Dad: Good morning, pumpkin. What are you up to today?
Me: I’m hitting the recording studio, among other things. But you know how that goes. How about you?
Dad: Well, the diner got a new espresso machine. I have no idea how to work the damn thing. So… I’ll be elbow deep in the stupid contraption all day.
Me: You’re serving espresso now?!
Dad: Hey, I can keep up with the times too.
I smiled as I pictured my dad back home. Running his diner, being happy, doing what he loved. And now apparently, making espresso, something I didn’t even know he knew existed.
We exchanged I love yous, I miss yous and promised to text tomorrow right as Beau pulled the SUV to a slow stop. I looked up and recognized the massive metal garage doors with graffiti scribbled across the exterior of the building—a building with a questionable storage business residing on one side of it. The area might look shady, but I've learned that there was more to New York neighborhoods than just curbside appeal.
Inside, the walls were a deep red with beautiful wood plank art pieces that I swear helped with the unique acoustics of the place. A rich mahogany wood spread underfoot that never seemed to get cold. I knew because I’d often found myself barefoot by the end of recording sessions—standing that many hours in heels equaled feet so sore I couldn't walk for days.
When a small woman with black hair and a septum piercing in her nose pushed open the large blue metal door, Beau hopped out. The door was opened, and Rose and I quickly made our way inside before we were spotted. The studio liked having as much anonymity as it could get. With artists always coming and going, my guess was that it wasn’t easy.
"Miss James, your band is practicing in the Live Room. I can show you the way." I immediately recognized the raven-haired girl as the receptionist who manned the front desk. Her cheeks were flushed, and she peered down the hallway. I’ve been here hundreds of times and she has greeted me each time.
“She remembers how to get there, Veronica,” Rose chimed in. “Please bring us some warm water with honey and lemon on the side.”
“No, I’ll take hot tea instead, please,” I interrupted.
Rose nodded. "Caffeine-free, and if you have any fresh fruit, please bring that as well."
This was why I had a hard time firing Rose. She was so damn detail-oriented, and also demanded all the things I wanted or needed but didn’t feel like asking for.
“Do you think… the guys… would want anything?” Veronica asked, her face flushed again. What was wrong with her? Was she sick?
"Grab them some waters, and I'll order in lunch," Rose said brusquely. She gave me a puzzled look as if asking me ‘what was her problem?’ Shrugging, I made my way down the hall.
I turned the corner toward the Live Room and peered through the windows at my bandmates, both old and new. Jared, my drummer, was tapping out a beat on practice pads. He hated using them—they never sounded quite right—but during practice, the loud volume of a real set became too overwhelming. Jared was tall and lean—at least six-three—and his biceps and forearms were out of control from playing drums since he was old enough to hold a set of sticks.
Nixon, my cousin and my bassist, was trying a rhythm I hadn't heard him play before. It was pulsing through the walls. I wanted to stay out in the hallway and listen to the new tune, but he stopped abruptly and laughed loudly. Nixon’s laugh was highly infectious. Whereas Jared was the introvert of the group, Nixon was the complete opposite. He was loud and in your face. He chased after the ladies as much as they chased after him. Jared’s bed was never empty either, but he just had a much more subtle approach.
I finally spotted the one person I’ve tried my damnedest to not think about. He was wearing a long-sleeved white t-shirt and dark wash jeans that looked so comfortable he probably slept in them. Yet, go figure, they were sexy as hell. He once again had something sticking out of his mouth—this time it looked like a coffee-stirring straw. The sleeves of his shirt were shoved up past his elbows, showing off his forearms. My eyes were drawn to the muscles running down to the fingers that were plucking his black Gibson guitar. Rhett’s style was effortless… no thrills or frills.
Damn, he was nailing the rock star image already. Without a stylist or anyone teaching him anything—he was just himself. And I kind of hated him for being so damn captivating. Without even speaking, he had everyone's attention in the room. He was just sitting there, and they all gravitated toward him naturally.
