Mythbound Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  He double-took to his left.

  The car next to him was a cop, and the police officer was staring at him sternly.

  His heart dropped to his balls.

  “Gotta go!” Steve yelled to his phone, which had fallen in the black abyss between his seat and the center console. He managed to sit his butt back down on the seat, grab the wheel at ten and two, and gaze forward.

  Then he felt a burning, sizzling sensation shooting through his ass as he realized he’d found his cigarette; he was sitting on it.

  He lurched upward and hit his head on the ceiling of the car, cursing and swiping the cigarette off the seat at the same time.

  Up ahead was his exit, two lanes over, for Garnet Avenue, which he was about to miss due to all the commotion. At the last second, he swerved—getting one more well-earned honk from a commuter—and barreled for the exit as the smell of burning denim reached his nose.

  STEVE REMINGTON’S RECORDING space, aptly named Remington Studios, was located smack dab in the heart of Pacific Beach in San Diego, on Garnet Avenue. Some clever asshole had come up with the idea to name all the sequential street names in Pacific Beach, going north to south, alphabetically AND after precious stones: Chalcedony, Diamond, Emerald, Felspar, and his street, Garnet, which was the main strip. You could always tell a local from a foreigner by how they pronounced Garnet: locals called it gar-net, while out-of-towners called it by its proper pronunciation, gar-nit.

  PB was a frat boy paradise for the San Diego State College kids out east who came to Steve’s turf to act like idiots over the weekends. You looked on either side of Garnet Avenue and all you saw was bar, tattoo shop, bar, tattoo shop, bar, bong shop, bar . . . as far as the eye could see going west, until it cut off at the ocean and Crystal Pier about a mile down the road. You could say PB knew how to cater to its audience.

  Steve’s studio was surrounded by an ocean of ink, booze, and weed.

  It was no wonder cops patrolled the place on the weekends like it was Compton.

  If there was ever a fight you wanted to see but couldn’t afford to pay the $300 for primetime fight night, just go to PB at 2:00 a.m. on a Friday or Saturday night. You’re bound to be entertained by some drunkasses swinging fists at each other.

  But it wasn’t all bad—Steve was just in a bad mood after a) leaving his father’s funeral, b) potentially losing Annabel as a client, and c) burning a hole in his jeans.

  He drove his beat-up, once-white ’92 Lexus sports coupe—it sounded a lot more luxurious than it was—through Garnet, just as the sun was setting.

  He sighed as he squinted from the sun, which was just dipping below the waves out west. He’d made it to his studio just in time to enjoy one of the greatest spectacles PB had to offer—besides the fights—the sunsets.

  The clouds near the sun were lit up brilliantly pink and orange, sifting outward and creating a sheen of purple and blue beyond that. Steve couldn’t help but smile as he stared out at the awesome sight.

  Then he leisurely looked back at the road and his eyes bulged, yellow spots from the sun embedded in his vision.

  He slammed on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a car that had stopped abruptly ahead of him.

  Luckily, he made it to his studio without further turmoil, and through the window he could see Dale in the lobby, playing a guitar.

  He parked in the alley behind his studio and walked through the side alley that separated the studio from the diner next door. Two homeless guys were talking to each other in the alley near the street, in hushed tones, and when Steve tried to squeeze past them one of them said, “Spare a square?”

  Steve scrunched his brow and opened his mouth to question the man’s question, but then discerned he could only be asking for one thing. Nodding, he sighed and reached in his pocket, pulled out his cigarettes, and handed the man one.

  “Obliged,” the homeless guy said, nodding and continuing his conversation with his friend.

  Steve shivered as he walked away, and he couldn’t be sure why. It wasn’t chilly. But his nerves were in a bundle from almost getting into multiple car accidents on his ride here, so he shrugged it off as having to do with that.

  “Hey!” one of the homeless men called back.

  Steve’s neck went tight and he clenched his jaw, stopping in his tracks. He turned around.

  The homeless guy was holding up his cigarette. “Got a lighter?” he asked, and before Steve could quip back, he added, “and no, I don’t want you to smoke it for me, too.”

