“Great.” Kent pointed finger guns and me, then fired them at Vance. “Great. I’ve got a great feeling about this. You two are going to make a hit!”
Vance said nothing, just gave a thumbs-up while chugging a beer. The French door slammed behind Kent, his tires crunched down the driveway, and we were alone in the woodsy silence. Until Vance produced a remote control and cranked up Metallica on the state-of-the-art sound system.
“Hey,” I yelled over the sound of Kirk Hammett’s syncopated riffs. “I was thinking we could listen to the songs. I’d love to hear you sing them.”
Vance took a bite of pizza and turned the music down a notch or two. “What songs?”
“My songs? The ones we’re here to work on?”
“Wow, you’re really ready to get down to business, huh?”
I shrugged. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”
But alone with Vance, whose thin T-shirt did little to hide the outlines of his pecs, I wished we could mix in just a little bit of pleasure.
“You’re right.” He pushed the pizza at me. “Have a slice. I’m going outside to roll a joint. Then we can start.”
That wasn’t so hard, I thought, proud of myself for not being a pushover.
Vance turned the Metallica back up and disappeared into the sylvan darkness. I ate three slices of pizza and washed them down with a beer. At least this way, I could show Vance I wasn’t uptight, prove that I could meet him in the middle when it came to our respective lifestyles.
I rinsed my plate and put it in the dishwasher, eager to get started. But when I went onto the deck, Vance was nowhere to be seen. I called his phone and went straight to voicemail. His bedroom was untouched, empty.
Things weren’t off to a good start.
Chapter 7
Vance
I meant what I said when I told Andrea I’d be ready to work on the songs after a quick smoke break. I was honestly intending to light a spliff, sit back on one of those wicker recliners, gaze up into the stars that I could never see in the city, and let them remind me of my ultimate smallness within the greater context of the universe.
But a strange thing happened when my feet hit the gravel path. I just kept moving. Until the house was a tiny yellow spot of light behind me, and I was walking along the deserted highway.
I could stick my thumb out. Catch a ride to wherever. Pretend not to know who Brothers Three are. Leave this life, this lie, behind.
Because the truth was, I couldn’t do this without Darrel. Not just because he was my brother, my bandmate, my best friend. He was more than that.
Darrel was my voice.
It was the deepest secret behind Brothers Three. A secret I thought Darrel, Kent and I would keep forever. I can’t carry a tune. Can’t sing on pitch even with a keyboard by my side and a tuner in my hand. I’m totally, completely tone deaf.
It hadn’t always been this way. When Darrel and I were younger, we were both the stars of show choir. You should have heard our harmonies. But then, shuttled into a new foster home in a rough school district, we got the shit beat out of us after doing a duet at a school choir concert.
Or, I should say, I got the shit beat out of me. Three eighth graders started in on Darrel when he went to the boys’ room after our solo. After he’d been gone more than five minutes, I started to wonder. That’s when I found him, huddled in a corner, crying, pinned there by a semi-circle of assholes. They were making threats, spitting on him, calling him a fag, but they hadn’t hurt him physically—yet. So I threw the first punch.
Everything after that is a red haze. I woke up in the hospital with a bruised rib, a concussion and an assault charge. I was eleven years old. The assault charge got dropped because I was a kid with no criminal history. My injuries healed. But whether it was because of the brain injury or the trauma or simple self-preservation, after that day, my singing voice disappeared forever.
I couldn’t tell Andrea that. Not without telling her the whole story. And I didn’t talk to anyone about the past. Not even Darrel. We both preferred to avoid those discussions.
I re-lit my joint, but it was basically spent. I flicked the remainder out into the road and watched the arc of the tiny red ember. I’d been gone for three hours. Andrea was probably fast asleep by now, or else wondering why I’d disappeared.
Hell, I was wondering why I’d disappeared. I could have just told her the truth—that this collaboration wasn’t gong to work out.
First, to inform Kent. I pulled out my cell phone.
“Hey, buddy. I was just about to call you,” Kent said, his voice warm and welcoming over the phone.
“What’s up?”
“It’s Andrea. What did you do to piss her off? She’s ready to leave.”
“I ghosted on our session. Listen, Kent. I don’t know what to do. She’s going to find out that I’m a phony, a fake. We shouldn’t have brought her on board in the first place. This was a stupid idea.”
“Whoa, whoa! This is a genius idea.”
“Kent. I can’t sing. She’s going to discover that, and when she does, it’s over. You. Me. Brothers Three.”
“Vance.”
“We’re going to be laughing stocks, like a rock ’n’ roll Milli Vanilli.”
“Vance!”
“I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”
“Vance! Shut the fuck up for a second.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have to sing.”
My shoulders dropped, and the tension in my whole body fell away. “What?”
“She’s the one auditioning for a job. Not you. All you have to do is listen, see if the song works, and then we can get you back into the top 10.”
“Oh.” I felt like a moron.
“Besides, I thought Darrel might do a duet with Andrea.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I’ve talked to his counselors. He’s doing great in rehab this time. I think it’s the first time he’s actually wanted sobriety. Not for a judge or for me. But for himself.”
