying in the summer?”
“No, Quinn, manliness is not seasonal.”
I laughed. “Can I come in?”
“I’d prefer you not.”
It was then I saw his red-rimmed eyes and the blood-tinged tape wrapped around his wrists and fingers. What had he been doing in here before I knocked?
“This is actually really important, dude. You’ll want to hear it.”
His expression shifted. Worry. “Grace?”
I rocked back, stunned. Why would he ask that? Did he still have a thing for my sister? Ah, shit. Maybe I hadn’t thought this through clearly.
“No. She’s fine. Great, really.”
Was that relief? Frustration? I wasn’t sure what he was projecting under all that hair.
“I’ve got things to do, Quinn. I’m shutting the door now. Say goodbye.”
“Come on, man. I drove all the way out here. Aren’t you the least bit curious what I have to say?”
“I think last time we talked, you said everything I wanted to hear. Look, I’m really sorry about what you went through, and I wish you luck, but you and me, we don’t do well in enclosed rooms.”
“All right. Then talk to me here.”
He looked behind me, clearly not wanting his neighbors to overhear our conversation, before sighing and allowing me entrance. I scanned the scantily furnished room. Tan everything. A sofa I just knew had been dragged in from the dumpster sat in the middle of the room. A TV. A tray table and half a dozen overturned buckets with a stool in the middle. That was what I was looking for. I smiled.
He followed my gaze. “I can’t afford a set.”
“But you still play.”
He looked down. “I still play.”
“Good. I need y
ou.”
“For what?”
“To take Brandon’s place at the drums.”
His mouth dropped open, and then he looked around as if trying to spot the hidden cameras. “Fuck you, Quinn. I don’t know why you’re here, but don’t you think you’ve screwed me enough for one lifetime?”
“Look, I’m sorry for anything I’ve done to you. Obviously you hold a grudge, and that’s something we’ll have to work on, but I’m not kidding. I want you to join Sketch Monsters.”
“Sketch Monsters?” he asked, still not believing my words. “You want some guy who plays buckets to join your Grammy-winning band?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because despite our past, you’re still the best drummer I’ve ever seen. Sketch Monsters needs you, Rory.”
37
Jess: Ricochet
I lined up my shot, knowing quite well where the ball needed to go—right into the rectangular opening in the front of the mini-golf castle. From there it would fall into a box, where four separate tunnels could spit the ball out in different directions on the putting green below.
Quinn had taken two shots to get his ball into the opening. Noah… we won’t talk about how many times it took him. But then his score didn’t count anyway. It always remained a solid five whether it took him two or fifty tries to get his ball into the hole.
No. This was a two-man competition, and I was up by six.
“I bet it’s really hard for you to lose all the time,” I taunted my hot rival.
“Actually, I don’t lose all the time. My album is sitting at the top of the charts, but sure, yes, big loser.” He formed an L over his forehead with his fingers. “You know, Jess, you’re a mean golfer.”
I pointed my club at Quinn. “Watch and learn, son.”
“Are you talking to me or your actual son?”
“You. Now shush. Mama’s about to show you how it’s done.”
I tapped my ball with just the right amount of speed, direction, and intensity to hit the box straight-on. And when it disappeared into the castle, I lifted my iron and hooted, doing a little dance in place to rub it all in.
