Delivering His Heir

by Jesse Jordan

  “Just means that you're liked by men,” Dad laughs. He and George T have a pretty intense rivalry, and I don't think I've ever heard him say anything nice about the man.

  “Yeah well... I've gotta go either way Dad. I'll call you later.” Before Dad can answer, I hang up and grab my bag, half running for the elevator. Pulse and Beat are on the tenth floor of the Coates Building, and I've still got at least twenty minutes of downtown traffic to get through before I can get out to Gashouse Studios.

  I feel like a hypocrite getting behind the wheel of my three-year-old Lexus that is pricier than anything anyone not on the editorial desk or higher drives. Here I am, complaining five minutes ago about my father's elitism and his all around prejudice against anything not one percenter WASP, when I'm driving a freakin' Lexus and live in a luxury condo building in Santa Monica, conveniently located near the freeway. The fact is, while I draw a standard reporter's salary, thirty-two thousand dollars a year, I live a six-figure lifestyle. Even the jeans I'm wearing and the shoes I've got on are out of my salary range.

  At least I've got the respect of Harry and some of the other reporters in the office. I earned it the hard way too, buckling down and taking the hard jobs and grinding, spending hours at my computer typing until the letters swam before my eyes and my head throbbed from the constant light. I earned it by listening when they dropped knowledge, by learning how to ask the tough questions to the right people and to dig my stories as hard as any other reporter. And yes, I earned it by being able to take all that work and turn out good stories too, stuff that gets readers interested and getting clicks on the Pulse website.

  Still, I feel guilty when I'm able to shop every week at Whole Foods while Polly comes in with a Tupperware of beans and tortillas because she can buy a big can for five bucks and be able to make it stretch for most of the week, and Harry drives a tiny Ford that truly does give life to the old taunt 'Fix or Repair Daily.'

  I put all my doubts out of my mind as I head to the 101. I get off near the airport, double checking my directions on my in-dash navigation and get onto San Fernando before turning off and making my way to the Gashouse building.

  You'd think that with one of the hottest acts on the music scene, Gashouse would be bigger, more luxurious perhaps. A plane from the airport that's less than a mile away rumbles overhead, and the neighborhood is totally blue collar. Stucco dominates the outer construction, and unless you know what Gashouse is, you'd easily confuse it with perhaps a slightly upscale construction company by the cars that I see parked out front. At least my Lexus doesn't look out of place here, but I do notice that the other side of the lot has more normal cars, stuff that you wouldn't look at twice if it passed you on the freeway. I wonder which side of the parking lot Joey's car is parked on?

  I get out of my car and go into the studios. The receptionist is dressed in an old t-shirt from a Korn tour and ripped Levi’s. He looks up from his magazine, chewing a wad of gum, things that would have gotten Polly fired. I'm used to it. “Hey, whatcha want?”

  “Hi, I'm Andrea Coates, I'm here to interview Joey Rivera?” I reply, showing my ID. “Is he here?”

  “Hi,” a quiet, kind of shy voice says behind me, and I turn, struck by the guy in front of me. I'd expected the rocker, the guy that Harry called the Dark Prince... but what's standing in front of me is a normal guy in a t-shirt and some jeans, with dark hair and big, beautiful brown eyes. Normal? I take that back, Joey Rivera's handsome as all get out, and when he smiles, he's got a row of perfectly even, gleaming teeth that fill a friendly smile. “I'm Joey.”

  Joey offers his hand, and I have to swallow, my throat is suddenly dry. “Uh... hi. I'm Andrea Coates.”

  Joey and I shake hands, and I swear he actually blushes a bit when he grips my hand in a sure, but not crushing grip, what a real handshake should feel like. I'm feeling it too, it's way too hot in the corridor of Gashouse records, and I'm trying not to bite my lip and bat my eyes when our handshake lasts just a little longer than what would normally be done. Joey pulls his hand back slowly, then starts, like he just woke up from a dream. “Uh... would you like to see the studio? It's soundproof, we can talk there.”

  “Sure,” I say, clearing my throat after I rasp at first. “Uh, where is it?”

  “Just over here, studio three,” Joey says. “Rocky and Ian aren't in today, so James just booked the smallest studio for me. Sorry if it's a little tight. He knows I like to just mess around a little sometimes, and well... I'm babbling, aren't I?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “But that's okay.”

