A Shit Storm: Runaway Rock Star (Silver Strings Series E Book 1)

by Lisa Gillis

  “C’mon, just one more bite, Sash…”

  “Nope.”

  “Please…” I scoot a millimeter closer.

  “Nope.”

  Clamping her wrist with my fingers, I guide her current bite to my lips, and she doesn’t resist. The slide of the cool, sweet cream against my tongue is the most heavenly thing I’ve ever tasted. Her lips draw my eyes, and I wonder how her tongue would taste against mine. THAT would be celestial.

  “I’m so glad you’re real.” She spoons up another bite.

  “Huh?” As I breathe the inquiry, a stab of guilt twists. Because I’m a fake.

  “I had convinced myself you wouldn’t really come. That you were catfishing me somehow, and you were probably some old pervert man.”

  “Me too.” As I make the admission, I remember how perfect the public meeting place had been. “I was never so glad to see you walking across that parking lot. I mean, I know we Skyped. But until that second, I figured there was a good chance you weren’t really you, either.”

  Our knuckles bump as we both scoop a bite, and she clicks her spoon to mine. “To us being us.”

  “To us being us.” I parrot and watch with way too much interest as her bite disappears into her pink mouth.

  Chapter 15

  Business As Usual

  Leaning forward, Jack made an adjustment to the control panel and then relaxed in the chair again. The musician he was working with was currently working on the same vocal track, and they were on the tenth take of it. He could monitor and make the modifications in his sleep, so he multitasked by doing some retweets on his Twitter accounts. He also sent a text to Mariss.

  Heading home in a few. Want me to pick up food?

  4:09 PM

  The instrumental wound down, and he leaned forward giving one of the levers a slide. Looking through the glass pane, he returned the striking young woman’s tired smile and hit the intercom button. “Sounding amazing, Lulah. Just a couple more. Need a rest?”

  She shook her head and thumbed up. While she rolled her shoulders and prepared to sing again, he set up the board and then gave her the signal to go ahead. He listened for the first minute and then turned the volume down. His phone had chirped with a return text, and he picked it up.

  Mariss

  If you want to eat.

  4:14 PM

  At times like this, he felt as much irritation toward Mariss, as helpless empathy. She had quickly spiraled into a depression when every investigation into their son’s whereabouts was a dead end.

  So had he. But while he had forced himself to carry on with their work schedule, she rarely came into the Jewelstone studio these days.

  If nothing else, at her worst, Mariss was a perfect mother. Reading between the lines of that text, he knew it to say the girls had eaten or were going to eat something easy to fix and if he wanted something more substantial he was on his own.

  Forgoing the last recording, he walked the young woman to the door and locked up after her. Tallulah Tullos was one of their newest talents to hit superstardom with her first release almost two years ago.

  Going back into the studio, he powered everything down and prepared to go home to his girls.

  Chapter 16

  Band Business

  SENDER: Tristan

  SUBJECT Hi

  I feel stupid that I’m just now realizing how lucky I was growing up. I mean I knew I was all along, but I didn’t know until now just how much. If that makes sense.

  Her voice is husky, ascending with the note and holding it before she sucks in a breath and flips the hair from her face.

  “Damn, Sash. You’re killin’ it, girl.” Mark flips a drumstick in the air after hitting the last beat. Sladen nods in agreement and sets his bass down to open a beer.

  Accepting the accolades with a humble smile, she turns to me. “What’s that riff you had going on in the third measure? Play it again?”

  Obeying, my fingers move along the fretboard. My wrist sways, strumming the strings.

  So far, there’s been no mention of expanding their lineup as Sash had once hinted. But I’ve joined in their practice sessions—and the last few gigs, I’ve joined them onstage for a few songs.

  They’ve had a gig almost every week since I’ve been staying with them.

  Sash bends to her guitar, playing along with me, and she soon begins to hum. She’s as amazing here in the drafty practice area of the house, as on a barroom or a festival stage. They all are. It’s hard to believe there are only three of them. They make the noise of a bigger band.

