by Kailin Gow
Still, I felt a twinge of guilt as I watched Danny pace back and forth across the hotel suite floor, talking to Slayton, vetting potential candidates. “Too metal,” he'd say about one. “Too folksy” about another. “Too young. Too old.”
At last, at twenty past two in the afternoon, I heard him say: “That's just right.”
He hung up the phone and turned to me. “We have him,” he said. “Jim Barnes.”
“Jim Barnes?” I racked my brains, trying to remember where I'd heard the name. “The blues singer?”
“The same one.”
“But he's so old!” He was someone my father used to talk about – a “young upstart” back when my dad was close to retirement.
“He's not forty yet,” Danny smiled. “And, on the bright side – the fewer hot guys you have around you, the less worried I am that you'll lose your heart to a handsome stranger.” He gave a little laugh. “No, but serious – Jimbo is a brilliant bassist – and he's got quite a good voice to boot. In case I ever get laryngitis.”
“Don't even joke about that!” I cried. “With all that's been happening with the band lately, I feel like you'll be next. Maybe Roni will stick some germ-ridden handkerchief in your glove compartment – some petty sabotage like that.” It was a joke, but it hardly felt like one. The past few hours had been so exhausting that I felt like I had no energy to laugh.
Still, by that evening, I was waiting at the arrivals board at LAX Airport, watching with Danny and Luc as Roc Ilford and Jim Barnes made their way off the plane.
Roc I spotted first. There was no doubt, from the second he staggered towards me, that this man was a rocker, through and through. From his leather trousers to his long ponytail, flecked with strands of grey, to the piercings he wore in both ears, Roc was every inch the stereotype. Slightly aging – I'd put him, too, at around forty – he was nevertheless magnetically handsome: his charisma, it seemed, had only grown with age.
He stopped right in front of me, looking me up and down. “ 'ello, love,” he drawled. “You're the little lady what started the band, yeah?”
Suddenly I felt nervous. This man was a rock legend, a post-punk icon of the early 90's. And here I was, a nineteen-year-old girl with dreams of starting a band, standing in front of him, telling him that for all intents and purposes I was, effectively, his boss? I hoped he didn't notice that my cheeks were turning bright red.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “That's me.”
“Right...” Roc chuckled softly. “Not half bad a band you started.” He nodded, and his mouth spread into a toothy smile. “Not bad at all. I listened to your demos on the plane. Good fun, yeah? I've got a few ideas, don't get me wrong, but this sounds like it'll be a fine ride.”
Relief flooded over me.
“I'm glad you think so,” I said.
“Let's see if I can't do us proud, yeah?”
Before I could answer, a hand tapped me on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, miss, are you Neve Knight?”
I nodded.
“I'm so sorry about your friend. I hope they get that dastardly fellow soon.”
Jim couldn't have been more different from Roc. A quiet voice, smooth as honey, and large girth that gave him the air of a particularly friendly bear, Jim was as shy and sweet as Roc was loud and aggressive. But during the car ride back to the airport, Danny and I soon found out that they were both utter gentlemen: devoted to their art, devoted to their craft, consummate professionals. They were also, we learned, a hell of a lot of fun. Roc told stories about the Manchester post-punk scene, about the night he spent with Siouxsie Sioux at a festival when he was a teenager, gossip about every band I'd ever heard of, and a few I hadn't. Jim's stories were longer and more structured – at first they almost seemed dull – quiet stories about his life growing up on a farm in Louisiana. But he had a wickedly dry sense of humor, and his punch lines frequently sent us into hysterics.
By the time we started rehearsals, we had become fast friends.
It was tough to say goodbye to Kyle and Steve – they both hung around rehearsals, both to give notes and to maintain a nominal presence in the band – but to my relief both Jim and Roc were respectful of their presence, at once aware that they would never be as close to me or Luc as Kyle or Steve and simultaneously committed to doing the best job possible.
