by Bria Quinlan
Emily’s fingers did a little wave-wiggle before she shook her head and turned away.
3
Emily
He hung out with rock stars.
Rock. Stars.
Blake Diedrich had just walked in here, ordered a coffee, all but demanded a custom guitar from him, and left.
And Artist of God Guitars had turned him down. Just said, Nope. No guitar for you.
And what? Did his sketches have summoning powers or something?
He'd shown her a couple pictures of his guitars.
And then, POOF! Rock stars.
“I don’t know how I feel about this.” Abby stood behind me, watching the door fall shut behind Sage of the Gorgeous Hands.
“About what?”
“Rock stars, guys flirting with you when you should be working…the name Sage.” Abby started restocking the pastry display with her latest yummies. “That isn’t a world you want to be in. I’m going to have to put my foot down.”
She gave me a long stare and I was afraid for a second the next words out of her mouth would be something inane like, “And you’re grounded, young lady.”
“Um. Okay.” Because, what else could I really say to that?
After continuing the long stare a moment too long, she nodded before heading through the divider to the kitchen and disappearing.
From the back room, I heard Abby and John having another one of their “discussions.” Apparently with me joining the team, John decided Abby could start doing some specialty catering for events. If a plane powered by fancy pastries was falling out of the sky, those two couldn’t agree on what made a “specialty dessert.”
Between that, the uptick in commuter traffic, and The Brew After Dark acoustic series they were doing monthly…well, I was lucky to be in the right place at the right time to snag the new barista job.
The pay was good, the tips were decent, and the people were nice… Okay, Abby was a little tough sometimes, but nice in her own weird Abby way.
My shift flew by and I was just trying to figure out how to get my Dancing Burrito back across town when Max walked in, all copped out still.
“All right, Burrito Bandit.” He grabbed the coffee Abby slid across the counter to him. “Let’s get your stolen goods back to their home.”
The problem with this place was that everyone thought they were a comedian.
But, I wasn’t going to sneeze at a police escort. It would be a lot faster if Max drove me—not to mention having a cop with me would stop the ever easily confused Mr. Burgess from pressing charges.
Max put the costume in the back and then nodded.
“You want me to ride in the back?” I couldn’t believe he’d put me back there.
“Procedure.” He winked, and I was pretty sure there was nothing procedural about it.
After an incident-free delivery, Max offered to drop me home. Personally, that didn’t sound like the best thing for me. My neighborhood wasn’t exactly the Village, and getting dropped off by a cop car wouldn’t exactly go unnoticed. Instead, I had him drop me back at The Brew and hoofed it home.
Only I was distracted.
It was distracting.
Anyone would be distracted.
But, there he was—Sage—loading tools into a truck. I mean, the hands were bad enough. He was wearing a tool belt. I mean. Seriously. A tool belt.
And then he did that thing guys do. He reached down for the hem of his T-shirt and lifted it, wiping the sweat off his face.
I dodged down an alley, knowing that staring was bad. Stalking was worse. And the alley came out on the other side of the block.
I tried to push the picture out of my head. But, the cargo shorts-slash-tool belt-slash-six-pack-abs was a killer combo.
Add talented to that—I was going to have to crush this crush immediately.
I was thinking about my need to focus on the important things when I climbed the three-and-a-half flights to the attic apartment I shared with my roommates, Ash and Megan. We were basically the most illegal apartment you could get. Just over the tracks from a better neighborhood…of course. Everywhere was a better neighborhood.
It was an attic that had been renovated into a slightly-illegal apartment, then cut in half to become an incredibly-illegal apartment, thanks to the world’s cheapest landlord.
Our half got one bedroom, the claw-footed antique bathroom, the dining room with ornate built-ins…and the pantry.
That’s right. No kitchen. So, we were one of those um…slightly illegal apartments with a weird combination of two mini-fridges and a hotplate for cooking.
Also, three girls, one bedroom.
Yeah. When Ash and Megan started struggling with the bills, they put an ad on Craigslist for “a female with little expectation of privacy.”
Basically, my room was the dining room you had to walk through to get to the bathroom and pantry.
An ancient tallboy dresser blocked off half the room, creating a short wall and the “limited privacy,” as advertised.
But, it was cheap and clean and had great girls in it. So, it was a win.
Of course, the limited privacy also meant life updates were pretty much expected. We didn’t have Wi-Fi or TV, so Megan had to live on the gossip our lives created.
Which, for me, was low drama.
Ash, on the other hand, was constantly falling in and out of love. Her latest was a bank teller named Liza. Liza seemed way too down-to-earth for Ash, and Megan wanted to start a pool of how long it would last.
“Honey, I’m home!” I pushed the door shut behind me and wandered through to my little alcove of a dining-bedroom. I adjusted the fan to blow more across the room since AC also wasn’t in our budget.
“Hey!” Megan came in and dropped down on my bed-couch combo. “How were the jobs?”
“Job’y.” I pulled my shirt over my head, getting rid of the smell of food as fast as possible. “How was your day?”
