Rock God_Book 1_A Contemporary Harem Fantasy

by Michael-Scott Earle

  “Try her studio,” Aimee said.

  “Beth?” Loretta said again. I could hear music through the speakerphone. It sounded like Indian hookah-lounge music.

  “Hey Loretta!” a voice yelled. It sounded far away, and I could hear a faint echo from upstairs, across the other side of the house.

  “Dinner between seven and seven-thirty, okay?” There was a long pause. “Beth?” Loretta asked again.

  “I’m covered in paint, and I don’t want to stop anytime soon.” She sounded exasperated. Loretta frowned and adjusted her apron.

  “I’ve got a friend over, Beth!” Aimee yelled across to the speakerphone. “Please have dinner with us and meet him.”

  “Oh, you brought a boy over.” Beth sounded like she was spitting out the words. There was another long pause. “Okay. I’ll be done by seven-ish.” The phone beeped off immediately. Loretta and Aimee both sighed at the same time, Aimee in annoyance. Loretta just sounded relieved.

  “Let me show you the rest of the house. I’ll show you the back before it gets too cold.” Aimee put her hand on my bicep and tugged me toward the large double doors that led outside to the back patio.

  The view was pretty amazing. The sun had set completely into the Pacific Ocean, and purple hues were dotting the clouds. I could barely make out the dark outline in the distance, but a small amount of orange light still filled the sky in the west. Since it was twilight, it was a little difficult for my eyes to adjust and see the buildings in the valley.

  It was a magnificent scene.

  Los Angeles stretched out as far as the eye could see. You don’t really get an idea of how big it is until you fly to another city and fly back. I remember I once took a trip to Texas with the track team in high school It seemed that Dallas started and then stopped a split second later as we landed. When I flew back to Los Angeles, it seemed like the homes and buildings started on the ground thirty minutes before I landed.

  I could see the ghostly shapes of the mountains to the east as the last bits of light faded. I didn’t really know what mountain range it was. Maybe San Bernardino, but I figured those were far away. To the west was the Santa Monica Mountain range that became Malibu and Pacific Palisades before it abruptly ended in the ocean. To the south was the majority of Los Angeles. The city proper, Inglewood, Torrance, and maybe, if the light was right and the day wasn’t so smoggy, I would be able to see to Long Beach and the ocean around Palos Verdes.

  Aimee’s back patio had a large pool and jacuzzi, as well as an outside bar and built-in grill. It wasn’t set up as a second kitchen like at Jack’s parents’ house, but I imagined it would be easy enough to throw a great party out here. The pool was surrounded by smooth river stone, and cleverly designed landscape lights began to flicker on as dusk settled. The lights hinted at hidden paths that diverted guests away from the pool and through the surrounding bamboo and juniper gardens.

  “The tennis and basketball courts are down here.” I suddenly paid attention to what Aimee was saying. She had been talking for a few moments, but I hadn’t really been paying attention because of the view. As she escorted me to wide path that led toward the southern horizon, I realized she hadn’t moved away from me when we stepped outside. Our arms were still entwined. She squeezed me tighter and shivered as a cool gust blew against the side of the hill.

  She led me to a stairway heading steeply down. I could see the pathway lights guide a trail to a half-court basketball top and a fence-enclosed tennis court. I wasn’t really into tennis, but I loved to get beaten at basketball. Aimee was shivering too much to ignore now. The wind had picked up, and she was in shorts and a tee-shirt.

  “Let’s go back inside. I want to see the rest of the house,” I said urgently as I pulled her back toward her home. She resisted for a second and then followed me back to the kitchen.

  We walked through the dining room quickly. It looked pretty, and I wanted to admire some of the paintings and the table setting, but Aimee dragged me on.

  “We are almost to the best part,” she said excitedly as she squeezed my bicep. We flipped a corner through a hallway, I was totally lost now, and came into another dark, leather-type room that had a movie screen on a far wall, leather reclining chairs, and plush couches for viewing. There were dim lights on in the room to highlight more paintings on the wall. Maybe twelve people could have easily spread out in here to watch the screen on the far wall. It would have comfortably held twenty if people sat on the floor. Before I could look at the paintings, she dragged me to the next room.

