Song for Me (Rock Me Book 4)

by Lee Piper

  Walking over to Willow’s guitar, I pick it up, inspecting the input jack. Like the rest of her instrument, it’s in pristine condition. With quick movements, I pick up the cable lead and insert it. Then, in one fell swoop, I throw the strap over my head. It lands on my shoulder. After retrieving the guitar pic from where it’s wedged beneath the strings, I strum a quick chord. It’s mostly in tune. There’s a slight muddiness to the B string, but other than that, it’s on point. I twist one of the machine heads to tighten the steel string.

  “I’m normally searching dive bars sometime after midnight looking for you, Ray.” I keep my eyes fixed on the instrument, not wanting to look at him. If I do, it won’t end well for either of us. “Don’t tell me you’ve been kicked out already?” A quick glance at the time on my phone has me furrowing my brows. “It’s not even seven o’clock yet. That must be a record for you.”

  While shoving the phone back in my pocket, I shake my head. Needing to expel the frustration that follows me whenever Ray’s nearby, I strum another chord. And another. And another. It’s only when my fingers ache and calluses form on their tips that I come to a stop, breathing hard.

  Damn. Haven’t played guitar in ages. I forgot how much I enjoyed it. It doesn’t give me the same satisfaction as designing and building sound equipment, but it’s close.

  “My ears are bleedin’. Tune the damn instrument, sounds like shit.”

  Right, then.

  I grit my teeth and make another minor adjustment to the furthest machine head. At last, I’m happy with the sound. Contrary to what Ray thinks, Willow’s instrument is beautiful. When in tune, her Gibson is clear, crisp, and has this achingly soulful tone no other guitar of its kind can replicate. Once I heard Willow coax this haunting tenor from it that almost made it sound like it was crying. Never heard anything so touching in my life; I fell in love with her Gibson there and then.

  That’s why I want to get into business. So I can share an instrument’s music in its purest form. When it’s done without subpar equipment distorting the sound, listening can be a surreal experience. Like, it transports a person to a different place and time, all by evoking the senses.

  My prototype will be perfect for Willow’s guitar. It’ll give the clarity it needs to really shine in front of a crowd. With a nod, I make a note to mention it to her later. Maybe she’ll play it for me so I can test the sound quality of my speaker?

  Food for thought.

  A deafening crash booms on my right. Snapping my head in the direction of the sound, I spy Ray, muttering a long string of curses as he attempts to right himself. What used to be a tower of drum cases is now a mess of black studded leather strewn across the stage.

  I groan. “Jesus, Ray. What the hell’s gotten into you?” Storming over to the mess and stacking the cases one on top of the other until they’re a pillar of black and silver isn’t as cathartic as I hoped. Neither is grumbling under my breath about my uncle needing a goddamn liver detox.

  Either way, Ray ignores me. He’s too busy spinning on his heel, no doubt trying to chase his center of freaking gravity. Once he stills, he faces me, eyes unfocused. “Lucky I got here when I did.” He burps, then narrows his gaze. “I saw the way that dickhead was gropin’ you, Har. Fuck, everyone did.” Ray spreads his arms wide, and it’s then I notice that the entire backstage crew have stopped what they’re doing and are watching us.

  Great. An audience.

  Gritting my teeth, I put the instrument back on its stand. “Ray,” I warn.

  “That so, everyone?” Ray hollers to the nosy-ass bystanders, disregarding the pointed daggers I’m shooting his way. “Did you cop an eyeful of my niece and that motherfucking asshole goin’ at it?”

  No one says a word. Since I’d knock any fool stupid enough to speak on their ass, it’s for the best. However, some nudge each other. Smirks pass between them like dirty secrets.

  “For fuck’s sake!” I seethe, striding toward him and giving him a decent shove when I reach his side.

  Ray’s massive body staggers backward. However, he catches himself before hitting anything. To be honest, it would be worth having to pick up the drum cases a second time just to see him fall over.

  “What’s gotten into you?” I hiss. “I had shit under control.”

  “Control?” His rheumy eyes bulge. “You were seconds away from gettin’ naked in front of sound tech!” He gestures in the general direction of the mixing desk. “Benji hasn’t had a hard-on since 1965, and look at him! Fucker could poke a midget’s eye out!”