  We go into the studio, which is small, barely eight feet wide, a sort of solo booth where Joey's set up his guitar in the corner. Joey sits down on a stool, and even sitting, he looks cute, sort of boy next door type, and then he laughs, that smile still so bright and handsome. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I reply, shaking my head and taking out my voice recorder and notes. “Uh... let's begin, shall we?”

  Joey

  “Oof!” I grunt, lifting the box out of the truck and carrying towards the four-bedroom house in Simi Valley, just on the border of Thousand Oaks. It's up in the hills, and while it's not quite as big a spread as some of the people in music have, it's quiet, and it's a great home. It also, as of one week ago, belongs to my bandmate, blood brother, and all around best friend, Rocky Blake and his soon-to-be wife, Cora Clearwater. “Hey Cora, just because Rock and I lift some doesn't mean you can make the boxes a thousand pounds each!”

  Cora, her strawberry blond hair pulled back into a high ponytail, laughs around her own armload of stuff. “That's Bella's clothes, Joey. The heavy stuff is later.”

  “Dios mio,” I complain, making Cora laugh. I don't speak Spanish with my friends a lot. Even though Rocky is nearly as fluent as I am, it just doesn't feel normal. Mama loves chatting with Rocky totally in Spanish though, she even jokes that Rocky's got a better accent than I do. I can't really defend myself. I didn't grow up on Puerto Rico like Mama did, I speak with too much of a California Mexican accent for Mama's taste.

  “Hey, Cora,” I ask as we put down our boxes inside what is going to be Bella's room, “thanks for agreeing to have Mama and Maria watch Bella when she's not in school. It means a lot to me.”

  “Joey, you know that your family is our family,” Cora says. Around back, I can hear Rocky and Ian working hard at putting together the swing set that Ian surprised Bella with, something any soon-to-be first grader would love. “Besides, it's not all purely being nice anyway. Maria's charging less than it would cost to send Bella to the afterschool center. Teresa's agreed to do school pickup too, and I know that my daughter's going to get all sorts of experiences she wouldn't in this neighborhood.”

  I chuckle, thinking of the house that I just signed the papers on for Mama and Maria. It’s my house too, the bank insisted that I had to live there to qualify for the loan, but that's okay, it's only about fifteen miles away from here, officially in Thousand Oaks itself. Close enough that Rocky and I can still hang out when we want to, or have our family time if we want to. “You mean your daughter's going to learn how to make the best platanos con leche on the mainland.”

  “That too,” Cora laughs. “But really, thank you for asking us. I think watching Bella with Angel is amazing. He's such a great little kid, and it gives Bella lots of practice on dealing with younger siblings. Watching them play in the yard was great.”

  I smile, thinking about my little nephew. Four years old and one of the biggest joys in my life, he's finally starting to get a chance to live a little of the lifestyle that I want for him. Our family struggled for years, Mama and I having to stretch our budget. Angel had to wear a lot of Goodwill and church charity clothes until recently, and only now am I feeling like we can really get out of the debt that we were slowly drowning in. “Well, as long as you don't mind Angel coming up here occasionally to play on that swing set, I think we can call it even.”

  There's a crash of lumber in the back yard, an
d suddenly Ian's cursing, yelling in his deep voice. Cora and I exchange a look and I run around the house, Cora walking a little more slowly since she's nearly four months pregnant. I find Rocky and Ian in the backyard, Ian sucking his thumb and Rocky trying not to laugh his ass off at our giant friend. Ian curses around his thumb, tears rolling down his face. “Fuck! Shit! God fucking dammit!”

  “You still gotta work in bitch, cunt, ass and cock,” I joke, Ian flipping me the bird as he pulls his thumb out. “What happened?”

  “Loverboy here's grip slipped,” Ian complains, showing off his thumb which is starting to turn already purple.

  Rocky holds up his hands, still grinning. “Don't blame me, man, I told you to be careful with the hammer. You hit your own damn thumb. Besides, you're the one who insisted on nailing it first to try and set the pieces beforehand.”

  I look around at the array of lumber on the grass, as well as the half load still inside the borrowed pickup truck that Ian brought for the move, scratching my head. “You know guys, this doesn't look like any sort of swing set I've ever seen before.”

