It’s then that I notice the way he gingerly rubs at his left palm with his right thumb. Nervous tick? I follow the action for a moment and cringe at the ugly gash crossing his skin.
“Damn, what happened to your hand?”
“Oh. Uh…” He stares down at the wound, hesitating as he considers his response. Didn’t think it was a hard question.
Don’t lie to me. Please don’t.
“I hurt it at work last week,” he says finally.
Vague, but not a lie. I stare down at the scabbing purplish-red streak. It can’t feel good to hold a guitar chord with an injury like that.
“At work? So you weren’t performing full-time before this?”
There’s that look again. Scared rabbit meets sexy biker. Geez, he just makes you want to shrink into an amoeba and get inside his brain. Eww. Well there’s another item for the list of things to never say or think again, Lib.
“No. I was…” He clasps his hands together, as if hiding the injury along with the rest of himself. “I mean, I told all of this stuff to Sam, I swear. I disclosed everything before signing the contract. She said it was fine and wouldn’t affect the agreement.”
Shit. He thinks I’m grilling him.
“If it’s a problem that I wasn’t playing full-time, we can—”
“Mason, stop. It’s fine.”
In an act of instinctive stupidity, I take his hand to reassure him. I kick myself when he flinches. From pain or the unexpected touch? Brilliant me then recovers by flipping his palm to awkwardly study the wound.
Oh, because you’re a doctor now and know so freaking much about cuts? Wait no, lacerations.
“That’s quite a laceration,” I say. Out loud. To another person.
I wince again when he lifts a brow, clearly fighting another smile. He doesn’t pull his hand away, though. Instead, he glances down and watches my fingers run the length of the cut as if I’m the orthopedic surgeon I’m claiming to be.
“Is that an official diagnosis?” he asks.
I glance up at his dry tone and snort a laugh when his smile breaks.
“Depends. Are you going to tell me about this mysterious job of yours that left you in such peril? Let me guess, international spy? Drug smuggler? Lion trainer?”
His smile spreads to his eyes, and I have to look away. I let go of his hand as well, and he tucks it between his knees as if hiding the evidence.
“Roofer,” he says quietly.
Surprised, I study him again, but this time he’s the one avoiding my gaze. “You worked construction?”
“For the last few years, yeah.”
“Ah, okay. That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Why you’re so…” Wait. Abort! Heat snakes up my chest and into my cheeks when his confusion morphs into a slight smirk. Busted. Explains why you’re so ripped. Yes, Mason, you’re disgustingly hot. Can we move on, please?
Especially when he shakes off my blunder with an adorable half-grin bordering on shy. Geez, he’s climbing fast on the non-asshole scale, and there’s nothing hotter than that.
“Hey, um, thanks again for this opportunity and giving me a chance,” he blurts out. “I know I might not be your ideal choice, but I promise to give you everything I have.”
Our eyes lock, and I sense something beyond mere gratitude in his expression. Pleading, is that what it is? Fear? Can’t be. No way a guy like Mason could be insecure. Chris was his own biggest fan. The sun, the moon, the stars, the entire freaking solar system with shooting stars to shine out of his ass.
Mason’s leaning forward, staring at his hands again, when I focus back on him. The small couch has suddenly become suffocating, the pine-scented air stifling. He’s shifted as far as he can away from me. This conversation was supposed to smooth over the awkwardness from our first meeting. Pretty sure we just made everything worse.
I push up from the cushions. “No problem. You ready to head back?” I say before it gets irreparable.
His endless green gaze tracks up to mine, and I swallow my response at the heaviness there. I don’t understand it. Him or any of the conflicting auras around us.
“You don’t have to be best friends,” the others had said to me in their bid to hire him. No, but can I work closely with someone I can’t even read? Who doesn’t seem to want me to?
“Sure,” he says, straightening to his feet as well. A sad smile passes over his lips, and I wonder if it’s for what he’s lost or what he’s gained.