  There’s no way I’m looking at Benji’s dick.

  There’s no way I’m having this conversation.

  There is no freaking way my credibility is being called into question by the jerkoff posing as my uncle.

  Ray drops his arms, hands slapping against his worn jeans. He averts his gaze, as though not wanting to look me in the eye. What a fucking irony. The drunkard is ashamed of the exhibitionist. Cue humorless laugh.

  I tip my chin in the direction of the peanut gallery. They’re still gaping at us. “What are you staring at? Get back to work. All of you.”

  With mumbled insults thrown my way, they slowly return to their respective jobs. Well, all except Benji, who’s strategically standing behind a speaker case, his face more flushed than the setting sun.

  Disgusted, I look away.

  Ray’s glaring at the scuffed floor. “Reckon fuckin’ a playboy in front of your coworkers is a savvy business move, girl?”

  “Quit calling me girl. I’m a grown woman.”

  Ray laughs. He fucking throws his head back, clenches his eyes shut, and laughs. A part of me withers and dies. I think it’s the part that believed, despite the shit he’s thrown at me, our relationship could be salvaged.

  When he finally calms down and wipes tears from the corner of his eyes, he shakes his head. “You’re always tellin’ me we need to watch what we do. You say the music business is too damn small for second chances.”

  I want to throw those words back in his face, but a voice whispers in the back of my mind, warning that what he’s saying is right. The music industry is too small for second chances. I need to be careful with what I say and do if I want to make a name for myself. Since I’m working toward launching a speaker, it pays to be careful. Besides, if all goes as planned, I’ll have the freedom to get the hell out of this life. I’ll finally be able to create the future I want—one that doesn’t include drunk, troublesome uncles. But in order to get there, I need the respect of key players. Something tells me dry humping a sex god on stage isn’t a good way of earning it.

  However, just because Ray’s right doesn’t mean I’m gonna take his advice lying down. After all, he’s the freaking embarrassment right now, not me.

  “Screw you.” I fume, my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. “Are you seriously playing this card? You’re gonna pretend to act all self-righteous when I can barely see you through the alcohol vapors surrounding you?”

  But Ray must sense he’s touched a nerve. He’s found my Achilles’ heel and is cashing in on it. He knows our reputation is put on the line every time we do our job. It’s why I work so damn hard. Since he’s usually passed out in a bar somewhere, it’s my responsibility to make sure our business name isn’t synonymous with the word incompetent. After all, if I screw up, hundreds, possibly thousands of people know about it. Word spreads faster than a lumberyard fire, and we can’t afford a bad rep. I definitely can’t afford one if I’m going to set out on my own.

  My actions with Drake could have put my dreams in jeopardy. My job, my plans, my freedom—all of it would have been stripped away faster than my clothes.

  It sucks when a drunk man sees clearer than I do.

  My uncle leans to the left. If he tips much further, he’s going to fall the hell over. To be honest, I’m okay with that. In fact, I’m tempted to give him a push so I can watch with satisfaction as he plummets to the ground.

  Sadly, he straightens. “You
know what I’m sayin’. You know I’m right.” Ray waves a hand in the direction Drake left moments ago. “You need to stay away from him. You hear me?” Then, shaking his head, he mutters, “Thought I taught you better.”

  Angry at the way he ignores his own failings by targeting mine, I straighten my shoulders. Drawing myself up to my tallest height isn’t as effective as I hoped, on account of not even reaching his nose. Whatever. He’s not going to walk all over me anymore. I’m done playing the doormat to his filthy combat boots. Height difference be damned. “You’re kidding me, right?” I want to strangle, punch, and knee him in the balls at the same time. “When have you taken the time to teach me anything in the last twelve months? You’re never around!”

  “I’m fuckin’ here now, ain’t I?”

  “Yeah, and you can barely stand! It’s only just past seven o’clock, and you’re rolling drunk!” Stepping in close, I grab the hem of his shirt and tug at the worn material. The fabric is faded, there are holes in random places and stains in others. It’s a freaking abomination. “Look at you.” I drop the shirt as though it’s toxic. “Christ, Ray. Sort your shit out before it’s too late. You’re gonna end up dead if you’re not careful.”