  “I think you’ll love this room. Oh my gosh, I am so excited to see the look on your face!” Aimee was prancing next to me as we went through another long hallway with beautiful paintings on the wall. Again, I wanted to pause to look at them, but Aimee was on a mission. Finally, we got to the destination she was so excited about. I fell in love with it immediately.

  It was a music room. In a corner was a dark-walnut grand piano. Next to the piano was an upright bass on a stand; there was a bass guitar next to that, with a large amplifier. On the other side of the room sat a nice-looking drum set and an arsenal of acoustic and electric guitars. Vintage-looking Marshall and Fender tube amps were stacked behind a couple of mic stands in the other corners, and I could see a bunch of large PA speakers spread throughout the room. There was a small fireplace with a protective glass next to some stools and leather bean bags. I wanted to grab a guitar, plop into a beanbag in front of the fire, and never leave. Then I realized I hadn’t even thought about playing in so long. My chest hurt as desire suddenly flared, like a hot nova.

  Aimee let go of my arm, and I walked like a lemming over to the array of guitars. There were five acoustics, but my eyes locked onto the centerpiece of the array: a beautifully crafted Martin D-28 with an ebony fingerboard and beautiful inlays across the dark body and neck. As I inspected it closer, I could see the inlays were mother of pearl and, gasp, silver metal. The rosette across the sound hole was flowery and ornate, like I had never seen. It crawled like a vine up the body and across the fingerboard to end at the top of the headstock. Inside of the body was the same pattern, carefully etched into the wood, without silver. Even the pick guard was formed as a beautiful silver and pearl extension of the design. The wood seemed made of dark flames that seemed to lick and tease at every angle the light hit it.

  “Yeah, I thought you would like that one!” Aimee said, with a purr of pleasure. I could only nod in agreement. The other guitars were pretty magnificent as well, but not quite as ornate as the Martin. There was a Taylor 12-string cut off with rich abalone accents on the body and fingerboard. Another Martin, this one was a classical, with nylon strings. The fourth was a round-bodied Ovation that was a deep-rust color with rich, lightly-colored maple inlays around the corner sound holes. I paused for a second at the fifth guitar, which was in the back. It was an old Yamaha steel string that looked like it had been abused, used, and gigged for a long time. The finish was coming off at the heel where the arm would hang, and I could see tons of wear at the frets. Someone had loved this guitar for a long time.

  “Who plays?” I asked. No one would buy a beat-up Yamaha; it had to have sentimental value, not that they were bad instruments. This one just seemed out of place with the other high-end collectors.

  “My dad does. It’s a funny story. He knew my mom played piano, so he asked her to do some duets to weasel some time with her.” She giggled a bit. I wondered how many times she had heard that story. I thought it was romantic; of course it was something I would do. Well, something I would have done if I still played. “What kind of guitar do you play? They all kind of look the same to me, but Dad told me there were differences.”

  “I have one that is the same brand and style as that,” I said as I pointed to the amazingly beautiful Martin with the silver and pearl accents. “But, it isn’t as fancy.” I quickly said. Martins were still expensive guitars.

  I just had a normal D-28 model. It cost my parents a little under $4,000 to buy wh
en I was a junior in high school. I had spent two weeks trying out over sixty different instruments until I found the one. The first time I touched it, I knew it had been made for me. It sang like the church bells atop a lonely monastery in Tibet. It sat in my playing position as weightless as a feather. It was like my soul mate. Thinking about it now made my stomach tie up in knots. My parents didn’t make a lot of money, and it had been a huge investment for them. They were really proud of it and how it sounded when I played it. Aimee’s dad’s guitars were amazingly beautiful, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had bought the silver and pearl Martin for $20,000, but I doubted that any of these guitars sounded as good as the one which sat forgotten in the corner of my closet, collecting dust and crying for me.

  “I also have a nylon string one like that,” I said as I pointed to the classical guitar. I used it to play flamenco and classical style. My nylon string was a Yamaha. It was a great instrument that did its job. It wasn’t as nice as the Martin I had, but I got it used for an eighth of the price when I grew out of my childhood guitar.

