Rising West: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 1)

by Alyson Santos

  Shit. I drop the stack of pages and shove my fingers into my hair. A slight tug at the roots starts to soothe the stress, and I clench my eyes shut until the tension in my stomach begins to dissipate. I already know Rory won’t have more hours for me, not that I could handle them anyway. With Heather gone, longer weekdays are out. I could look into another part-time job if Rose and Gary are willing to take Brooklyn on the weekends. It would mean giving up music entirely, not to mention my sanity, but I’m not sure what choice I have.

  “Daddy! You’re not coming!”

  “Sorry, bug. On my way.” I swallow another gulp of cold, bitter coffee and push up from my chair. I’ll have to figure this out later. For now, robots.

  Brooklyn claps when she sees me and waves toward my spot on the couch. The puzzle is already dumped on the table, the lid of the box propped precariously on the edge so we can see the image.

  “I found an end piece. See? Oh, and another one.”

  “That’s great. Here.” I hand her a few more that she stacks reverently in her pile. Her perfect tiny hands sift through the mound of colorful pieces beside my giant calloused ones. We’ve just collected what we think are all the edge pieces when my phone rings. I glance down at the unknown number, my stomach twisting at the Los Angeles area code. “I have to talk on the phone for a minute. You start putting the outside pieces together, okay?”

  Brooklyn barely acknowledges me, and I have to smile at the way her little tongue rests between her lips as she studies the pieces. The girl is hardcore.

  I push up from the couch and start toward the hall.

  “Hello, this is Mason.”

  “Mason! Glad I caught you. Hope you don’t mind, but I got your number from Wolf.”

  My heart hammers in my chest at the female voice. It’s Sam. She didn’t forget. She sought me out. She’s going to make me choose. Knock on the door to a new life or slam it shut? I brace against the wall and fix my gaze on the floor.

  “I’m glad you called,” I say. It’s a lie. I don’t have an answer for her. I haven’t even fully wrapped my head around the question.

  “Of course. I can’t stop thinking about your performance. You’ve got something special, Mason, and we need you. Look, I showed the band some video from last night and they’re stoked to meet you. Can we fly you out for a formal audition on Wednesday?”

  The pounding in my chest becomes an all-out assault. Fly me out? Wednesday? That’s in three days. Doesn’t she know I have to slam nails into roof shingles that day?

  “To L.A.?”

  “Yes. Just send me your address for the car, and my people will take care of the rest.”

  “Okay, but, when you say audition—”

  “Don’t sweat that part. This is more of a meet-and-greet for you and the band to test chemistry. From what I saw, the rest will be cake for you.”

  I shake my head, trying to make sense of any of this. “What’s the band anyway? Can you tell me that at least?”

  She hesitates, and the stillness magnifies how hard I’m shaking.

  “Well… The split isn’t public knowledge yet,” she says finally. “If word gets out early a lot of people will get hurt, so if I tell you, it has to remain confidential. Understood?”

  “I won’t say anything.” Who would I even tell? My only friend just became a soon-to-be awkward hallway encounter.

  “You’ll be auditioning to replace Chris Lundstedt of Burn Card.”

  I just about choke on the air in my lungs. “Burn Card?” The band that just got nominated for a Grammy for best alternative rock album? The band that I would have gone to see when they played the BB&T Pavilion last summer if I could’ve afforded the ridiculous ticket price? The band that makes Eastern Crush look like the garage band it was when I started it?

  “Yes, exactly. The industry will explode when the news breaks, which is why we need to have all our ducks in a row before then… You still there?”

  I nod, unable to speak. My mouth keeps opening but no words come out. Say something, Mason. Anything except, “what the hell is happening right now?” I sink to the floor instead.

  In my silence, Sam continues. “Okay, look. It’s a lot to take in—I get it—and I’m sure you have other opportunities you’re looking into, but I’m telling you, this band is going to explode. With you at the helm, the sky’s the limit.”

  “Okay, but…” Words. Thank god. Unfortunately, after another painful pause I realize that’s all there is. Why can’t I get my mouth and brain to work? And she wants me to front a major rock band?

