Wild Angel

by Shari Copell

  For a moment, Asher stood frozen on the screen, her gold-sunburst Les Paul slung over his shoulders, knees slightly bent. He moved slowly at first, blurry, before the camera pulled him into focus and sped up into real time.

  The first few notes of Fire Woman by The Cult resounded through the room. Asher ran his pick over the strings, head bent, absorbed in what he was doing. Spencer joined the song with a soft kick beat and a double eighth note tap on closed high-hat cymbals.

  Nicks loved that song. She sat on the edge of the seat, her heart racing. On the tape, Asher and Spencer focused on each other as they played, building momentum as they got louder. The drummer had switched from the high-hat to double eighth notes on the snare as Asher buzzed chords on the Les Paul.

  Years of experience plus larger-than-life personas equaled expert rock musicians playing a song guaranteed to hit you right in the face. Her breathing quickened. She knew life was never the same once you heard these boys play. How damned lucky were you if you got to see them live back then?

  The song rose to a crescendo of primitive jungle pounding and sexy guitar chords. Asher swung his hand and hit the strings as though he were in the fight of his life. Spencer’s sticks rose higher and higher toward what she knew would be an orgasm of sound. Finally, he lifted both arms high into the air, the drumsticks an extension of his body. Nicks counted it off in her head: one, two, three, four, just as Asher glanced up at the rest of his bandmates and nodded—the signal that it was their turn to join the fun.

  Spencer slammed both sticks into the snare drum in front of him. The first chord after the intro swirled around her head, dove into her ears, and exploded out of her chest. “Yeah!” she shouted, punching her right arm into the air in the Fellow Rock Musician’s Salute of Mad Respect.

  Peripherally, she saw Stone throw his head back and laugh.

  It was physical. The song was inside her. It gripped both lungs in one mighty fist and held on, squeezing the breath from her body. No wonder everyone spoke of him with such awe in their voices. He was, hands down, the best guitarist she’d ever heard. Better than Stone. Better than her. Better than anyone.

  She turned her hands over and studied them as the music gripped her, tasted her, licked her like a giant lollipop. His hands. She was a piece of him. The only piece of him that still existed if the Rock’n Tapestries notebook was accurate.

  She returned her attention to the screen. All five of the Dirty Turtles were up there rockin’, making music, loving life. She watched the man who’d fathered her and silently swore she was going to make it as a musician.

  Or die trying.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was truly astonishing how fast life changed direction sometimes. A little over twenty-four hours earlier, she’d been Nicks Sorenson, daughter of Tage and Chelsea Sorenson. Struggling high school student, guitarist with big dreams.

  The line of demarcation in this instance was the moment she chose to shove those three picks in her pocket to show Stone.

  Now she was something different. Something better? She’d never seen anyone speak of her biological father without a spark of excitement in their eyes. It seemed as though he’d been a household name among those who followed the Pittsburgh music scene in the late eighties, early nineties. Talent, charisma, good looks. Asher seemed to have it all.

  So why did he willingly go to an early death? Why did he throw away what he had with her mother? And more importantly—would he have chosen to live if he’d found out he was going to be a father sooner?

  The questions would drive her crazy if she didn’t get answers, so Stone was taking her to talk to Spencer Meiers, drummer for the Dirty Turtles. She glanced down at his address on the paper lying in her lap. Gio had looked it up for them. 33 Martell Run Lane in Edgewood. She’d jumped up and down when she heard Spencer was within driving distance, determined to go and see him. Thank God Stone had brought his GPS along.

  Stone turned to her when he heard her sigh. “You okay?”

  She slumped against the window and rested her temple against her right fist. “Yeah. I have a shitload of questions though.”

  “I can imagine.” Stone was silent for a moment. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Spencer is the only member of the Dirty Turtles still in Pittsburgh. I need to talk to him.”