  “Do you have an electric?” Aimee was standing closer to me now. I glanced over to the area where her dad’s electrics were. He clearly wanted to represent all the flavors. There was a tobacco-burst Fender Stratocaster, a seafoam-green Fender Telecaster with a dark-red, tortoise-shell pickguard, and a gold-colored Gibson Les Paul.

  “I have one like that, only it is a mustard-white-yellow kinda color with a matching neck,” I said as I pointed to the green Telecaster. I used it to jam with jazz cats. It also worked for rock, but I normally didn’t do any rock stuff.

  “Cool! So… can you play for me?” she asked as she softly drew out the last syllable.

  I looked at her, and she had a hopeful expression. I turned and glanced back to the guitars. I almost didn’t want to touch the silver and pearl Martin. I don’t think I’ve ever held an instrument of that fine craftsmanship. I was also really out of practice. I think it had been almost twelve months since I played. I’m sure my fingers would work fine, but I no longer had calluses on the tips.

  I didn’t feel like playing though. For one reason, Aimee may read more into it than I would want her to. Also, I didn’t know what would happen if I played. It may bring up more thoughts of my parents, and I didn’t want to turn into a mess here. Especially if Aimee was the only person’s shoulder I could cry on.

  Maybe she wanted that.

  “No, sorry Aimee. I just can’t play right now,” I said as firmly as I could.

  “Oh come on! Please? I heard your stuff in Jack’s car, and you sounded soooo good. I’d love to hear you live.” Aimee was pleading. I glanced up into her eyes. She actually seemed a little angry. She was used to getting what she wanted. I suddenly felt satisfied with my decision. She had already gotten me to come pick her up, hang out at her house, eat dinner with her, and take her to a show. I played for me and when I wanted to.

  “Sorry, Aimee. But tell you what, I’m not too shabby of a piano player. I can play that, if you’re interested.” Her face lost all anger.

  “Oh totally! I want to hear you play piano!” Ha! My ninja distraction move worked. She forgot about the guitar request as she escorted me with an arm tug over to the dark-walnut piano. She pushed me down on the bench and sat next to me.

  In reality, I wasn’t that experienced of a piano player, but you needed to know your way around one if you wanted to be a professional musician. I took lessons in high school and then in college, but I normally only practiced an hour or so a day, as opposed to the four or more on the guitar. Still, I could fuddle my way around some standard jazz tunes because I had the chord progressions and melody memorized. I may be able to sing some. I cleared my throat and flexed the back of it. It had been a while since I sang.

  “I can just play jazz stuff, unless you have any sheet music lying around?” She scooted off the bench and then dug around in a wooden box that was secreted beneath the piano. I started to stretch my fingers and rotate my wrists.

  “How about these?” Aimee stood up next to me. She had a jumbo arm-full of sheet music and various books. I took the load of music from her arms and set it on the bench next to me. A lot of books with standard classical stuff: Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Haydn, Debussy, Chopin, Schubert, Tchaikovsky. They even had some non-standard stuff too, like Mahler, Rimsky-Korsakov, Gershwin, and Rachmaninoff. Near the bottom of the stack, I found what I had hoped to find: the set of Real Books 1 & 2. They were filled with jazz and blues standards. With those two books, I could play all night if I had the finger stamina.

  “These are perfect!” I said, holding up the Real Books. They were pretty thick. She started to gather up the rest of the music, but I grabbed the Rimsky-Korsakov book. There were a few of his pieces I had played through the years on piano and guitar. Some of his works were pretty simple, but they still sounded beautiful.

  I left the books on the bench next to me, hoping that Aimee would maybe grab another stool or stand behind me, and then I started running my fingers across the keys to warm them up. She didn’t fall for it. She grabbed the books, set them on the stand on top of the piano, and sat where the books had been next to me.

  The piano sounded amazing. Each note filled the mansion with a warm, full sound. I could feel the tones reverberate through my ribs, chest, and hips into the seat. I didn’t really know that much about piano brands, but this one had a golden-etched harp logo with the words “Steinway & Sons” etched below it. It was probably top of the line, and it sounded wonderful.