  “Oh, right. You’re probably wondering about the financial logistics. Assuming all goes well with your audition, it would be a salaried position for now until we see how things go. The exact number is negotiable, of course, but the band is prepared to offer around two hundred.”

  “Two hundred?” I echo, certain I heard her wrong.

  “Two hundred thousand dollars a year, yes. Is that in your range?”

  Two hundred. Thousand. As in my normal paycheck plus several zeros. I’m shaking, full on trembling like a stalled car engine now. I close my eyes, resting my forehead on my knees as I try to catch my breath. Music was never about the money for me. It was never about anything except the need to release it from my soul and let it color my world. Music is the end, not the means, but could there really be a place where it’s both?

  It’s just an audition. I can still say no.

  “That’s probably within range,” I manage. I don’t even sound like my insides are exploding in tiny firebombs. “Let me know what you need me to do.”

  CHAPTER 5

  First dates are supposed to be awkward, right? You know what I mean, stuttered introductions and nervous filler words as you try to impress the other person in a long-winded audition to be their missing piece. Not with Mason, though. No, we laughed and talked all night like that piece was never missing, like the whole of our connection had been linked all along. Have you ever had a person brush your soul?

  LIBERTY

  “This is bullshit.”

  Aaron shoots me a hard look, but come on. Do they really think I don’t see what’s going on? Chris hasn’t even been gone five seconds.

  “The dude seems legit. His voice is sick,” Mitch says.

  I glare over at our guitarist who shrugs. Traitor. Problem is, Mitch isn’t alone. Aaron and Tivo seem to be on board as well. Traitors, the lot of them.

  “Really, guys? Sam throws some inferior Chris clone at us and we’re on our knees just like that?” I snap my fingers and slide my stare to each of them. As usual, they seem more amused than frightened by my venom. Especially Aaron who wears a smirk I’d smack off his face if he weren’t my brother.

  Instead, he jumps down from the drum riser to join us at the front of the stage. “Inferior? Not from that clip. And sorry, but this dude is way more jacked than Chris,” he snickers.

  I rest my scowl on him, trying to dismiss the adorable smile that’s always been unfair. Dork. I take it back. A good smack would do him good.

  Mitch steps between us before that can happen. “Look, we get that you’re upset about Chris dumping you and—”

  “Don’t,” I warn, turning on him as well. “This has nothing to do with my personal feelings. You all are not turning this into a ‘girl thing.’”

  They quiet, exchanging looks that broadcast the obvious I’m too fired up to accept. That maybe it is personal. That maybe when the love of your life decides he’s not only dropping your dream, he’s also dropping you, you get a bit pissy when your manager tries to shove another pompous, arrogant asshole in your face. I glance back at the video frame frozen on my phone. This Mason guy has egotistical frontman written all over him. Of course a guy that talented and good-looking knows he’s God’s gift. Exactly what we don’t need to get back up after the blow of Chris’ betrayal. We already played this game and lost, thank you very much.

  I shove my phone back in my pocket. “He looks like trouble is all I’m sayi
ng.”

  “He looks like a rock star,” Tivo says.

  “Exactly! With the hair and the attitude and the… the muscles…” I wave my hand in exasperation. “The last thing we need right now is another self-absorbed jerkface who’s going to use us to get big and drop us for a better offer.”

  Do they think I don’t notice the back-off-she’s-on-a-rant looks they’re swapping again?

  “What? You know I’m right.”

  “So… you’re mad that he’s hot? Should we tell Sam we’re only auditioning ugly dudes?” Aaron. Smartass.

  I grunt and pull in a long breath to calm the fire in my blood. Maybe I’m not being fair. Okay, I know I’m not but they don’t know my throat is raw and my eyes burn like hell from crying myself to sleep for the past week—that I barely have the strength to fight the tears the rest of the time. They don’t, because they didn’t give someone their soul only to learn they’re not enough. That we’re not auditioning a lead singer but a replacement for a hole that still hurts so much I can’t breathe. A fresh knot presses on my chest, shoving its way up my throat and forcing a tremble I have to clench my fists to hide.