  Martell Run Lane ran through a suburban neighborhood, with small and moderately-sized ranch houses typical of those built in the mid-nineties on half or quarter-acre lots. Nicks watched the numbers go by as they slowly cruised down the road. “It’ll be on my side,” she said. “Forty-three, forty-one, thirty-nine, thirty-seven, thirty-five...it should be the next house.”

  Thirty-three was a neat split-level. Yellow siding, red brick and shutters, two stall garage. Professionally landscaped with a white gazebo in the back, peeking out from behind the corner of the house. A tall pin oak stood next to the gazebo. Spencer had apparently done well for himself. She thought the yard must be beautiful in the summer.

  Stone nosed the Camaro into the driveway and stopped. “You sure you want to do this?”

  Annoyed, she pushed the car door open and stepped out. “Stop asking me that. We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. I have to talk to someone who really knew Asher before I talk to my parents. My mother is going to have a totally different perspective than a guy who played in a band with him. It’ll just be another layer of the onion that was Asher Pratt.”

  “I can’t find a single flaw in that theory,” Stone said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Let’s go.”

  Nicks had her finger poised over the doorbell when the door was swung open by Spencer Meiers himself. He was much older now, middle-forties, somewhat on the bald side though he’d stayed thin. His reaction to her was amusing. Taking a half step back, his eyes widened. “Can I help you?”

  “You’re Spencer Meiers?” she asked.

  “I am. Who’re you?”

  “I wonder if I might ask you some questions. I just found out—”

  “Who’s there, Spence?” a woman called from behind him. She appeared at his left shoulder, glanced at Nicks, and gave Spencer one of the dirtiest looks she’d ever seen. “Who is that woman? Or should I say underage groupie?”

  The tone of jealousy irritated Nicks, but given what she knew of Asher’s behavior in his younger years, she wondered if his wife had good cause to feel that way. She appeared to be older than Spencer. Her hair, once dark, was peppered with liberal amounts of gray. Deep wrinkles marred the delicate skin around green eyes peering out from a careworn face. She’d been pretty once. Had Spencer also shattered her trust by cheating on her?

  There was going to be an argument if Nicks didn’t introduce herself posthaste. “My name is Nicks Sorenson, and I know that doesn’t mean a damned thing to you. But I just found out Asher Pratt is my father, and I wanted to ask you a few questions. If you don’t mind,” she blurted as fast as she could.

  Their expressions were comical. Both mouths dropped open at the same time. Spencer even lost a little bit of the red coloring his wife’s rude comment had brought to his cheeks. “Jesus Christ,” they said in unison.

  Spencer stepped closer and studied her. “Hell if you’re not Asher’s daughter. God, I’d know those eyes anywhere.” He shuddered. “Who the hell is your mother?”

  “Chelsea Whitaker.”

  “Chelsea!” they both said in unison again, turning to face one another.

  So they’d known her mother. Maybe they could give her the information she was looking for. “This is Stone Jensen, my boyfriend.” She pulled Stone up beside her.

  “Stone Jensen,” Spencer said, stepping out onto the concrete stoop in his bare feet to shake his hand. “I’ve seen you play. Heavy Remedy, right? God, you guys are fantastic. You, my man, are one kick-ass guitar player.”

  “Nicks plays guitar too,” Stone said as he pumped the man’s hand.

  Spencer turned his attention to her. “You do? Of course
you do! How could you do anything else, with Asher as your father?” He smacked his forehead. “Oh geez, where are my manners? Come in, both of you. I’d be happy to answer any questions you may have about that son-of-a-bitch. Think about him every day of my life. I loved that guy and hated him all at the same time. Come in!”

  It was a great way to spend an afternoon. Nicks enjoyed listening to Spence—he insisted they call him Spence—relive his wild and carefree days with the band. He’d no sooner finish one story before he’d launch into another, fat tears rolling down his cheeks from laughing so hard. Even Catherine, his wife, shared a few memories with them.