Rhett pointed out something to Nixon on his fretboard, probably showing him a different finger placement, and then nodded his head. Nixon strummed out a new rhythm, and as far as I could tell, he killed it. I had never heard my cousin string together that complicated of a tune, but apparently time spent with Rhett and he was already an improved guitarist.
The guys had been in the studio for the past week and a half. I could have joined them, but I figured I’d give them time to learn how to play together. And it looks like it worked, based on what I was hearing.
"He doesn't bite," Rose whispered from behind me.
“I wouldn’t care either way,” I responded, right before I pushed my way into the room. I didn’t need to hear Rose idolizing him like everyone else apparently did.
“Well good morning, princess. So glad you could finally grace us with your presence,” my cousin called out. Always the smartass.
“I’m a busy girl.” I walked across the room to set my purse down. I took more time than needed to situate my belongings on the countertop, trying to delay any conversations with Rhett. My emotions were all over the board when it came to him. I just needed an extra moment to get my mind right.
I felt someone come up behind me and relaxed when I smelled the familiar scent of Jared’s cologne. It always reminded me of bonfires in the summer.
“I know I already asked, but you going to be okay with all of this?” Jared’s quiet voice asked. He leaned over and placed his forearms on the counter next to me.
“Are you?” I whispered back.
Nixon, Jared and I had all gotten together last week and talked late into the night about Abe’s replacement. Initially, we had all been unhappy—how could one of us be so easily replaced? We drank too much and cussed up a storm, but we let all of our feelings out about the situation. It was fucked up. How were we supposed to just welcome this new guy into our band?
Then they saw the video of Rhett and I playing together and decided it could be a new and exciting direction for our band. The three of us could either fight it until we destroyed ourselves, or we could accept it.
“Well… it’s shitty what happened to Abe.” I turned around in time to see a frown line appear between Jared’s eyebrows. “We played together for years. I know he kept to himself usually, but he was still one of us.”
"I’ve tried to call him, and he won't answer," I told him. "I went to his room, but he was already gone. We've played together for years. I hate that they dropped him so easily."
“He was pissed,” Jared said. “Can’t blame the guy. But I think he understood your hands were tied. Sometimes we all need to be reminded that none of this is permanent.”
My stomach dropped as the paparazzi’s questions from this morning came back to me. Is Rhett taking your place?
“I heard he’s already gotten a few calls from Five Finger Death Punch and Jack White,” Jared added.
“Wow… really? That was like a dream of his.” The weight in my stomach lightened a fraction.
“Abe will be okay.” He squeezed my shoulder reassuringly.
“Rhett’s pretty damn good,” Jared continued. “ I feel like I should be fighting harder for Abe, but shit, Rhett is better. And I can see that he’s going to take this band to new levels.”
I huffed out a frustrated groan. “Everyone treats him like some god.”
Jared’s arm came around my shoulders and pulled me in. “We’re on your side, no matter what. I go where you go. And
if I get replaced—”
“I’d quit. You will not be replaced. I swear, Jared. They won’t take anyone else from me.” My fists clenched and I stopped myself from grinding my molars.
“Like I said, I understand what kind of business I work in.” He shrugged.
“Fuck this business.”
"Who are we fucking?" Nixon chuckled while putting his arms around the two of us. We were now in a little huddle. "Is this a secret band meeting?" His grin was contagious, just like always, and I couldn't help but smirk back at him.
“Yeah, we’re talking about how to break the news that you’re getting the boot next.” Jared laughed.
Nixon's smile instantly dropped, and I shoved Jared while laughing. When Nixon realized he was being played, the smile returned.
"That was messed up, dude. Poor Abe," he said, shaking his head sullenly. And then in true Nixon form, his emotions flipped and he grinned again. It was as if he only needed those few seconds of sadness and he let it go. "Rhett is badass though. Seriously, Ever."
"Ugh…" I groaned and pushed away from them. The hero worship needed to subside soon.