  Frowning, Steve reached in his pocket, walking back to the guy.

  Steve kind of liked these homeless guys, or at least they didn’t bother him. One of them was tall and lanky, with a puffy afro and a yellow bandana around his forehead, making him look like Jimi Hendrix. The other was a bit on the wider, rounder side. Steve knew Buddy’s Diner next door didn’t like them loitering and would shoo them off once they realized they were there, so he didn’t want to add to their tough luck.

  The homeless guy lit his “square” and Steve reclaimed his lighter, taking off down the alley and reaching the front of his studio.

  Dale was waiting for him once he got inside.

  Steve said, “What’s up, Fats?”

  Dale stopped playing his guitar and turned around, his big goofy grin splayed on his round face. He stood, towering over Steve, and wrapped him in a bear hug. “Sorry about your pops, bro.”

  Steve, who was not a touchy-feely person, tried to escape the embrace, but it was futile. He was no match for Dale’s size.

  Dale was his best friend, his former bandmate, and his on-again-off-again studio engineer. Steve called him Fats because he resembled the big pool shark Minnesota Fats from the movie The Hustler, but since California Fats or San Diego Fats didn’t have the same ring to it, it was just shortened to Fats.

  When Steve had finally distanced himself from Dale’s clutches, he took a step back and they looked at each other.

  “It happens,” Steve said.

  After a short, awkward pause, Dale turned around, picked up his guitar, and sat back down on the lobby couch. “Now then, tell me about your dad’s friend,” he said.

  Steve cocked his head to the side. “My dad’s friend?”

  “The chick you were talking about on the phone,” Dale clarified, obviously mistaking Steve’s silence during the cigarette-dropping incident as an affirmative as to whether Steve’s dad knew the girl or not.

  “Do you think he was banging her? Damn, that would be a scandal, huh?” Dale asked excitedly, with all the subtlety of an El Cajon Boulevard prostitute. Dale was easily excitable.

  Steve snorted and put his palms up. “Jesus, man. Slow your roll. I never said the girl knew my dad. And besides, it’s pointless . . . I doubt I’ll ever see her again.”

  “Well, did you give her a card?”

  “Of course I did!”

  Dale shrugged. “Then you never know, right?”

  “I . . . guess. But she was different. She’s small, pale, with this Hot Topic look to her she’d never quite outgrown . . . but she was in this white dress . . . like she was getting married or something.”

  Dale frowned. He rarely frowned, so his disappointment must have been extensive. “Sounds weird.”

  Steve nodded. He furrowed his brow as he tried to explain his thoughts. “She was like a . . . like a ghost or something, you know? Roaming the cemetery.”

  “Sounds freaky.”

  “It was a bit spooky, I guess, but lemme tell you, Fats . . .” Steve finally looked up at Dale with a twinkle in his eye. “This girl could play, man. Sad, somber ballads . . . it seemed like that was her forte.”

  “Let me stop you right there, Steve-o.” Dale put his big bearclaw up to stop Steve. “Are you really looking for someone to record ballads with? You, Mister Rock ‘n’ Roll?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to broaden your horizons,” Steve said with a shrug. He started walking through the lobby, down the little hallway that had two doors on either si
de, leading to three studio rooms and a bathroom. On the walls of the hallway were posters of his favorite bands and concerts: The Stones, Black Sabbath, Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Rush . . . the entire royal family of rock was scattered on his walls.

  “Besides,” Steve continued. “You know I’m trying to start my managing business. And people love that slow stuff.” He raised his thumb, said, “One, she’s got the look.” He raised his pointer finger. “Two, she’s got the sound.”

  Dale raised his middle finger, echoing Steve’s gestures but in a crude way, and said, “But does she have ingredient number three? The attitude?”

  Steve sighed heavily. “I don’t know, Fats. I only spoke to her for a minute.”

  Dale shrugged. “Well, if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,” he said, as if he were speaking wisdom. “You gave her your card, and you can’t force her to record. Did you ever think maybe she’s not that into it? Especially being that young . . .”