  “That's because it's not,” Ian says with a touch of pride, shaking his hand. He and Rocky have always blamed each other back and forth without really meaning anything, it's probably a side effect of them living together for a few years when the Fragments were just getting going. “My little niece isn't getting some lame-ass kit from the store, man. So, I looked up the plans and had them cut by a carpenter.”

  “Well, can I see the plans?” I ask, holding out my hand. “I leave you two back here alone much longer, and I'm going to be doing a one-man show starting in Atlanta once the spring comes.”

  Rocky passes over the paper, and I take a look, whistling. I hand it over to Cora, who blinks before passing it back to me. “Glad we've got a big back yard.”

  “Yeah, this is going to be a multi-day job,” I comment, passing the plans back to Rocky. “How about we get the lumber and stuff unloaded first, then we can work on it bit by bit?”

  Ian gives Rocky a look, and Rocky nods, chuckling. “Okay, man, you're right. Give me a hand while Ian goes and ices that thumb?”

  It takes me and Rocky twenty minutes to finish unloading all the lumber from the truck while Ian ices his thumb and starts helping Cora. Pulling the last chain out of the truck, I look at the big pile on the ground. “You know, Rock, Ian's heart's in the right place, but damn if he doesn't make a big mess sometimes.”

  “We'll work through this. I'd like if we can get it put together by Thanksgiving if you've got the spare time,” Rocky jokes, setting down the last of the pre-stained four by fours. “Then, I was wondering if you'd like to have a sort of opening weekend for it, have Angel do a sleep-over with Bella. I mean, Maria's working hard, so's Teresa. I bet they'd like a day or so of rest, maybe some pampering?”

  “You just want to send my sister to the spa again,” I joke, thinking to the last time Rocky did that, a gift certificate day when Four Letters went platinum. He paid for Mama and Maria to spend a whole day at a Beverly Hills spa, and afterward, Maria had a bit of a crush on Rocky because he was so nice, even though Rocky was already dating Cora at the time. “I'm telling you, you just have to ask Maria, she'll make you a dulce de leche any time you want.”

  “Yeah well...” Rocky starts before the bells from the church about a half mile away start to ring, pealing out four times. “Oh shit, four already? Don't you have that interview?”

  I check my watch, and Rocky's right, I've gotta go. “Yeah, you're right. Are you and Ian going to be okay?” I ask, checking my pocket to make sure I've got my keys with me. “You know, I can still take a couple more loads.”

  Rocky shakes his head, pointing towards the front of the house and my car. “Joey, you don't need to do that. Take a moment and chill, you know? Get out of here, me and mop-top can handle the rest of the unloading. Gimme a call tomorrow or something, maybe we can figure out a time I can get you to whack your thumb with a hammer.”

  I laugh, going through the house to say my goodbyes, a fist bump to Ian before Cora gives me a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Thank you again, Joey. For everything.”

  I can't help it, even if Cora is Rocky's fiancée, she's a pretty woman and I blush, looking down and making Cora chuckle. “Go on, pretty boy. I talked with James earlier, he said the reporter from LA Pulse is supposed to be cute, too. Relax and have some fun.”

  I nod and go out to my car, a ten-year-old Buick that maybe if the rest of the tour goes well, I might look at replacing. The thing is, most people think musicians make money based on album sales, and that's not the case, at least not the money people think we get. Two platinum albums don’t really produce a lot, ironically.

  Where we make money is in touring and endorsements. With the cut of tickets and more, it’ll be about five hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars when I get my royalty check in January. While in Montana that might buy me a ten-acre ranch with a huge house, in Southern California it's good enough to get a kid with no college degree a bank loan on a decent sized three-bedroom house in Ventura County with a third of an acre lot and a two-car garage. Maybe that royalty check will let me upgrade my car, maybe not. I'm good though, it'll come in time. And for now, I can take care of my family, which is more important than the size of my bank account.