  I hate you, Chris Lundstedt, for turning me into this. I was a badass rocker and now…

  Aaron drops to the edge of the stage to sit beside me. I can’t risk a look at the compassion on his face and study our dangling legs instead. I will not cry in front of them. Ever. It’s hard enough being the one girl in this boys-only world.

  “Sam said she found this guy at a local spot in the middle of nowhere,” he says gently. His point is crystal clear in the silence that follows. There’s no way he’s like Chris.

  Except he doesn’t know that. No one does. We didn’t think Chris was like Chris until he ripped our hearts out for a better offer. Fame, money, adoration… this industry does stuff to people, turns them into monsters you don’t always see coming.

  “Didn’t she find him because he fronted Eastern Crush for a while?” I mutter. My tone has softened into defeat. I hear it as loud and clear as they must.

  “Well… yeah,” Aaron says, and I kind of feel badly for dashing his optimism. Sometimes in the depths of my personal pain I forget how much they were hurt as well. They want to get back up too. They want to believe again.

  “The Eastern Crush dudes are assholes, but this guy split with them years ago. Maybe because he’s not?” Mitch says.

  It’s probably good at least one of us still hopes.

  “Maybe,” I say finally, thawing a bit at the sympathetic looks of my bandmates. My brothers. My best friends that I’d do anything to protect. Don’t they understand I’m wary for their sakes as well?

  “Well, it’s just an audition, right?” I say with a weak smile.

  Aaron slings his arm around me, and I let my head fall to his shoulder.

  It’s just an audition. We can still say no.

  I yank the blanket higher up my chest, shivering despite the warm August air. The heat of fresh tears has chilled into sticky evidence of my mess on the edge of the fleece comforter.

  My phone balances on my knees as I huddle on the couch, staring numbly at the images on the screen. Aaron is out with the guys tonight, leaving me free to torture myself with memory after memory. Memories? These photos are barely a week old. Just eight days ago Chris and I were cuddled in this very spot. Laughing, talking, writing like my world wasn’t about to detonate. Now, I have to wonder if his trips to the bathroom were really escapes to handle the secret life he’d been plotting. How long did he know he was deserting us before he finally dropped the bomb last Thursday? How many times did he share my bed, kiss me, hold me, tell me he loved me, all the while knowing I wouldn’t be a part of his future?

  More tears leak from my eyes, burning a path down my cheeks. I dab at them with the blanket, fighting the urge to slam my phone into the wall. But what’s the point? If I delete every image, every video, every trace of Chris from this device, I still have to face him every second of tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Every time we play a song, our songs, a piece of him will follow us. We can’t escape him as long as he continues to live on in the music we wrote together. Our passion will now flow out in brutal betrayal, lingering long after he’s washed his hands of the family that made him. The woman who made him. Me. Liberty Blake, the girl with the band who gave him a chance—and her heart.

  Rot in hell, Chris Lundstedt.

  “Hey, what do you think of this synth sound for ‘Roger, That,’” I call over to the guys. Aaron stops his tapping on the snare and Tivo silences the reverb of his bass strings. Mitch looks up from the floor where he’s still messing with his new loop pedal.

  Once I have their attention, I run through the main lead line of the song using a sweet multi-track patch I just built. The new sound is a thick, piercing wail that will cut through the heavy guitar-driven chorus way better than the one we’ve been using.

  “Whoa, that’s sick. I love it,” Aaron says. I study his face, trying to decide if he’s serious or being overly nice in light of the drama that’s about to unfold. Yes, we’re all pretending to work, but really we’re watching the door for the arrival of Sam and her new golden boy. Mason West or whatever. What kind of name is that anyway?

  A damn good one for a frontman. Shut up, brain.

  I stare back at my laptop.

  “It’s pretty sweet, Lib,” Mitch says. “Maybe roll off the low end so the bass will pop more.”