  I finish the improv and pick up the beer that may be colder now than it was when it came out of the fridge.

  When remodeling the main floor and making it livable, they’d closed the second floor off because it has no utilities. Sash said all the copper wiring had been stripped when the house was empty for years.

  A temporary door and wall has been erected at the top of the stairway to keep the downstairs heat downstairs.

  The practice room is right off the stairwell on the second floor, and to get to it, we have to walk close to the wall to avoid a soft place in the floor. It’s cold now at night, but we barely feel it when playing.

  “I like that.” Her head swings to Sladen and Mark. “You like that?”

  “It rocks, bro.” Sladen and Mark both agree. “Totally.”

  At this moment, I feel complete acceptance by each of them, more so than ever before. They’ve taken me in with no questions asked and treat me as if I’ve always been around. I buy groceries, pay rent, and in many ways have never been happier.

  “One more time.” Sladen sets aside his beer and takes up his instrument. Although they’re practicing for the upcoming Toledo show, he nods to me, and with this gesture, I know it’s okay to play along with them.

  I keep my eyes off Sash. Watching her is too distracting. The song comes to a close, and we all high-five. Mark lets his sticks clatter to the floor. Sladen settles his bass in its stand. Sash hangs her guitar on the wall, and I close mine in its case.

  “I’ve got the flyer ready for Kinkos. Look okay, guys?” Sladen plucks a paper from his laptop bag.

  “Perfect.” Sash grins. She seems more excited than usual about this piece of advertising paper, and she scrutinizes it a moment longer before passing it to Mark who then passes it to me.

  When it lands in my hand, I nod in automatic agreement. But I do a double take when I see the picture of the band. It’s a photo of the four of us. Sash is holding her guitar by the neck, and the rest of us are circled around her. Wesley snapped the shot in the tent, shortly after Splynter’s gig at the festival.

  The atmosphere in the room changes. Like those movies where everyone hides and gets ready to yell surprise. That’s what it feels like. I know I’ve nailed the mood as soon as I read the print.

  Splynter

  September 24 at Fudgies

  Sash David, Mark Patki, Sladen Menefee, and Trey Duplei.

  Although playing music—guitar, drums, even some piano—is my passion, I’ve never had any desire to be in a band. Dusty and Todd once broached the idea. Neither of them plays worth a shit, but that didn’t stop them from wanting to form a rock group because of it being a guaranteed panty dropper.

  But I never wanted to commit to a band.

  Until now.

  During the last couple of months, jamming with Splynter has given me a taste, and now I want the full meal. I’m not stupid. I realize this change of heart has everything to do with Sash being on the band menu.

  “Well? Say something dude!” Sladen.

  “The fliers haven’t gone out… If you don’t want…”

  Sash’s soft words are the snap, and I jerk my eyes to hers. “I do want! Thank you.” Encompassing the threesome in my gaze, I repeat. “Thank you. Really. So much. I’m just shocked. Because you’re already so good with how you are…”

  “But not as good as with you,” Sash interjects, and the other two heartily agree.


  “Thanks.” I can’t seem to stop saying it, and I reach for my beer to shut myself up.

  Every night, they go through a six-pack and a bit of another of Bud. Although I’ve become accustomed to drinking with them, I’m still not a drinker per se. Proof of point currently being the half-emptied, room-temperature liquid currently washing down my throat. I wince at the sip.

  “Need a cold one?” Sash hops over the cords snaking this corner of the room, heads downstairs to the kitchen, and returns with four beers before I can protest.

  Seconds later, we toast my induction into Splynter.

  The rest of the night plays out in our after practice routine. An hour or so of DVR’d sitcoms and snacks.

  Usually at least one of them stares at their phone more than the television. As for me, I have no one really to text, except them. A waitress at Chimps flirts with me when we’re both on the same shift and has asked me out. I’ve declined so far, but she sometimes drunk texts.