“Oh, you know.” Megan shrugged. “Living the dream.”
“Excellent.” I pulled my favorite over-washed T-shirt on and reveled in the clean softness.
“So, how was the new job?”
“Gone.”
I gave her the rundown of my day as Ash wandered in and joined the after-work-summit.
Usually, I just ran through my day so I could get to the rest of the apartment’s day summary. I loved hearing about the adventures Megan managed to have just by stepping outside the door. And Ash was probably the coolest person I’d ever met. Okay, I’d just met a rock star, but Ash was still right up there.
Megan handed me an iced tea—our version of after-work drinks.
“Not to be all conspiracy theory,” Ash said as she stole my tea. “But, I get the you’re-not-telling-us-everything vibe pretty clearly.”
Ok, I was stalling…and the near arrest was a good story…until I had to share the final bit of the day.
“Oh, and Floppy Hair Gorgeous Hands is named Sage.”
They both kind of looked at me as if I were making it up…because, well, Sage.
“At least you’re not a Rosemary.” Ash grinned as if this was super clever.
“Kind of burying the lede there, no?” Megan was always into gossip. Usually it was celebrity related, but roommate related was just as good.
Which reminded me… “Oh, and Blake Diedrich came in today.”
“What?” Megan was off the bed faster than panties got thrown on the Double Blind stage.
“I guess Sage works for them.” Or something. I couldn’t really figure it out. It sounded like he did more than design guitars, but I wasn’t going to give Megan anything else to flip out about.
“He works for Double Blind.”
“Um, yes.”
“And he’s gorgeous.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to avoid him like the plague, aren’t you?” Megan’s question sounded more like an accusation.
“Megan.” Ash shook her head at her. “Not everyone
needs to chase the guy.”
“Well, she won’t even let the guy chase her.”
“Yeah,” I snorted. “I’m totally sure a girl with four jobs, no family, on the twenty-two year plan at school…not to mention my past is exactly what a guy like that is looking for.”
“Em—”
Ash slashed her hand between us, cutting Megan off, and crossed to give me a hug.
“You tell yourself whatever you need to, but you’re worth more than a collection of struggles.”
With that, Ash ushered Megan out of my room.
I stretched out on my bed, thinking that tomorrow I’d find the obvious flaw in Gorgeous Hands to help with Mission Crush the Crush.
I tried to remind myself that Ash was right. That, not only had I overcome a lot, but I was a good person. You didn’t need to be born into a great family to be a good person.
If anything, I worked harder to try to be a good person because of that whole I’m not worthy fear.
But, knowing my girls had my back, that they believed I was worth something, it meant the world. It meant maybe, just maybe, I was finding my place—my home.
4
Sage
“I still feel like we’re losing the melody,” Luke said, his arms crossed over his chest, one ankle propped on the opposite knee.
Blake cast him an annoyed glance.
“Look,” Luke arched his eyebrows, “you know I like it when you grunge it up. It’s just not supposed to dominate the entire song.”
“It’s this thing,” Blake said, ducking his head and lifting the guitar away from him with a vicious shake. “There’s something wrong with it.”
Harrison stepped forward and took the guitar. “Let me try.” He made some adjustments and tried a couple different chords himself. “Yeah. There’s something wrong with this one.” He inspected the instrument more critically. “Why are you using this cheap POS anyway?”
Blake grinned. “I have a whole box of them.”
“This is because you smash them,” Harrison reprimanded, pointing his finger for emphasis. “You’re the reason we can’t have nice things.”
Blake shrugged one shoulder, his lips curled in deep, sadistic satisfaction.
Sage watched all of this with a small amount of wonder, exhaustion, and amusement.
As this was his first time being in Luke Casey’s garage-converted-to-studio (With no obvious plan for a backup garage. Luke had three cars parked outside.), he was less overwhelmed than he otherwise would be. The exhaustion was definitely to credit for his maximum chill.
Luke had called him right as he was about to go to bed, asking for him to come over.
It didn’t matter how tired you were, or how long your workday was, or what time you had to be up in the morning. If Luke Casey, rock star of all rock stars, called you to come over and “run this thing for him,” you went.
No questions.
And that meant being asked to run the soundboard on a super secret and important project for Double Blind Study.
What kind of a rock band thought it was a good idea to record an album in a garage when they could just as easily do it at the professional studio they co-owned across town?
The kind of band that took chances with their art, because it was what they wanted.
This one. This band did that.
Luke’s garage no longer resembled a garage—it was clean, white, and nearly clinical-looking except for large tapestries that had been hung along the walls, breaking up the white space with vibrant splashes of color that functioned into the acoustics.
Sage had always been curious how the Double Blind Study sound came through on their albums so close to what they sounded like live. He no longer wondered. They played the tracks altogether, capturing the energy of their live performances at once. Doing it that way meant they had a more honest interpretation on each album, but it also meant it took more takes to get the song right. More takes meant more time, and more time meant a lot of money.
It was a producing nightmare.