  With an irritated grunt, he waves away my warning, stumbling toward the foot pedals downstage.

  My gaze follows his uncoordinated movements as he leans over, one hand gripping the mic stand for support while inspecting the equipment. After mumbling an incoherent who-the-fuck-knows, he straightens, inadvertently knocking the stand over in the process.

  My shoulders drop. “I used to think you hung the moon.” Swallowing the building sadness at the back of my throat is getting more and more difficult. I swear, there’s a ball of razor blades back there. Surely that’s why I’m bleeding from the inside out? After all, it couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Ray is now a stranger to me.

  Dammit. I can’t even believe the lies I tell myself. Why is it that Ray can live in denial and I can’t?

  “Look at you,” I choke out, my voice a dry rasp. “What have you done to my uncle?”

  No longer able to watch as he stumbles around the stage, I beeline for the foldback and crouch beside it. Dropping my head, I untie my messy bun and rake my hands through my hair until it surrounds my face in a curtain of blonde waves. Breathe. Just fucking breathe. This will all sort out in the end.

  My fingers, though tender from playing guitar, grip the curved edges of the speaker for balance. The frame is cold against my touch, and the indents from the equipment’s surface push into my heated skin. Needing to focus on something other than my internal hemorrhage, I press harder and harder against it. As I gaze at the point of contact, I become transfixed by the way my skin turns from tan to white and then purple. It’s only when I lose feeling and a numbness registers that I release my hold and take a deep breath. Time to woman up, Har.

  On a ragged exhale, I push my hair out of my face. “Ray, next time you pass out, lie on your side, not your back. You might not wake up otherwise.”

  A massive body lurches toward me. “That a threat?”

  I reel back as though struck. “Are you fucking serious right now?” Standing, I plant fisted hands on my hips. “Jesus Christ. After everything I’ve done for you, you honestly think I want you dead?”

  The asshole doesn’t say a word.

  “Look, I might hate what you’re saying, and I sure as shit hate how you’re acting, but I’d never want you to die.” After angrily roping my hair back into a messy braid, I flip it over one shoulder, muttering, “What kind of niece do you take me for?”

  He mumbles something under his breath. A million bucks says it’s not an apology.

  With narrowed eyes, I take in his disheveled appearance. “When did you last sleep, huh? Have you eaten anything in the last two days?” Holding up one finger, I dare him to refute me. “And before you answer, passing out cold and waking up with a pepperoni pizza stuck to your face doesn’t count.”

  Ray glares, silent.

  Nodding, I drop my hand. “Just as I thought.”

  I sigh. It’s long, low, and so freaking drained there’s the very real chance it’ll be the last one I ever do. God, I feel a hundred years old. Ray and I have been dancing to this tune for an eternity. I need a new freaking soundtrack.

  No longer able to stand upright, I kneel beside the foldback once more. I have the best intention of checking the output, to do something productive so I can prove to myself that I’m capable of getting through this mess. But I can’t. My focus is shot, my vision is blurry, and my nose stings. If I’m not careful, I’m going to cry. As in real tears. In front of Ray.

  No freaking way.

  So, drawing on every reserve, I tip my chin, hoping to God the look of disdain I’m going for is present on my face. “Are you going to wash those clothes or live in them? You’ve worn the same T-shirt since Wednesday. It stinks.” If only every insult ended in a boost of vitality rather than a lance of pain. I’d be singing jaunty tunes and fluttering around the stage getting my work finished in a personal best time. Sadly, expelling demons doesn’t work like that, and I’m left justifying my exhaustion-induced anger in other ways. Ways that aren’t helpful to anyone, least of all me.