  “Lord, Asher used to pull some shit. We were playing up in Olean, New York one time. The place was a falling-down dive, but we took anything we could get in the early days. Don’t remember the name of the bar, but they gave us rooms upstairs where we could change our clothes. Asher went up to get something before we started. Joe Velish, our bass player, was lying on the floor in the dark, right in front of the door to our rooms, getting a warm-up blowjob from a groupie. Well, Asher didn’t see them there and tripped over them. He hit the wall, bounced, and fell into the door frame so hard he damn near bit his tongue in half. The filling in one of his molars was knocked out too.” Spence giggled like a girl, wiped at his eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “Asher sang most of our songs. He had perfect pitch and could pull off anything. Steve Perry, Axl Rose, Bret Michaels. He especially liked to cover Poison songs, as they were from Mechanicsburg. He could make himself sound like any of them. All of them. Anyway, he had a helluva time singing that night with his tongue half bit off. Every time he sucked in air and stepped to the mic, the tooth without the filling got to aching. He took half a bottle of Tylenol trying to kill the pain. He wouldn’t drink though. He took playing seriously. Never saw him drink or do drugs while onstage.’”

  The smile left Spence’s face as he shook his head. “We were friends. Or at least I thought we were. Spent nearly every weekend for seven or eight years together. And then Asher disappeared, and we never saw him again. No phone calls. Nothin’. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw his obituary in the paper. Man. What a loss. I cried like a goddamn baby for two days then went on a drunken bender that nearly killed me.” He dropped his gaze to the carpet of the family room they were sitting in. His wife reached over to take his hand in hers.

  Spence’s pained expression hit Nicks right in the heart. They’d all loved the man as much as her mother. Which only made Asher’s decisions more of a mystery. “That’s one of the questions I have. Why did he let himself die like that?” Nicks asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you, honey.” Spencer held up a hand. “Let me finish the story first, then we can talk about that. Next job we had, Asher put a wee dollop of Bengay in the crotch of Joe’s spandex pants. We set up then went to get dressed. Things were cool at first then the stuff worked its way into Joe’s undies and finally to his boys. Halfway through the second set, Joe started hopping around the stage like lava was spewing out of his asshole.” Spence howled, gulped air, and slapped his knee. “I saw dance moves that night that will never be replicated anywhere!”

  Stone, being male and all, found the tales especially hilarious. The Turtles’ antics had him laughing as hard as Spence. When he threw himself back into the sofa, clutched his stomach, and made donkey noises, Nicks shot him a dirty look.

  “Oh c’mon!” Stone glowered right back at her. “This stuff is legend. Someone should put these stories in a book!”

  “I actually have one started,” said Spence. “I type it up on the computer as I think of things that happened back then.” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “God, we were so young. All five of us full of piss-and-vinegar and wild dreams. They talked about us from one end of Pittsburgh to the other. It was over so fast.”

  “Did you know my mother? Chelsea?”

  “I loved Chelsea,” interjected Catherine. “I was sad when they broke up.”

  “I liked her too,” said Spence. He laced his fingers together and lowered his head. Nicks got the feeling he wanted to say more, but was holding back for some reason.

  “Can you tell me something about their relationship?” asked Nicks. This was the meat and potatoes information, the stuff she really wanted to know. What happened between her mother and Asher would keep her up at night if she didn’t get some answers. Talking to Spence was a long shot though—even her mother hadn’t known why Asher took off the way he did.

  Spence sighed loudly. “Remember when I told you I had a love/hate relationship with Asher?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, this was the part of him I hated. It was plain to anyone with eyes that Chelsea loved him. I mean, really, really loved him, in a way that made you ache inside. We were all playboys, lovers, one-night stands for any woman who was up for a quickie in the back seat of a car or in the men’s room. Chelsea made us feel ashamed of ourselves. Made us all hopeful we could find a woman who loved us that much.” Spence spared a guilty glance at Catherine. She rose abruptly and left the room.