CHAPTER 9
I’m pregnant! At first when I told Mason, he looked like a crocodile ate his kitten. I was irritated, sure. Of course I wanted him to be as excited as I am, but then I realized how terrifying this must be for him. I’m scared too, but I have the world to gain with a sweet baby and a committed boyfriend who will do what’s right for his family. It’s different for him. I saw it in the flash on his face before he could hide it. He wants to make music. He needs to. Music is his life. What will he do now that he has to make room for something bigger?
MASON
“Daddy!”
I scoop the charging preschooler into my arms and sling her over my shoulder.
“What are you still doing up?” I ask, tickling her side.
She shrieks with laughter and swats at my back. “Stop! Grandma said I could!”
“Did she now.” Grandma Rose wins some serious bonus points for that as I pull my daughter back to my chest for a real hug. Maybe Brooklyn understands when she lets me hold her for longer than usual, barely squirming while I try to breathe again. I push my luck with a cuddle until her squirms force me to lower her to the floor.
“Can we read a book first, Daddy? Pleeeeeease?”
As if I’ll ever be able to say no to that face. “Sure. Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yep!”
“Really? Let me see.”
She freezes, shifty eyes darting toward the bathroom. “Well…”
“Should you maybe do it again?”
“I think I need to do it again,” she echoes brightly, rushing toward the bathroom.
Shaking my head with a smile, I continue on to the small kitchen still cluttered with boxes. Rose startles when I enter, looking up from a large one on the floor. Bless her for trying to unpack this mess. With the lightning fast cross-country move, we didn’t exactly win the organization lottery.
“Oh, Mason. I didn’t know you came home.” She shoots a look at the microwave clock. “And early. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I wanted to try to see Brooklyn before bed. Where’s Gary?”
“He went out to find a grocery store. How was the party?”
My stomach constricts at the expectant look on her face. These saints dropped everything to follow me and my dream. How can I tell them the truth?
“It was great. Everything seems right on track.”
Relief colors her face, and I’m glad I lied. “That’s so good to hear. So all your concerns about the band leader not liking you… what was her name? Liberty? Everything is good there?”
“Um, yeah. Sure. Just a misunderstanding.” I manage a weak smile. There’s no need to tell her that after a disastrous conversation in the lounge, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fired by the end of the week. You had one goal tonight. One. Smooth things over with Liberty.
I glance around our new apartment, small but clean. Bright, even. A fresh start for all of us. Brooklyn loved this place because it has a bay window with a bench and gauzy curtains throughout. So not my taste, but whatever. The two bedrooms mean the four of us have a tight fit, but it turns out two-hundred-K and crushing debt doesn’t get you far in L.A. Sam negotiated a decent advance to help us get set up, and the label covered the relocation costs. I almost choked when she presented the full offer, and had no problem signing the contract guaranteeing I’d give them at least six months in return. Thing is, they can fire me whenever they want, and tonight was supposed to be about guaranteeing that didn’t happen. Instead…
&n
bsp; “I’m ready, Daddy!”
Brooklyn grabs my hand and starts tugging me toward our shared room. Bunking with a four-year-old is going to be an interesting adjustment, but then, what isn’t in this cosmic life shift?
“I should get Brooklyn to bed,” I say to Rose who eyes me longer than I like. Can she see the truth? That I failed? That maybe this whole thing was a huge mistake and I’m in way over my head?
“Okay. We’ll talk more later,” she says finally. “But Mason.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a good man. You’re doing your best. Never forget that.”