  I’m better than this. I know I am. Sure, I have a mouth on me and fight back when provoked, but I never go out of my way to be a bitch. It doesn’t feel right, and despite the words being the honest truth, saying them leaves a bitter aftertaste on my tongue. Only, I’ve got no other option to fall back on. Claiming tiredness won’t make Ray go away, because he knows I’ve got work to do. Since I’d never leave a job unfinished, not even if I was diagnosed with chronic fatigue, he’d know I was bullshitting. Crying won’t do a damn thing except make him angry. Like me, Ray hates tears. Well, unless they’re his, of course. Then he turns a blind eye. There’re so many layers of irony to that, I don’t even know where to start. Anyway, he says crying shows weakness, which means it wouldn’t help my cause. Avoidance will only have him hunting me down, and I don’t have the time or inclination to put up with it. Humor will irritate him, so that’s off the cards. All that’s left is confrontation.

  Yay.

  But if it gets him out of here, I’ll do it. I need a damn break from this man. He’s sucking the life from me.

  Tired, yet resolute, I continue berating my uncle. “Is that stain from pizza grease or your hair? It’s too hard to tell.” I gesture to different stains decorating his otherwise rumpled clothing. “I’m guessing that’s tomato paste. Am I right?” I don’t bother waiting for a response, knowing he won’t give me one anyway. “That larger one is whiskey, isn’t it? I’d bet my RV on it. Damn, it must have pissed you off knowing most of your liquor ended up on your shirt and not in your stomach.” With a scoff, I shake my head. “Have a shower, for fuck’s sake. A shave. Look after yourself. You reek of neglect.”

  Ray’s massive body lurches forward. “Don’t need no lecture. ’Specially one comin’ from you.” Another inch and he’s going to topple over the edge of the stage. Visions of him falling onto the cement and cracking his head open flood my mind. And it’s weird because even though a wave of grief follows, so does relief.

  I’m a terrible human.

  I guess, as much as I want to help him, as much as I want to duck under his arm and straighten him before he falls, I know it would only be a quick fix. The gesture would be nothing more than a Band-Aid for the symptom while overlooking the cause. It wouldn’t do a damn thing to stop the vicious cycle he’s found himself in.

  The fact of the matter is, Ray doesn’t want to change. He’s so lost in his own grief over my aunt’s death, he can’t see straight. Hell, he can’t see past his own misery. And I’ve given him so many justifications. Reasons and excuses have rolled through my head like a runaway roller-coaster car intent on killing everyone onboard. But the justifications need to stop. Until Ray makes the conscious decision to want a better life, I need to back the hell off. Sure, I can
step in for damage control from time to time. I can even offer lifestyle advice if he’s sober enough to hear it. But other than that, I’m done.

  D. O. N. E.

  I’m not sure what expression registers on my face as I come to this decision. Whatever it is, it can’t be good because Ray points a finger in my direction and hiccups. “Don’t need your damn pity, girl.”

  Pity. Huh. Not what I was going for, but there you go. Can’t always control the subconscious, I guess.

  My uncle starts pacing. Seconds later, he stops, midstep. Crinkling his eyebrows, he searches around him as though certain the answer for the pause is hiding behind the fallen mic stand or beneath the PA. He grows agitated, waves his arms around as though fed up with a fictitious enemy’s practical joke. Then he stops again. Gripping the back of his neck, he meets my gaze, confused.

  He’s not the only one. Seconds ago, I was ready to cut all ties, and now I’m waiting to see if he’s losing his damn mind so I can offer help.

  “Not sure what I was sayin’,” he mumbles. “I had it.” Sloppily, he taps his forehead with a finger. “Was right here. But now it’s gone.” Dropping his hand, he sighs. “Everything goes.”

  Goddammit. As much as I want to hate the bastard, the defeat on his face hits me right in the feels. I know our relationship won’t ever be what it was, but a tiny part of me still cares for the old fool. He’s self-destructive, stubborn, and has the worst timing of anyone I know, but he’s family. Surely blood has to count for something?

  I sigh, then walk to where he’s stranded by the edge of the stage scratching his head. With resigned movements, I straighten the neck of his shirt and try to flatten out the wrinkles. “What are you doing to yourself, huh? You can’t keep doing this.”

  “Don’t know no other way.”

  “What do you mean? There’s always another way. Always. Why can’t you see that?”

  His eyes are anguished. “You’ve got so much of her in you, Har. She might not have been blood, but fuck, hurts to look at you.”