  Tonight though, my cell is quiet. Only Sladen seems to be engaged with his smartphone. The guys soon say their good nights. Mark musses Sash’s hair as he passes her chair, and Sladen bends, enfolding her in a bear hug.

  Ever since ice-cream night, another evening routine has evolved. Sash almost always sticks around for another couple of shows after the other two go to bed. Side by side on the couch, we always talk while watching—or instead of watching—tv. Our conversations are as meaningful as the ones we once conducted on the internet.

  “So that was that.” She finishes telling me about a Disney World trip where her sister got lost in the Epcot Center and ruined the vacation. Her mother had refused to stay at the park after they found her and they hadn’t gone back the next day.

  Our feet are almost touching atop the sofa table. She’s stretched out in her chair, and I’m on the couch. She hasn’t yet made the jump to sit next to me tonight.

  I pivot my socked foot to brush her bare toes—currently manicured with green and white stripes. “You know what that means, right?” She only raises her brows, and I continue. “We have to go to Disney World.”

  “Right. Disney World.” Her smile quirks.

  “Don’t laugh. We’re totally doing it. We can swing through when we’re famous and on tour in Orlando.” Now she does laugh outright. A full chuckle. I point a reprimanding finger her way. “I said, ‘Don’t laugh.’”

  “I’m not laughing.” She covers her mouth with the tips of her fingers. “Sorry. I was a little. You want popcorn?”

  Yet another routine. Almost every night when we’re alone like this, Sash makes a snack and settles on the couch with me. So of course, I want popcorn!

  “Sure. Sounds good.” I roll my shoulders to convey a nonchalant manner.

  Curving one of her sweet smiles, she unfolds from her chair, and glides into the kitchen. I follow.

  Obviously, a man invented yoga pants. The stretchy material molds to every shapely curve below her waist. I wonder if she knows how much time I spend staring at her.

  Actually, I wonder how much time I do spend looking at her. More than is healthy, I’m sure.

  Sash tosses the bag into the ‘nuker’ and punches in the setting. I slice a hunk from a stick of butter. Dancing around one another in the small space, we each fix our beverage of choice. When the microwave pings, Sash pulls open the bag, careful to avoid the steam. I toss the butter in and shake the bag around to coat each kernel. She slides a plastic bowl along the countertop toward me. I tip the popcorn into it, stopping before the un-popped kernels fall in. She shakes jalapeno cheese seasoning in and then peels several napkins from a stack.

  I grab the bowl, scooping a handful as we return to the other room.

  “Hey!” Her objection is a quiet shriek.

  Sometimes I tease her and hold things above her short reach, but tonight instead of riling her, I swing the snack her way. We sit side by side, propping our feet again. I enjoy the visual contrast of her slim legs parallel to my jeaned legs.

  I notice the way she uses her fingers as a claw crane instead of a shovel scoop as I do mine. My eyes wander up her arms, admiring the contrasting blend of yellow, brown, and green ink. Once in the brightness of outdoor light, I noticed one sunflower contained lettering spiraled into the brown center, but I’ve never asked her about it.

  Experience has taught me tattoos can be too personal to talk about. My dad’s for instance. His red, black, and navy sleeves are interwoven with ribbons of music bars. Special songs he’s written about milestones in his life.

  “…when we’re famous, that is!”

  I shake out of my daze to realize I’ve missed the first part of what she said, and my mind rewinds. I’d really rather go to DisneyLAND—when we’re famous—that is!

  “Disneyland is cooler than Disney World.” I voice the agreement while wiping my hands on one of the napkins.

  “You’ve been to BOTH?” Her exclamation is muted, in deference to the sleepers in the house.

  “Yeah. I don’t really remember Disneyland too well. I was pretty small. But I remember the feeling when we went to Disney World. Like it didn’t measure up to my memories. You know? But maybe that was only the difference between going as a little kid and then as an older kid.”