With Brooklyn in bed, I use the distraction of Gary’s return from the store to escape. I can’t face any more questions right now, and with nowhere in the apartment to hide, I end up wandering the streets of our new neighborhood. I find a cleanish bench near a tot-lot Brooklyn will love and shove in my headphones. Scrolling through the saved videos on my phone, I choose the link to the song I must have viewed a hundred times since the audition. Just being a good employee, I tell myself. Of course I have to learn Burn Card’s music. Understand and breathe it if I’m going to own it on stage. After the past two weeks of constant looping, I have most of it memorized by now, but there’s one song that keeps drawing me back. It’s not a chart-topper like the others, but a lesser known gem I stumbled upon in their second album. The video itself isn’t even an official Burn Card production, just a grainy fan-posted capture from a small, acoustic show. Ten thousand views. I’m probably half of those.
I stare at the screen, watching the clumsy zoom to lead singer Chris Lundstedt. The crowd erupts in recognition at the intro, complete with a few piercing screams from audience members near the videographer. But it’s not Chris who has my attention. It’s the unassuming keyboard player behind him who takes my breath away. While he stalks and gyrates and attracts the attention of everyone else, my gaze is fixed on the serene beauty of the song’s creator. Yes, I know who really owns this song—and most of Burn Card’s extensive list of hits. Liberty Blake, the awkward, quirky woman from tonight’s party disaster is also the mastermind behind music that rips into my soul. I can’t stop staring now, at the way her music transforms her into a goddess from some other world. I want to go there. I want to live in that place where she’s clearly taken root and learn how to make music like this.
“Let’s hope the best is yet to come
‘cause the rest is the blood-let ache that betrays a hero heart
Stand strong through endless tides
Stunning moon that pulls me under
Breathe and beat, lungs and heart compete
To tell the lie
That I’m still alive.”
And this song was from before that asshole apparently dumped her and the band. I don’t know when the story is scheduled to go public, but for now I can only speculate on what level of idiot this dude must be to turn his back on music like this. On the chance to create it with an artist like Liberty. His stupidity has given me an incredible gift, and here I am blowing it because I’m so intimidated I can’t string two words together in her presence.
My hand tingles from the memory of her touch. I stare at my palm, remembering the brief second it almost felt like we were equals. Like maybe there was a connection we could use to build something special. Maybe she believed in me too right then. After all, I know I didn’t get that offer from Sam without Liberty’s approval. But like everything else, I screwed it up. She couldn’t get away from me soon enough, and I fled the party the second it wouldn’t be considered rude. And now? Yet again, I find myself alone on a park bench, so far out of my league that I don’t even know how to get back to where I belong.
First day jitters are a real thing. Despite the multiple meetings and several conference calls, I’m still the new guy invading their world when I duck into the Burn Card rehearsal space the following morning. Aaron is already pounding away at his kit to a song in his ears and targets a smile at me when I enter. I wave back, hoisting myself onto the platform while I wait for him to finish whatever he’s working through. His groove is strong and confident, but not one I recognize from their catalog of music. I wonder if this is a new track they’ve been working on. The beat comes to an abrupt stop, and I turn back to find him pulling out his IEMs and rising from the stool.
“You made it,” he says, his easy smile so different from his sister’s forced one.
“I did. I’m looking forward to getting started. Where should I set up?”
“Right there is good. The others should be in any minute. Lib just ran out for coffee.”
I glance back at the keyboard and notice the laptop already fired up beside it. Her gig bag is shoved beneath the stand, along with one of those fancy infuser water bottles. Water… didn’t bring that. What else am I missing? As if on cue, laughter filters in through the closed door, and I brace myself for a reunion.
Liberty’s smile falters when she sees me, and I try to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. Maybe part of me had hoped my read of last night’s party was wrong. My proof is now twisting her lips into a strange half-smile that would be adorable if it didn’t represent my flaws.
“Hey, man!” Mitch says, breaking my rough connection with Liberty. I force my attention to him, and the air immediately lifts at his genuine excitement. We exchange a hand clasp greeting, and the added back-pound almost makes me feel like part of the band. Liberty’s approach sends my rollercoaster heart pounding in another direction, however. Prepared for a quip or clumsy inquiry, I’m surprised when she twists a cup out of the carrier instead.