“That’s great, Kent. That’s really awesome.”
“So get with Andrea ASAP. I want everything ready so we can hit the ground running when Darrel gets out of rehab.”
“And in the meantime…I just stall? Lie? Fake it?”
Kent laughed, a short, mirthless bark. “You’ve been faking it for years. You found ways around it in the past. You can do it again.”
Chapter 8
Andrea
I knew I had to be dreaming when I came to the slow realization that I was all alone in a queen bed topped with Egyptian cotton sheets and a down comforter, the only sounds those of birdsong. It was a far cry from the threadbare couches and narrow women’s shelter cots. I wished I could keep sleeping so as not to disrupt this dream.
That’s when I remembered my current reality—the good and the bad. On the plus side, I was living in the lap of luxury. On the minus side, I’d managed to piss off my employer, a major rock star who had gone missing.
Another point on the plus side: I thought I smelled bacon. Which was impossible. I knew very well that the only food in the house was cold, congealed cheese pizza.
No, that was definitely bacon I smelled. I pinched myself. I was not dreaming. I pulled on a pair of leggings and padded down the spiral staircase to investigate.
Vance stood with his back toward me, wearing only jeans and an apron. His long, tawny hair brushed his muscular shoulders as he flipped the bacon with a spatula. On the counter, he’d laid out cereal, almond milk, a fruit platter and fresh-baked biscuits. A French press full of hot coffee stood at the ready.
“Hey, you,” Vance said, his face lighting up. “I made us some breakfast.”
Was I sure I wasn’t dreaming?
“Wow.” I nibbled a slice of peppercorn-crusted bacon. “Quite a spread.”
Vance shrugged. “I figured I should apologize for the way I acted. So I hit up the grocery store again last night.”<
br />
“Well…thanks.” I was both grateful and mystified by the total turnaround. Had my angry phone call to Kent produced this effect? Because last night, after Vance had been gone for three hours, I’d searched the property grounds, yelling his name like he was a lost cat. Angry, confused, scared and alone, I’d called Kent and put my foot down. This collaboration wasn’t working, I’d said, and there was no use wasting any more of my time or theirs.
I had been terrified to make that call. But as I dug into the mushroom omelet Vance slid onto my plate, I decided it must have made a difference.
“This tastes amazing, Vance,” I said.
He grinned and sat on the stool next to me, a tiny bit of flour on his cheek. I fought the sudden urge to wipe it off.
“Look, I don’t know what got into me last night,” Vance said.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, and really, it didn’t.
“So are you going to let me hear your songs?”
“Yep. And I think I know just which one you’re going to love.”
Chapter 9
Vance
The song was a ballad. Dreamy and meandering, anchored by an undercurrent of pain, it brought a dimension of Andrea I hadn’t perceived into the light. Namely, her talent. She was a powerful songwriter. The ballad sounded familiar, upon first listen, while at the same time being entirely new. It infused my mind and heart with excitement. I knew I’d be humming it for days.
Don’t know how not to love you
When love’s got me black and blue.
Can’t make it stop, don’t want to
Even though you said we’re through
“Well?” Andrea asked when the track came to an end. She watched my face closely, but couldn’t read my response. I’ve learned to give nothing away.
“It’s incredible,” I said. “I just have one request.”
She brightened. “Anything.”
“I want to hear you sing it.”
“Um, okay,” she said. I could tell she felt a little uncomfortable.
“Don’t worry. You don’t have to do it alone. I’ll accompany you.”
I sat at the grand piano and patted the bench, inviting Andrea to sit next to me. She did. I felt the warm length of her taut thigh touching mine. I stiffened slightly inside my jeans. Good thing I was sitting down.
“What key?” I asked.
“Key of C. Easy-peasy. But are you sure you can play it after hearing it once?”
“I’m not doing anything fancy. Just some chords. Prompt me for the changes,” I said, and I launched into an improvised solo that started by plucking out the main melody, then exploring its nuances.
I could tell Andrea was impressed, but that wasn’t my goal. I was actually just trying to distract her from the fact that I wasn’t singing. I finished the solo and moved into the chord progression for the verse. Andrea, finely attuned to my movements, took the cue and began to sing.
Her rich contralto voice was even more stunning live. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where a person’s strengths and deficiencies lie based on a recording—a good audio engineer can autotune away a shaky sense of pitch or adjust poor timing. But Andrea sounded even better in person than she did on the demo. Her pitch was spot-on; her timing was better than my drummer’s, and she possessed that indefinable something that characterizes the best singers. She took all her pain, anger, rage, love and loss and wrapped it up in music. She presented herself to me without reservation, without fear.
Andrea wasn’t just beautiful and talented. She was brave.
The song ended and Andrea and I just sat there for a moment while the piano strings continued to vibrate, our music lingering in the air all around us.
“Wow,” Andrea said softly.
“Wow indeed.”
Andrea giggled. “It feels like we’ve been playing music together for years.”