  I nod and open the patch to make the adjustment. I’ve just started playing with the settings in my software when the door to our rehearsal space crashes open. Glancing up, my gaze sweeps past Sam and locks on the stranger beside her. Brilliant green eyes flash back at us with perceptive interest. They run deep, like the ridges in his muscled arms that fill out the faded tee he’s wearing. His jeans had to be made specifically for him. No way he can look that good straight off the rack. And his hair, longish and messy… of course it’s the kind of hair fangirls beg to run their fingers through. Is this guy a musician or an underwear model? No, Mason West definitely isn’t Chris Lundstedt. He’s worse. He’s every kind of kryptonite that turns tight, united bands into a one-man-show. Sam must be out of her mind to think he’d be a good fit for us after what just happened.

  I pull my gaze away, swallowing the rush of unpleasantness in my stomach. Unpleasantness? Okay, no. The sparks spearing through my girl parts are anything but unpleasant. Exactly my point and why this whole thing is a waste of everyone’s time.

  “Hi, guys,” Sam says, approaching the low platform we use as a practice stage. “This is Mason. Mason, that’s Mitch on guitar, Tivo on bass, Aaron on drums, and Liberty on keys.”

  The boys jump down and exchange handshakes with our guest, while I hang back and offer a quick wave from behind my keyboard. Mason’s gaze collides with mine, and his smile… deadly. No freaking way this is going to work. With a quick twist of the lips, I go back to pretending to mess with a fader. I sense my brother’s disapproval at my coldness, but hey, I allowed this audition, didn’t I? I’m already a saint.

  “Hey, man. It’s great to meet you. Love the kicks,” Aaron says, probably being overly nice to make up for me. “You have a good trip?”

  Mason nods, gripping a guitar case I notice for the first time. Beat up and frayed, the instrument screams of history and stories of struggle. I force away the spike of curiosity.

  “Well, we really appreciate you coming out,” Mitch adds with a smile we rarely see on our reserved lead guitarist. Dude is impossible to please and apparently he already likes what he sees. Crap. “You ready to do this?”

  “Of course. Where should I set up?” Mason asks.

  Aaron waves him toward the platform. “You bring ears?” he asks, and Mason nods. “Cool. Here’s a pack. It’s already mixed but we can get you set up with the app so you can adjust it.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine for now. I’ll make it work,” Mason replies, pulling his guitar from the case. A Gibson J45. Nice. He l
oops the strap around his neck and unwinds a set of custom in-ear monitors from a hard case. The rest of us settle in with our instruments while he tunes and adjusts his cables behind his neck. Any discomfort he may have felt a moment ago seems to disappear when he positions himself in front of the mic. He hasn’t even sung a word and the familiar frontman swagger is already oozing from that part of the stage. It’s like the guitar in his hands transforms him from Shy Coffee House Poet into Sexy Rock God. Does he have a superhero cape folded up in that case as well?

  Mitch hands him a wireless pack for his guitar, and he hooks it into place. After a few test strums and mic check, he eases into a stance that indicates he’s ready to go—definitely the shortest soundcheck I’ve ever participated in. Chris would jump into an active volcano before accepting someone else’s monitor mix. I swallow a twinge at the thought of Mason using Chris’ mix from our last rehearsal together. Just a week ago…

  “What are we playing?” Mason asks into the lead mic.

  “We were thinking we’d do one of your songs,” Aaron says from his mic by the drum kit. He taps out a quick fill while he’s talking, probably out of habit. A musician quirk, and the same reason I can’t be near a keyboard without running arpeggios and chords.

  “Really?” Mason asks, scanning us in surprise.

  Mitch shrugs. “Well, this is your audition so we figured we’d like to see you in your element. Just tell us the progression and we’ll do our best to follow along.”

  Mason flashes a lopsided grin I can already see on posters and t-shirts. “Sure. I guess that makes sense. Um… okay. This one is called ‘Setpoint.’ Key of B.”

  He spouts off a sequence of chord progressions for the song, and then pauses with a shy smile. “Sorry, I can call it out as we go if you need it.”

  “Nah, we’re good. Just play, man. You got this,” Aaron says.

  Mason nods and readjusts in front of the mic. We have him turned to face us instead of the house so we can observe him and test our chemistry. Even now I see how easily his fingers form to the frets of his guitar. He steps back, studies his hand poised over the strings, and launches into the sultry sway of a bold six-eight strum.