And speaking of… I looked over to find Rhett hunched over a table, scribbling into a notebook. Writing covered the entire page. Every line of lettering went in a different direction. The skinny black straw moved between his lips, and he pulled it out as he was filling in the last little corner of free space. When he finished, he looked up at me.
“So you’ve met the guys…” Dropping down onto the opposite side of the leather couch, I crossed my ankles in front of me and gave him my attention.
“Yeah, I think we’re meshing pretty well,” he said. “Thanks for giving us the time to just play without having to worry about vocals or anything yet.” The corner of his lip pulled up, and I realized he was messing with me about being late today and missing practice for the past week.
“That’s me. Miss Thoughtful.”
"We're on the right track, I can feel it," Nixon said as he made his way over to a chair across from us. "We were only playing around with a few riffs and harmonies, but damn they were good."
“Have you guys been here every day?” I asked.
“Nah…” Nix sat down after turning the chair around backwards. “But we’ve met up somewhere every day. He’s helped me a shit-ton with my finger work.”
Rhett tapped his pen against the notebook pages. "The label said that they were working with a few writers to get us some music, but I think together we could write our own stuff," he added.
I shook my head. "They won't go for it. I tried when we first started, and they shut me down at every pass."
“Yeah, Jared mentioned that. But you were what, sixteen then?” he asked.
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t have good ideas. Doesn’t mean I couldn’t have tried,” I started to rant.
Rhett’s hands went up in defense. “I didn’t mean that. I meant, they judged you by your age. I have no doubt you have more talent in you than just an amazing voice. You’re established now though,” he offered.
“He’s right, Ever,” Jared agreed from behind his practice pads. “Why shouldn’t we be allowed to write our own music now?”
I never thought about fighting for writing privileges now that we had a few albums under our belts.
"Do you ever write down ideas? Ever have a tune float around in your head that you have to get out?" Rhett asked while shaking a very worn and bent notebook at me. The black cover had seen better days. I could see where he had tried to hold the pages together with a massive amount of tape.
“She sure as hell does,” Nixon said excitedly. He jumped from his seat and dashed across the room. When he reached my bag, I bolted up.
“Don’t you dare!” I shouted.
Too late. Nix grabbed my equally banged up notebook—although mine was leather-bound—and strode back toward us. I lunged and ripped it from his traitorous hands.
"Wanna share?" Rhett asked, looking almost joyous.
"Not even a little bit," I instantly replied. "How about you let me look through yours?" I watched the Adam's apple in his throat bob as he swallowed, then I smiled when he clutched his notebook a little tighter. "That's what I thought."
These were more than just lyrics that floated around in our heads. They were our deepest secrets. They were our best and worst days. My words documented my most insane breakups and rockiest relationships. They revealed my wildest moments. If someone wanted to cut me open and expose my most intimate thoughts, this notebook would undoubtedly achieve that for them. These were our diaries.
Instinctively, we both hugged our notebooks to our chests, and I knew, all at once, that Rhett got it.
"Okay, okay! Let's not get all moody artist in here quite yet," Nixon said, interrupting our staredown. "How about you both go home and find stuff that you're comfortable sharing. Just little pieces that we can make into a few kickass tracks."
“I can do that,” Rhett offered.
“Yeah, I have a few things I can show you guys,” I said. “I’ve never actually written a song before though. It’s basically just a bunch of lines that I thought had potential.”
“Some of the greatest songs were written around just a few clever words,” Rhett said.
“That’s great and all, but in the meantime, can we just play something? Anything to liven this joint up a bit?” Jared tapped out a mellow beat. His hands were always drumming a rhythm, even if he wasn’t holding a set of sticks. Most of the time I doubted he realized he was doing it.
Rhett picked up his guitar, and his fingers began moving. The angry rhythm was more heavy metal than the usual rock ‘n’ roll we played. When Nixon joined in with the iconic bass line, I recognized it as Motorhead's “Jailbait.” Rhett thought I should sing Wendy O. Williams, I presumed.