  Steve threw his arms up. “You’re probably right.”

  Dale stood, put the guitar down again, and slung his thick arm around Steve’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go grab some grub at the diner. I’m buying.”

  Steve’s shoulders slumped, partly because of his increasing disappointment, but also partly because Dale’s arm was so heavy. Finally, he nodded.

  They turned around to push open the door . . .

  “Holy SHIT!” Steve yelped, leaping back. He wasn’t usually so jumpy, but today had just been one of those kinds of days.

  Annabel was standing outside the front door, staring inside at them with a dead, blank stare. She held her guitar by the neck, as if she’d been dragging it on the ground like a dead chicken. She still wore her pristine white dress.

  “Th-That’s her?” Dale asked, equally shocked.

  Steve nodded but couldn’t find the words to speak.

  He tilted his head and instinctively reached into his pocket for his phone, only to realize his phone was still lost somewhere in the unending cosmos of his car, down the side or under his seat.

  He’d wanted to check the time, but he didn’t need to.

  Opening the door, Steve said, “I’ve only been here for about five minutes. So how the hell did you get here so quickly?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Steve, Dale, and Annabel ate at Buddy’s Diner, next door to Remington Studios. Buddy’s was a relatively new restaurant that stayed open 24/7 and catered to the morning crowd and the before-morning drunk crowd. The booth they sat in was covered in red velvet: framed pictures of Buddy Holly adorned the walls, and there was an actual jukebox in the corner playing old ‘50s hits.

  Steve and Dale sat on one side of the booth, barely squeezing in on the same side due to Dale’s size, while Annabel took up just a sliver of space across from them. Steve ate voraciously, only his scalp to talk to, while Dale stared at Annabel like she was an alien. He hadn’t even touched his club sandwich.

  Annabel stared back at Dale with dark, intense eyes.

  “Mister Steve, why is your friend staring at me like he’s afraid I’m going to steal his soul?” Annabel asked quietly.

  Steve slurped down the rest of his soup and looked up, back and forth between the two. “Quit scaring the girl, Fats.”

  Dale’s half-opened mouth closed, and he shook his head. “My bad,” he said, and grabbed half his sandwich.

  Steve steepled his hands on the table. “So, tell me, Annabel, why did you decide to come to my studio? I thought your parents would have forbidden it.”

  Despite his insistence, Annabel had not gotten anything to eat. She said, “I couldn’t get back home.”

  Steve furrowed his brow. “Did you get lost?”

  “No . . . it’s a long story. I’d rather not get into it.”

  “Fair enough. So why are you here?”

  Annabel shrugged. “I think it’s your fault I can’t get back home.”

  Steve scratched his forehead, utterly confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind,” Annabel said with a sigh, waving her hand dismissively. “I also want to record music.”

  “Now we’re talkin’,” Dale said through a mouthful of sandwich.

  “And do you want to record with a backing band, or solo?”

  Annabel’s face contorted, as if she hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I don’t care either way. I just want to sing.”

  “Perfect,” Steve said. “We can make that happen. Has it always been your dream to sing? To be a singer, I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Steve nodded. He cleared his throat as Buddy Holly’s song came to an end. It was quickly followed by another Buddy Holly song. Whoever was operating the jukebox wasn’t going for any surprises. Awkwardly, he said, “Well . . . you know I can’t really afford to work for free.”

  Dale cast a sideways glance at Steve, to which Steve simply shrugged.

  “I know,” Annabel said. “If you’ll let me busk outside your studio during the day, perhaps I can make enough money to pay for hourly sessions at night.”

  Steve caressed his chin. “Hmm,” he said, thinking. “That’s mighty entrepreneurial of you. Smart girl. But you’d have to be pretty damn good at busking to make enough—”

  “Come on, Steve-o, don’t crush the girl’s dream. How about this; I’ll help pay for whatever hours she can’t afford,” Dale said.

  Annabel almost smiled, a shadow of a smirk gracing her thin lips. “Thank you, Mister Fats.”