Which Sage had suddenly been thrust into the middle of.
Luke locked eyes with him on the other side of the glass and lifted his chin. “What do you think?”
Flicking the toggle over, Sage leaned into the mic. “It’s muddy.”
Luke ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. “Okay. Let's take a break for a minute.” He opened his eyes and pointed at Sage. “Don’t leave.”
The band unplugged and shut down, one by one filtering into the soundboard room and taking seats on the couches lining the back wall. Sage shut off the things he knew were safe to disengage, and swiveled on his stool to face the band.
Above the long couch hung a huge painting of the band and their women. It was originally a photograph Sage had actually taken the last time they had all been together.
Zelda, Harrison’s wife and the band’s official photographer, had thrust her camera into Sage’s hands and told him to click ten times. He did. The resulting photo had somehow captured the band’s dynamic personalities. They were lined up beside one of the buses, side by side, but in total chaos. Laughing, talking, reacting, living.
Harrison’s sister, Greta, had taken the photo and turned it into a painting filled with bold and bright colors. It was huge—easily six feet long and three feet high. At the bottom, she’d titled it: The Sound of Happiness.
Sage’s eyes wandered over the ten people caught in a moment of life that perfectly captured their hearts, and he was intensely thankful for being able to be there. Being able to witness their lives unfold over the past three years was a humbling feeling.
“So.” Luke interrupted his daydream, pulling a chair over and sitting on it backward. “How long will it take for you to be comfortable with the board?”
Sage glanced over his shoulder at the console.
Despite its age and little quirks, he was already fairly comfortable with it. It was the mechanical mind he possessed, one of his many hidden talents. He could look at a piece of machinery, even something unfamiliar, and see all the parts and pieces it took to make it work.
It was vastly different from the one they used on tour, but not so much he would have trouble learning it.
Not that he had tons of experience with the tour board, anyway; just what Greg, the sound guy, had taught him.
“A few hours. If I get enough sleep, anyway.” His eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall above the board. Midnight. Awesome.
“Why not your regular guy? Out of town, or what?” Sage asked, confused by their interest. It wasn’t unusual for him to be called in to assist in the wiring and miking of different projects, but usually there was a professional here to tell him his job.
Wait; was he the professional this time?
Luke exchanged looks with the rest of the band.
“When we sat down and talked about how we wanted this album to sound, your name kept coming up. We discussed having you come ’round to do the checks and wiring, but we always ended up discussing how we sound different when you wire us. We sound like a kickass garage band who knows what they’re doing.”
Sage chuckled lightly, uncomfortable with the compliment.
“Add to that this old console, and we have the potential to make an album as authentically DBS as possible. Besides, for the effort we had to go through to get this board, I don’t really want anyone else to run it. So...are you available for the next couple of weeks?”
Sage faced the group at Luke’s question and cleared his throat. “I have a dining room to build. Other than that, I’m available for whatever you need.” And he’d have to stop at the bookstore and get a manual for this ancient thing.
Actually, he was pretty sure he had one at home.
Luke rubbed his chin and exchanged looks with his band. The mixture of shrugs, nods, and meaningful blinks told Sage very little. But it told Luke what he was looking for.
“How does a producing credit and ten percent sound?” Luke asked directly.
/> Sage frowned. “What now?”
“Producer, Sage,” Luke semi repeated. “You want to do this thing with us?”
Sage’s heart lodged somewhere in his throat, making both speaking and breathing difficult. It was still beating, which was good, but it was beating so hard his vision was vibrating. He flexed his hands on his jean-clad thighs.
“You want me to co-produce this with you?” he asked for clarification.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Luke’s lips twitched at his reply. Sage was just happy he didn’t spontaneously combust into little tiny pieces of Sage confetti. He knew his response sounded like he was cool, but inside his head he was anything but cool.
Because, producing?
Producing was the dream.
Moments later, the band went back to their instruments and Sage went back to work. They didn’t shut it down for hours.
By the time Sage crawled up the steps to his apartment above his dad’s workshop an hour before sunrise, he was beat.
But happy.
“Coffee. Please. All the coffee that you have.” Sage plunked his money on the counter. Great; his vision was blurry. He was officially experiencing the blind part of the Double Blind life.
“You look like crap,” Abby stated needlessly.
“Is Emily working today?” Sage asked, ignoring the snarky barista and trying to see through the walls into the kitchen area. Which would have been ridiculous anyway, but it was doubly so since he couldn’t see much of anything. And there was the double blind part of this life.
“My coffee’s not good enough?” Abby asked, filling his order while keeping one suspicious eye on him.
“She’s nice and happy, and I happen to like her smile, killjoy.” Sage took his coffee from Abby and shuffled over to his spot by the window. He tucked his phone into his pocket and flopped his notebook onto the table.
Was he an idiot for agreeing to all of the things?
This dining room was going to kill him. And if it didn’t, then the lack of sleep would. But if he somehow survived that, it would be the pile of dirty clothes in his bedroom coming to life and eating him alive.