  Spence swallowed hard and continued. “She adored him and he didn’t care. It made me want to kill him. I mean...we all had fiancées, but we also had our flings with girls who meant nothing to us. Even after we were married, we did things we shouldn’t have. The difference was, we tried to be discreet about it. But Asher....” Spence choked up. “He took that little girl’s love and threw it right back in her face. Right in front of her some nights. And I swear to God, I could hear her heart cracking and breaking from the stage. She would just smile. So stoic about everything. I hated him then. Hated his guts. She was beautiful and kind. Loving. He treated her like garbage.”

  “Why?” Nicks thought of all the things her mother had written in the notebook about his infidelities and his indifference. “How can you love a man like that? Why would you?”

  “Hell if I know. I...we...wanted to protect her. We tried to talk to him about it, but he would always put his hands up and walk away. I don’t think he liked cheating. It was like he couldn’t say no to any woman, couldn’t stop himself from doing it. I don’t know. Asher was a real puzzle sometimes.”

  “How so?” Nicks tilted her head.

  Spence was silent as he gave it some thought. “We were the best of friends, but I didn’t know much about him. He and his mother came to Pittsburgh from Oklahoma when Asher was only a couple of months old. Debbie, his mom, was an RN. I get the feeling the move was family related—some type of drama there—but he would never talk about it. Never. He and his mother were quite a pair. He wasn’t himself after she passed away from cancer.”

  Oklahoma. That was a clue. It seemed to be more information than her mother had. “Debbie Pratt would be my grandmother,” Nicks said.

  Spencer nodded. “She was a nice lady. Fiercely protective of Asher, even when he was older.”

  “Mom said in her journal that Asher up and disappeared on you guys. None of you knew where he was.”

  “And that’s the truth. Didn’t show for practice one day. Dude never missed practice. I called him. No answer. Went by his house. Locked up, with his car in the driveway. A month or two later, I was reading his obituary in The Pittsburgh Press.” Spence grew thoughtful. “Y’know, I’ve done a lot of shitty things in my life. Acted like an asshole to my family. Didn’t always treat Catherine with the respect she deserved, and you can see how...Well, she loves me, but she doesn’t trust me anymore. Refused to have children because she was convinced she’d end up a single mom, like her mother. When Asher died, I got the biggest wake-up call of my life. This isn’t a dress rehearsal. You only get one shot. I straightened up then. Got my shit together. The jury is still out on whether it was too little, too late, but at least I can face myself in the mirror now. I’m still not a good man, but I’m getting better every day.”

  Spence suddenly looked old. Nicks felt sorry for him.

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it. We all think we’re invincible
when we’re young. Isn’t it every man’s dream to be a rock star? You guys almost got there.”

  Spence smiled wanly. “Almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades, honey. Asher’s death punched a hole in everyone’s dreams. I’ve spent the rest of my life as a grunt worker in a tool and die shop. Joe moved to Milwaukee and never even said goodbye. Mike Lewis and I—he was our keyboard player—used to keep in touch, but that petered out after a while. And Rick Dempsey, our other guitar player, is a drugged-out alcoholic living on the streets downtown. The world isn’t the same without Asher in it. He’s an asshole for leaving us like that.”

  Nicks thought she’d heard enough heartbreak for one day. She rose to her feet, pulling Stone up with her, and walked to the front door. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Meiers. You gave me some of the answers I was hoping for. And if you ever publish that book about the Turtles, please let me know. I’d like to buy the first copy.”

  Spence shook her hand, then Stone’s. “It was so nice to meet you, Nicks. My heart is lighter right now, knowing a piece of Asher lives on. I’m coming to Tapestries to see you some night. I promise you that.”

  “Bring Catherine with you, okay?” Nicks said.

  “Of course.” Spence looked thoughtful. “Hey, you know what? I remember seeing Chelsea’s new husband at Asher’s funeral. Big, blond guy. He carried a baby all over with him, a really little one. Newborn. Chelsea said she’d just gotten out of the hospital. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “That was me.”

  “And you were really Asher’s kid. Does your mother’s husband know?”

  “According to my mom, he does.”

  Spence seemed speechless for a moment. “Go home and give him a big hug, Nicks. He must be a good man. Your mother deserves a guy like that after Asher.”