Or making love for years, I thought. Truthfully, playing music with a woman is not that different from having sex with a woman. You both watch and respond to each other, and you use your bodies to create something magical.
And for better or for worse, being in a band with someone has all the same rewards and challenges of being in a romantic relationship with someone. You fight. You compromise. You entwine your financial and creative destinies. And, whether at home or on the tour bus, you fight about who left their smelly socks out.
“We really sound great together,” I said.
“I didn’t know you play piano.”
“I play almost every instrument.”
“Wow. You must have spent your whole childhood in private lessons.”
I briefly allowed myself to contemplate the kind of privileged upbringing Andrea thought I’d had. Little did she know that Darrel and I fended for ourselves, playing instruments discarded by the biological children of our foster parents, or hanging out in the band room before school started, tinkering with drums and upright piano.
“I’m mostly self-taught,” I said. “I took band and orchestra classes off and on. When I was at a school that offered them.”
“Well, you’re really amazing. Maybe you should showcase your talents on the next album. Play something other than guitar for a change. I can’t believe you’re self taught.”
“You want to talk about amazing? Let’s talk about your voice,” I said, hoping to change the subject. “You’ve been holding out on me, Ms. Hebert.”
She blushed and smiled. She was so beautiful when she grinned a real, toothy grin. I didn’t see that kind of smile much from reserved, serious Andrea. It suggested another side—a playful side. A goofy side. A side I very much wanted to pull out from Andrea’s professional shell.
“That means a lot, coming from a professional musician,” she said, smoothing her hair and sliding a touch away from me on the bench. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. You’re an amazing talent Thank you for bringing your songs and your voice to me.”
“Welcome,” she said, but she had turned away from me and was back at her laptop, fiddling with Garage Band.
“I’d love to hear your other songs. Maybe we can make a whole album out of them.”
“That would be great!”
“There’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?” Andrea asked.
“I’m going to have to listen to Kent say ‘I told you so’ for the next ten years or so.”
Chapter 10
Vance
After that amazing session with Andrea, I felt jumpy with pent-up energy. And let’s face it, the sexual tension wasn’t helping. I changed into my running clothes while Andrea curled up on the porch swing with a cup of green tea and a copy of Tape Op magazine.
“You’re the first woman I’ve ever seen reading Tape Op,” I said as I stretched my hamstrings. The magazine mostly featured interviews with audio engineers. For whatever reason, the industry was still very male-dominated.
“There’s a great interview with Trent Reznor in here,” she said. “Did you know he was a marching band nerd?”
“Somehow, I did. Listen, I’m going for a run. When I get back and shower, do you want to crack open some wine? I picked up a really nice Malbec.”
“Um.” Andrea squinched up her cute little nose.
The proposition had come out sounding a little more romantic than I meant it to. I didn’t want to freak her out or act less than professional. Even though I did very much want to bone her.
Play it cool, I thought. Go for a run. Then jerk off in the shower. You don’t want to scare the poor girl away.
“To celebrate our fruitful creative partnership,” I said. There. That might have been the lamest pickup line I ever delivered. I imagined Kent snickering at me. Truthfully, I hadn’t had to rely on lines in years. Just another perk of being a rock star.
Andrea smiled. “Sounds great.”
“See you in about an hour.”
I tightened my laces and set off down one of the many narrow, pine-needle carpeted trails that l
aced Kent’s property. It was so green and peaceful in the woods—too peaceful. I needed something to distract me from the knowledge that it was just me and Andrea out here, all alone. I imagined going down on her in the middle of a field, making love to her with her back against a massive oak tree.
This run was not having its desired effect.
After about forty-five minutes, I looped back to Kent’s house and did push-ups and pull-ups on the bar he’d mounted for that purpose in the garage. Once again, I thought about ways I could use the bar to get into creative positions with Andrea. Thoroughly soaked with sweat, I stepped into the shower and soaped myself down. My dick was already at half mast. I took hold of my member, closed my eyes under the hot stream of water and let my fantasies of Andrea take over. It wasn’t long before I exploded all over the mosaic tiled shower floor.
Sorry, Kent, I thought as the shower head sluiced the mess away.
I pulled on a black V-neck T-shirt, tight black jeans, black boots and a silver pendent necklace, then helped myself to a spritz of Kent’s cologne. I now smelled like a middle-aged multibillionaire. Oh well. It would have to do.
In the living area, Andrea had lit candles, opened the wine to allow it to aerate, and set out a nicely arranged plate of cheese, olives, dried fruit and nuts. She must have raided Kent’s pantry, because I sure hadn’t picked up salumi at the grocery store.
“This looks amazing,” I said.
“You look amazing,” she said, then blushed and clapped her hand over her mouth. “I mean, you smell amazing.”
“I think I smell kind of like the inside of a humidor, but I’ll take the compliment.”
Andrea sniffed the air. “I do detect notes of tobacco and oak.”
“Great.”
“It’s not a bad thing.”
Rifted Rock: Secrets of a rock star series Page 3