  I get off the freeway and see that I'm cutting it close, but not too badly. I wanted to have a little jam time before the interview, my guitar always helps me relax, but it looks like no dice. Instead, I head straight in, giving Phil the receptionist a wave. Gashouse has had a good year, when we first started recording here they didn't have a full-time receptionist, and Larry, the owner, was often the first guy in. Now Phil at least works nine to five weekdays for the label as he cuts his teeth on the music business, I think he's a night student or something at one of the local colleges. “Hey Phil, number three?”

  “You're good to go, Joey,” Phil replies, handing me the keys. “When's the interview? I'm taking off at five forty-five today.”

  “About fifteen minutes from now, so I'll lock up, no problem,” I tell him, walking off after giving him a fist bump. Studio three is the smallest at Gashouse, but I wanted it that way. Larry's really cool in that he lets me play by myself when I want to without having to fork over money for studio fees, and I've got some guitar tracks that I want Cora to take a listen to for the next album. I need to practice those.

  I plug in the guitar in the studio, a decent Fender Stratocaster that I keep here. It's not my tour piece, but it's good for messing around. I plug it in and quickly give it a strum through, it's not perfect but it'll do to let me relax.

  I start playing one of the first guitar solos I learned, Sweet Child o' Mine, while I think about the interview. Opening myself up isn't something I'm used to. People have never really been interested in Joey Rivera, the person, but Joey Rivera, the guitarist. Well, nobody except for Rocky, Ian, and later Cora. And my family. After this, I need to go home and check that Angel's okay before I sit down with Mama and help her with the paperwork for the daycare license. Mama and Maria need to have a license to care for more than two or three kids at a time. Mama's worked so hard, went out and got her childcare courses, her CPR and health certifications while Maria...

  There's movement outside, studio three has a small window that looks out onto the parking lot, and I see a nearly brand new Lexus sports coupe pull up. Nice car, does that belong to the reporter? Huh, I thought at most I'd get some new reporter straight out of college. Maybe I rate a bigger fish than I thought. That's kind of a nice idea.

  The way the car parks, I can't see much. Just a flash of blond hair before the reporter is on the sidewalk that leads to the front door. I pull my guitar off, going out front. I come around the corner, seeing a trim figured woman with her back to me, asking Phil where I am. “Hi. I'm Joey.”

  The woman turns around, and I feel like my eyes just popped out of their sockets. She's stunning, with slightly curly blond hair that hangs dow
n in big swirls and ringlets around her face. Her big beautiful eyes that are an arresting light jade green, and lips that look cherry red. My face feels hot, I know I'm starting to blush, and she suddenly looks kinda flustered too. ““Uh... hi. I'm Andrea Coates.”

  Andrea Coates. It's a beautiful name, and I swear it's like I'm sort of floating, half drunk, as I escort her back to the studio, my face hot the whole time. Shaking her hand was like an electic shock I once got plugging my guitar into the wrong jack on an old amp. And... is she looking at me that way too? Whoa.

  “Uh... let's begin, shall we?” Andrea asks, hitting the button on her voice recorder. “Okay, I'm here with Joey Rivera, the time is five... thirty-seven on a Friday night, personal interview. Joey, first, just for the legal guys over at the Pulse, you don't mind sitting down and talking tonight?”

  I shake my head, taking a deep breath. “No, not at all. I'm a bit nervous though, so I hope you've got plenty of memory on that thing to let me stutter.”

  Andrea laughs, and she's got a musical laugh, beautiful. I've never been good with words, that's Rocky's department, Cora helps some there too. I write poetry with my guitar, with notes. Which I can understand because right now, that laugh is worth poetry. “I made sure to put a whole sixteen gig flash card in this thing, we can talk all night and not run out of space. I think my batteries will die first. Don't worry, this is your chance to just tell your story, let people get to know more about you. I promise, no surprise questions, and if I go somewhere you don't wanna go, I'll respect that. So first off, how're you feeling after the first leg of your tour?”

  “Tired, but that's not the tour,” I admit. “Ian and I are helping Rocky and Cora move into their new house today. So, if I smell like I've been doing manual labor, well... Cora's a good manager.”

  Andrea laughs again at my joke, her green eyes twinkling. I notice she's got the same shade of green eyes as Angel, that's really interesting. Not too many people have that shade of green. I like it. “I'm sure she is. But let's go back, I mean, a lot of people are interested in Joey Rivera the person, not just the kick-ass guitarist. How'd you get started in guitar?”