“I wasn’t sure how you take your coffee, so I had them throw some sugar and creamers on the side.”
“Black is fine,” I say, taking the steaming cup from her. “Thank you.”
Our eyes connect when her fingers brush mine in the exchange. It’s too long for the situation, and she looks away with another tight smile.
“No problem,” she mumbles before walking off to distribute the other cups.
Tivo arrives as well, providing another distraction, and soon we’re all engrossed in setting up our equipment. The buzz of amps, swat of drums, and random guitar licks litter the air in the beautiful chaos of band warmups. Man, I’ve missed this. The excitement and anticipation of being a part of something, of connecting with others who get the music like you do. Of having the chance to share that magic with the world.
“Okay, everyone good?” Liberty says into her mic. I adjust the volume on the monitor pack shoved into the pocket of my jeans and use the app on my phone to bring up her vocal in my mix. I’m guessing as the band leader she’s also the music director, so I’ll need to hear her clearly over the roar of the band—especially while I’m new and have no clue what I’m doing.
The random fiddling on instruments goes silent at her call to attention, and we all look over for instructions.
“Good. So obviously this is a big practice for us. Welcome, Mason.” Other acknowledgements and shouts of encouragement ring from across the stage, and I shoot a smile around the circle.
“Thanks again for having me,” I say into the mic, grateful my voice doesn’t shake like my insides. God, if they had any idea how nervous I am, they’d send me packing back to Pennsylvania.
“Don’t worry, Mason. You’re only the most important person up here. You know, voice and face of the band and all. No pressure,” Liberty teases, and I let out a dry chuckle. She’s probably trying to put me at ease? Yeah, not gonna happen. Especially when she adds, “Also we’ll be recording this rehearsal for the label. They want to be in the loop on our progress so they can manage the PR side of the transition. That okay?”
Nope. Not even a little bit. Shit.
“No problem,” I force out.
“Great. Well, let’s run ‘No Friend of Mine’ to get a sound check for Mason. I’m sure you’ll want your levels different than Chris had his. Plus…” Her words fade out, and I suspect I’m not the only one shifting uncomfortably in the s
ilence. “Never mind. Let’s just run the song,” she mumbles.
I glance back and catch the pain on her face before she hides behind the aggressive intro.
“No Friend of Mine:” Key of A, six-bar intro, verse, prechorus, verse, prechorus, chorus, chorus, tag, vamp, bridge. Ah, and that four-bar vamp before the song comes down into a dramatic drums-only chorus, followed by two full choruses to finish it out. It’s the second vamp I forget, which means I come in early on the chorus and draw amused looks from my new bandmates. Well, all except one, and her glare doesn’t make me feel like any less of an idiot for messing up.
“Too Much of a Good Thing” goes better, and by “Seaside Serenade,” we’re locked in and starting to roll like a real crew. After a few more songs, I feel like we’re just warming up when Liberty calls time for a break. I stare down at my phone, surprised to see we’ve been at it for two hours.
“Hey, sounds great, dude,” Mitch says, clapping my arm as he passes. Tivo nods his agreement, and Aaron echoes Mitch. I thank them all, watching as they grab water bottles and push open the main exit doors.
“Yo, Mason, you coming?” Mitch calls back to me.
I open my mouth to respond when Liberty interrupts. “You guys go. We’ll catch up with you later.”
Well, shit. This can’t be good.
I sling my guitar over my shoulder and prop it on the stand as the room clears. I’d do almost anything to be following the guys right now. Instead, I draw in a deep breath and try to plaster a pleasant look on my face.
“How do you feel?” Liberty asks, dropping to the edge of the stage. She pats the space beside her, and I’m careful to put just the right amount of distance between us. Don’t want to be rude, but can’t risk a repeat of our last too-close meeting. Maybe she’s thinking the same thing when she shifts a little further away as she angles a look at me.
Rising West: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 1) Page 7