  “Wow, you sound good!” Aimee said, next to me. She seemed as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve. It was hard not to feel pleased by her attention.

  “It’s not me; this is a great piano,” I laughed. After a few minutes, I could feel my fingers begin to remember what they were doing. I grabbed the Rimsky-Korsakov book and found what I was looking for. Song of India was a pretty, easy standard I had played many times. I set it on the stand, took a deep breath, and started on it.

  It wasn’t my best execution of the piece, but, all things considered, I felt that it went great. When I finished, Aimee clapped in joy.

  “That was great! Can you play some more?” she asked. I risked a glance over into her face. Her eyes met mine; they were filled with desire, and I looked away quickly. Oh jeez, this was a bad idea. Hopefully, she would keep her word and not try anything with me tonight.

  I opened up the Real Book. I knew the chord progressions to most of these songs already, but it was good to have a reference. I decided to start with Satin Doll. It was easy to play, and I could also sing it.

  “I didn’t know you could sing too!” Aimee gushed after I finished.

  “Yeah. I was kind of thinking I’d make a living playing music. You have to be able to sing and play piano.” I started flipping through the book. “Anything you want to hear? I can just do all the standard stuff.”

  “I don’t know… just play what you want. You sounded great so far. I wish my parents were here to hear you. They’ve been so busy with work that they don’t play that much anymore,” she said, sadly.

  I nodded as I opened up the book to Take the A Train. I’d played this a million times on guitar, and probably hundreds of times on the piano. I really didn’t need the music, but it felt good to have it in front of me. This went pretty easy. I was definitely starting to relax.

  I played for about thirty more minutes. After each song, Aimee clapped and complimented my playing and singing. Eventually, my hands started to get tired; the muscles hadn’t been used in a while, and I needed a break.

  “That’s probably all I can do for now,” I said with a smile. This had been fun. The piano sounded amazing, and I realized how much I missed music.

  “Thank you so much for playing!” Aimee wrapped her arms around my shoulders in a hug. It was kind of awkward, since she was sitting at my side. I couldn’t really wiggle out of it, and she leaned her head on my shoulder. I tried to think of something to say to get her to stop huggin
g me.

  “So, is there more of the house to see?” She let go of me and sat up. She was still sitting too close for my comfort. The act of hugging me placed her body in my personal space.

  “Ummm…” she said considering. “I think that is the entire house.”

  “What about upstairs?” I said. I could make out the foyer over her shoulder as I looked at her, and I recalled the stairs leading up to the second level.

  “Oh, that is just bedrooms. Of course, I can take you up there if you are really interested in seeing my bedroom,” she said, the last part with a teasing tone to her voice, and she fluttered her eyelids as she looked at me. Uh oh.

  “Oh no, that’s okay.” I looked around for an escape, but I couldn’t escape her eyes. I felt her lean in close to me, her breasts pressed into my shoulder. My heart pounded against my ribcage. Her breath smelled like mint as it came close to my nose and mouth.

  “Are you two ready for dinner?” Loretta asked as she walked into the room.

  “That would be great!” I said, with probably too much excitement. Aimee startled, looked pensively at me, and then turned around on the bench to face Loretta.

  “Thank you,” she said as she scooted off the bench. I sighed in relief.

  As we approached the kitchen, I could smell the aroma of the meal. I normally didn’t eat that much, but my mouth started to water as the scent of the salmon assaulted it. Loretta had a cordless phone in her hand, and she hit a few buttons on it and then put her ear up to the piece as she walked with us back toward the kitchen. She said something in Spanish. I recognized “comida,” “Niña,” and “preciosa.” My Spanish was pretty terrible, but I suspected she was probably telling Beth that dinner was ready.

  The aroma was even more intoxicating in the kitchen. If the food tasted even half as good as it smelled, it might be the best meal I have ever had. I saw the corner breakfast nook area of the kitchen was set up for three. Loretta asked us to take a seat as she walked into the kitchen to finish the last of her preparations. We both sat down.