They were that much older, too, and that helped – while both of them were still single (Roc had gone through about five divorces; Jim was still unmarried, having had his heart broken by a country western singer when he was eighteen and never quite gotten over it), and willing to go out with Steve and Luc to meet girls, flirt, and generally have a good time – they were nevertheless clearly a generation removed from the rest of the band members, and so they adopted a slightly fatherly attitude towards the rest of us.
“You've got to learn to hold your liquor,” Roc always told us. “Remember – it's not the quantity or the quality, but the mixture. Never blend your spirits.”
“It's important to take time out of your day to take a walk in nature,” was Jim's somewhat more family-friendly advice. “It renews the creative spirit.”
But it was Luc that most impressed me. Luc – used to having a big family and taking care of several siblings – seemed to adopt his new role of host with gusto. Balancing the various dynamics of the band – old members and new, Danny's tension with Kyle, my own romantic tensions – couldn't have been easy, but Luc handled it like he was born to the role. He started conversations that he knew would interest both Kyle and Steve and Roc and Jim, went out for drinks with all of them, facilitated jokes, invited them all to his mother's house for dinner, and otherwise managed to both make the newcomers feel welcome and the old members feel included. My heart swelled with pride when I looked at him: every time he made a comment, invited Steve to contribute to a conversation, suggested an outing, I was reminded just how kind he was, how warm, how clever. A real family man, my dad had once called him, giving me a look that indicated he expected me to be part of that particular family. I couldn't deny that I'd considered it once. But that was before Danny.
Danny and I had relaxed our rules about secrecy a little now that Kyle was spending less time with the band – but we were still subtle, mindful of Luc, who was far too polite to say anything but who nevertheless, I knew, felt the sting.
Kyle, meanwhile, had found a new source of distraction. After discovering that both Jim and Kyle were Johnny Cash fans, Luc orchestrated an outing for just the two of them, telling them he just so happened to have two tickets to a Johnny Cash tribute concert he couldn't make. And so sweet, quiet Jim took Kyle out for the evening. I don't know what happened, or what was spoken between them, but when they returned Kyle seemed happier than before: calmer, more relaxed. In Jim, it seemed, he found a source of fatherly guidance that his own father had never been – and for Jim, who had never had any children, Kyle became the son he'd never had.
“I could never replace you,” I overheard Jim reassuring Kyle one day. “But I want you to know that whenever I play, I try to imagine how you would play, and capture some of that spirit. In this way you inspire me, and the spirit of your music lives on even when you're not playing.”
By the end of the week, we were one big happy family – and none too soon. Our first gig as the new, if not improved, Never Knights, was fast upon us.
Luckily, we rose to the occasion. Roc and Jim's skill and discipline had only improved our numbers, and when we rocked the house, we did so absolutely. Not even the Dusk Riders, with whom we shared the stage, could take away from us the wild applause, the adulation, the screams of our fans. They called out our names – names of band members old and new – and I even spied Kyle and Steve in the crowd, Kyle somewhat obscured in a hoodie, Steve's bandage newly signed by all of us, cheering us on.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all, I thought.
After the show, Danny caught me by the waist and pulled me into a secluded corner o
f the green room. “Hey, you,” he whispered. “It's been a while since I've seen you properly...”
“I know,” I said. “But we've all been so busy.”
He smiled. “Not tonight you're not.” He kissed me roughly, deeply. “And I've got a special surprise for you tonight.”