  Dale waved a hand at Annabel, blushing, then went back to the second half of his sandwich. “Don’t thank me. I just want to hear you sing. If what Steve is saying is true, you have quite the gift—”

  “I didn’t hear her sing, Fats. I just heard her play her guitar.”

  “Good enough for m—”

  “That’s because whenever I sing, something bad happens,” Annabel cut in.

  Both men glanced at her with confused looks on their faces.

  What a strange, strange thing to say, Steve thought.

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he said, trying to be gentle.

  Annabel shook her head, her lanky, black hair swooshing about. “You don’t get it. I’m a banshee.”

  Steve smiled. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He looked around the mostly empty diner and waved down the waitress, giving the universal air-symbol for Check, please.

  When his eyes moved back to Annabel, she looked frustrated and was frowning, gazing at him with those wild eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I feel you’re not taking anything I say seriously,” Annabel said.

  Steve dipped his eyes to the girl. “Well, let’s see. So far, I’ve learned you play a mean guitar, you get lost easily, and you’re a singer who can’t sing. Do I have the gist?”

  In a strained voice, Dale said, “Steve-o . . .”

  Annabel leaned back against her cushy, red seatback, like she’d been struck.

  Steve immediately felt ashamed for speaking so harshly, especially to such a young woman. He sighed. “Look. How about I give you a free hour right now, and we can lay down some guitar tracks. I’m just tired. I buried my father today.”

  “Fine,” Annabel said, a bit testily. She crossed her skinny arms over her chest.

  Dale clapped, loudly. “Fine!” he echoed, much more jovially.

  They got the check, Steve paid, and they left the diner.

  On their twenty-foot journey from the diner’s front door to the studio’s, the trio ran into the two homeless guys again. They seemed much more discreet and shady when it was nighttime. The grimy one who Steve had given a cigarette to was waving him down, so Steve motioned Dale and Annabel onward and stopped to chat for a minute.

  The homeless guy with the yellow bandana and afro smiled at Steve with a crooked grin, little strands of his afro nearly stabbing him in the eyes. “Got a square?” he asked.

  Steve reached into his pocket, produced a pack, and opened it. He only had t
wo left. He stuck one in his mouth and gave the other to the homeless guy.

  “Never caught your name,” Steve said through the corner of his mouth as he lit the cigarette.

  “My friends call me Tumbleweed,” he said, smiling proudly.

  Steve chuckled. “Is it because you . . . roll through town?”

  “Nah,” the guy said, “I think it’s ‘cuz my hair looks like a dead plant. But I like your explanation better. I’ma use that from now on.” He pointed at his friend, who was shorter and heavier, and said, “This is Pancho. Got a stoge for him too?”

  “All out,” Steve said, opening the box just in case Tumbleweed didn’t believe him.

  Tumbleweed shrugged. “It’s all good, we can share,” he said, then passed the cigarette over to Pancho, who had yet to speak or give any inclination he was going to.

  “Well, thanks, Steve,” Tumbleweed said. “You’re a cool cat.” Then he turned to walk away and disappeared into the darkness of the unlit alleyway.

  As Steve finished his cigarette and turned around to walk into his studio, he furrowed his brow and realized something.

  He turned around, but it seemed Tumbleweed and Pancho had disappeared.

  That’s strange, he thought, shaking his head. How did that guy know my name? I’ve never told it to him . . .

  DALE WAS BUSY UNTANGLING cords and plugging them into a shelf of hardware in front of Annabel’s chair when Steve walked into the small studio room. Dale was so excited he accidentally stubbed his toe on the amplifier Annabel was going to be playing through, twice, once for each big toe. Both times he growled and yelled obscenities no sixteen-year-old girl should be allowed to hear.

  After taking one look at Annabel’s beat-up old guitar, Steve offered her to use his, a nice applewood-smoked Martin Dreadnought. She shrugged and capitulated, taking the guitar in her lap.

  “What were you doing out there for so long?” Dale asked as he rummaged around a chest for the right microphone.