“No, no, no…” I laughed and shook my head. Rhett’s finger slipped down the strings, creating a chaotic sound, and then there was silence. “No Wendy for me, sir.”
He smiled and looked over at Nixon. “You picked that up fast, man.”
"If it's got good bass, I probably know it." Nixon shrugged. I knew on the inside, he was beaming. My cousin prided himself on his knowledge of music.
When Rhett started playing again, I recognized one of Blondie's biggest hits. This was a good one for us, with a female lead and a powerful front guitarist. So far, each song he’d chosen for us to play hadn’t been a love ballad. I appreciated that. Another reason I was excited about creating our own music—the world needed more duets with angst. Not so much doe-eyed lovey-dovey stuff.
Nixon and Jared joined in, and Rhett kept playing as he asked, “You know this one?”
I rolled my eyes and on cue sang Debbie Harry’s opening lyrics. My raspy voice worked well with the song, and I stood when I realized I couldn’t get the full reach of my voice while seated. Rhett also rose to his feet, standing directly in front of me as he softly harmonized. I loved that he was taking a back seat vocally.
He watched my mouth, and I watched as his fingers found the speed that worked for both of us. Damn, I wished I could play like he did.
Halfway through, we hit a high unlike any I had ever felt before. That effortless connection Rhett and I had while making music was right there, front and center. Our eyes met and never left one another. I felt as if I couldn't look away or this feeling would disappear, and silently, I hoped that was why he wasn't looking away too.
I repeated the closing lyrics over and over and let them fade out. The guys wrapped it up, flawlessly hitting the notes until the room was silent again.
It was as if the four of us were always meant to be in this exact place, playing together. We didn't have as many band members as Blondie did, but we were nailing it regardless.
We stared at one another, each of us with ridiculous grins on our faces.
Then Rhett called out, "Damn, Pipes! Somehow I thought I had built your voice up in my head the past few days, b
ut you just blew that song out of the water!"
“Shit, that was good,” Jared added.
“You weren’t so bad yourself,” I replied breathlessly while looking at Rhett.
He pointed at me with a knowing grin. "Was that just a compliment?"
"It slipped. Don't get used to it," I said, sitting back down. I still didn't want to be happy that he was here. I didn’t want to enjoy what he was doing with my band. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”
“Definitely doesn’t mean you dislike me either, Pipes,” the cheeky bastard smugly replied. He grabbed that tiny black straw again and placed it between his lips.
“We are not on a nickname basis.” I glared.
“Don’t ruin the moment, Pipes.” Rhett started to fiddle with the pegs on his guitar and began strumming out a few chords. “Besides, it fits. You’ve got one hell of a set of pipes.” He blew a deep breath out and shook his head as if he were still trying to wrap his brain around what had happened. I certainly was. “You wanna marry me yet?”
Nix raised an eyebrow and Jared gave a little bemused smile. “He’s ridiculous,” I said while rolling my eyes. I turned to Rhett and replied, “No. No, I do not.” I had to hold back my smile, not wanting to encourage him.
He shrugged casually. “No worries. I had to ask,” he replied with a wink.
"Sorry," Veronica, the receptionist, interrupted. "The electric kettle wasn't working, so I had to heat up water the old-fashioned way." She pushed into the room with a rolling cart. "I've got your tea, Miss James, and there are waters for everyone else."
Rhett placed his guitar in its case and moved across the room. Veronica jumped when she noticed him approaching her. Then her cheeks filled with color, and I watched as her chest pushed out a little further.
“If this doesn’t work for you…” She gestured toward the beverage cart, looking at him from under her lowered eyelashes.
“Water is fine. I’m just heading out for a smoke break.” He tapped the carton in his hand.
"Oh, we have a rooftop terrace. You'll see the stairs down the hall." She motioned toward the door. "Or I can show you if you—"
Ever Lonely (Ever James Band Book 1) Page 10