Chapter 11
“A surprise?” My mouth opened into a wide grin. Since Jim and Roc had joined the band, Danny and I had hardly been able to spend any time together, let alone romantic time. I missed him. Completely and absolutely. My body ached for him. Every muscle in my body, every nerve, every hair on my head, prickled with the sensation of being near him. For a whole week I had longed for him – longed to go to him, to kiss him, to touch him, to take him into my mouth, to allow his flesh to touch mine, to take control of me, body and spirit. We hadn't even had sex since we were interrupted by Steve's injury – we didn't have the time. After every performance, every rehearsal, we were too tired to so much as look at each other, let alone fall into bed. It was exhilarating, in a sense, to be working so hard, and dedicating so much time to the music that I loved. On the other hand, being without Danny for so long had been agonizingly painful – my whole body missed him. I needed Danny like I needed oxygen. I couldn't breathe when I'd been apart from him for too long. The need was so visceral, so palpable, that it floored me.
And now, as he kissed me so lightly, so softly, before allowing his embrace to become ever more passionate, every rougher, all I could think was that I wanted him to take me right here, right now. I couldn't wait another second to have him.
I began fumbling with his buttons, trying to strip his shirt from his body, to feel his warm, bare chest beneath my fingers.
“Not yet, dearest,” he whispered.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, my voice urgent with my need. “Where are you taking me, Danny?”
He shushed me with a kiss. “Somewhere where we can be alone, Neve, darling. Somewhere where we can be ourselves. Our true selves – not these stressed-out people we've become...”
“What do you mean?”
“Not Never Knight the rock star. Not Danny Blue of Blues Records. Just us.”
We drove for thirty minutes in his car, the LA skyline glittering all around us, until we were far enough out of the city that we could see the stars glimmering in the sky. Everything was so quiet, so peaceful.
And then I recognized the road – the quiet little street, winding its way towards a secluded little house on a cliff overlooking the sea.
“Our cottage!” I exclaimed, joy washing over me. How I loved that place – the beautiful little cottage where Danny and I had first fallen in love, back when he was only my TA, back when things were simple, easy.
“But I thought...you were only subletting it.” I furrowed my brow.
Danny looked nervous. “Uh,” he started, “at the time, you know. I didn't mean to lie, exactly. But I didn't want you to know...I was embarrassed...” he sighed. “What I'm trying to say is that I owned it. And I didn't want you to know. When I moved to America to get my doctorate, the last thing I wanted to do was let everybody know that I was Danny Blue, the wayward son of Clarence Blue. I didn't want people to judge me for that.”
I could understand that. I knew what it was like to grow up the child of somebody famous. I'd told more than a few white lies in my day to hide the fact that I was Keith Knight's daughter.
“Fair's fair,” I said, punching him playfully on the arm. “And to think – I fell for you when I thought you were just a poor and struggling musician.”
“Don't forget sexy,” he pointed out.
“That's a given.”
“Talented?”
“That too.”
“Amazing in bed?”
“Now you're just fishing for compliments,” I laughed.
“I didn't want people to like me for who my father is. I got enough of that at home in England. I wanted people to like me for me. You understand, don't you?”
“More than most, I think,” I said. “Maybe that's why we get along so well. We both lead such strange lives...”
“Growing up with the paparazzi...”
“Tabloid stories about your mom's weight gain...”
“Or your dad's cheating.”
“So-called friends that take photographs of you on their iPhones at parties...”
“Being closer to club bouncers than to your parents.”
“Not me,” I said. “I was close to my parents.”
“You're lucky,” said Danny. “For people like us, that part's rare.” He gave a heavy sigh. “That was the happiest time of my life, you know. I really loved my doctorate.”
“And you gave it up. For me.”
He shook his head. “Suspended. Not gave up.”
“But it was so important to you...” I sighed. “And instead you're Blues Enterprises.”
“I had to. For our band. For us.”
“But would you have gone back if you'd never met me?”
“Honestly?” He shook his head. “No. I wanted to play music, but I also wanted to study it. To teach. To play for the love of it. Not to get sucked back into the world of rock stars and hotel suites. But for you...it's worth it, Neve. To help this band – I believe in us. And maybe one day I'll go back to school, finish my doctorate, travel the world as an ethnomusicologist. But right now, you're my priority. And if that means being Clarence Blue's only son, then I'll do that. But I won't be defined by that.”