  “I really want to see California. If it’s how I imagine, then I want a house on the beach there one day—when we’re famous.”

  “You keep saying that like it’s a crazy dream.”

  “Because I know it is.” She licks cheesy powder from her lips and lifts another few kernels, but pauses without eating them. “Realistically, the chances of becoming noticed and signed by a label are less than a cat walking through that door right now.”

  “Not true.” I shovel a handful and begin to pluck from it.

  “I guess not,” she accedes. “Especially not true since the gray stray keeps popping out kittens.”

  Kicking at my foot with hers in an ongoing footsie game we have, she laughs, and I join her. But I wonder if my expectations are jaded by who I am. Do I believe in what is normally impossible, because I’ve lived it my entire life?

  Sash wraps in my blanket, and we eat in silence, eyes on the television until the bowl is empty. We drop our napkins into it, and she presses at the television remote, displaying the time. It’s late. We’re both on the same mid-morning shift, six hours from now. With a feline stretch, she yawns.

  “Is the couch comfortable enough?”

  My gaze rivets to hers, wondering if she’s asking what it seems like she’s asking.

  She’s being polite, pervert. You had a few beers earlier, and you’re horny. Don’t be a stupid fucker and ruin everything.

  Yet, my assurance that I’m comfortable sticks in my throat. Instead, what comes out is, “What if I said no?”

  Tossing the blanket at my head, she stands and turns to me with a devilish raise of her brows. “Then I would say, ‘You’ll get used to it soon enough.’”

  Really? Is that what you’d say, Sash?

  Her expression is saying something else entirely.

  I know I’m not misreading the spark in her cobalt eyes or the flush in her cheeks.

  The smirk dissolves into a genuine smile, and she tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. “Seriously, though. We can trade out. Take turns out here.”

  I’m stunned by the offer, and although the guys treat me as a long-lost brother, I wonder if they would actually give up their bed.

  “I’m fine. Really. I sleep hard. All I ever need is a blanket and pillow and I’m good.”

  “Want me to get the light?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Night, Trey.”

  I watch her hips sway as she disappears into the hallway, and then fall into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 17

  Bathtub Serenade

  “Color and count with me. One is for you. Two is for who…”

  The singing drifted from the bathroom where the acoustics perfectly complimented the harmonious voices.

>   Jack curved a grin. No doubt, if he asked June about the song lyrics and melody, she’d inform him it was her composition.

  The apple never fell far from the tree. It was intriguing to witness. J.J. had done the same at their age—making up songs in the shower and tub. The only difference with his son was he’d clam up the second he realized someone was listening.

  To admire J.J.’s talent, he and Mariss had always stood behind a closed door, listening to his voice hum through.

  Not wanting to dwell on Jack Junior, he turned his attention back to his tablet, which had darkened into its idle state. Propping his socked feet onto the closest twin bed, he settled his head more comfortably on a stuffed animal, and extracted a small toy from where it was sandwiched between his lower back and the fluffy pink throw rug.

  He’d taken bath duty tonight. While June and Zoë soaked in colored bubbles, he intended to follow up on the bands he was keeping an eye on.

  A swipe of his finger brought the screen back to life and a tap to the screen began play of a video.

  The band was a trio, fronted by an extremely talented young woman. It had been a ‘recommended video’ once when he’d been on YouTube busy with another, and he’d bookmarked it for later.

  Placing one ear bud in and leaving the other ear open to the girls, he began to listen and was soon tapping his foot to the catchy beat.

  Splynter, you’re far more poppy than my normal interest, but you definitely have my attention… that voice…

  He listened to two more in queue and then came across another video of the band that looked to be located at a festival instead of the local club venue he’d just watched.

  “Hey, Daddy? We’re ready to dry off!”

  “I’ll be right there, honey hearts.” He powered off the tablet, dropped the earphones atop it, and hopped up.

  Chapter 18