“You're so much more than just Clarence Blue's son,” I said. “You're your own person. And Blues Records – that's you, that's not your dad...”
“I know,” Danny said. “Believe me, I know. For the first time in my life, I feel like myself. With you. I'm doing this for you. Because you're not the girl Clarence Blue chose for me. You're mine and I'm yours. I chose you. Being with you – it's the first time anything really feels like mine, and not my father's.” He swallowed. “I'm so afraid to lose you, Neve...” he said. “And I can't let that go. Not ever.”
“Never ever,” I said, smiling.
“Now,” Danny said. “Never ever, my darling, my love. I think there's something we've both been missing.” With that, he leaned in, enveloping me in a kiss that sent me reeling. He took my hand and led me inside the cottage. It looked just as I remembered it – I felt a pang as I remembered the first time we'd kissed, the first time we'd undressed each other, in this very room.
He led me through the house and out the back door, onto the terrace, which overlooked the sea.
“I want to do it with you out here,” he whispered.
Our love-making was passionate, desperate as ever. But this time, it was slower. Softer. More tender. As if there was something more than mere desire motivating us. As the moonlight washed over us, as our bodies moved together, as his breaths got shallower and shallower, louder and louder, as he moved within me, I had never felt happier, more content.
“I love you,” he told me, kissing me so, so softly. “You have no idea how much I love you. You mean the world to me.”
Finally, I believed him. Finally, I let my defenses fall – the last few defenses, the last fears. I let myself love him wildly, wholeheartedly, without reservation. I trusted him, now, completely. And I knew he would not hurt me again. I knew that at last, at last, I was free of the heartbreak, free of the worry. I could let myself love him at last.
And I fell in love with him – deeper and more truly than I ever thought possible.
From that day onwards our relationship seemed to take a more serious turn. I moved out of the studio apartment I lived in, and Danny and I moved back into the cottage. Together – like a real household. We cooked together – we even cleaned together – we lived a life of domesticity side by side with our rock star days. In the rehearsal room, we sang about groupies, about nightclubs, about sex. But we went home to each other. We took two cars to avoid rousing suspicion – I didn't want to tell Luc or Kyle about us just yet – but for all other
intents and purposes we operated as one-hit-won I even introduced him to my father, something I'd almost been dreading. My father had spent his whole life telling me to stay away from rock star boys: and now I was living with one. But to my surprise, Danny and my father hit it off brilliantly.
They traded jokes, stories, and anecdotes. They compared their favorite musicians, their favorite albums. They traded notes on playing, techniques, and songwriting. They had a mock-argument about whether Goth was a subgenre of postpunk or not. It didn't hurt that Danny Blue had been a huge fan of my dad's growing up – and that he knew every single album the Knights had ever recorded, including obscure bootlegs. Flattery will get you anywhere, they say, but sincere flattery is the best kind, and Danny's flattery was 100% sincere.
But the moment I knew that my father had decided that Danny Blue was acceptable was the moment he took out his guitar.
“He only does that when he likes them,” whispered my mother in my ear, beaming with pride.
“Come on, then, you fool,” my father said to Danny, in a voice that made it clear his mockery was benign. “Show me what you got.”
Before long, the two of them were playing together, rocking out in unison. I couldn't help but grin as I watched them: my two favorite men in the whole world, bonding.
“He's a keeper,” my father said as he loaded us into the car home. “You really know how to pick the good ones, Neve. I suppose I approve.” He gave me a serious fatherly look. “But be safe, right, Neve?”
“Always, dad!” I blushed as Danny and I sped away.
That night, we lay in each other's arms, happier than ever. Rehearsal was over, dinner was over, and now we had time to ourselves to relax, to talk, to make love.
And then Danny's phone beeped.
“Who would text me at this hour,” moaned Danny, annoyed, as he rolled over to get the phone. He picked it up and turned white. “What the...”