by Frankie Rose
I burst into tears.
“Oh. Oh shit, Avery, I’m sorry. What is it?” He wraps his arms around me and holds me, and I bury my face into his leather jacket that smells exactly like the home he opened up to me when my mother abandoned me on his doorstep. And I weep.
SIXTEEN
LUKE
Friday comes fast, and I, for one, am grateful. Cooped up in my cramped apartment trying to heal all week with nothing but bad daytime television and my thoughts almost killed me. I sit on Cole's couch, tapping a pencil against the pad of paper I carry with me at all times. The scribble on the paper is practically indecipherable, given that I had to scratch it out with my left hand. Cole told me earlier that he can read it better than my normal handwriting, though, the fucker. Paul has already borrowed the notepad to copy down anything I’ve created that might be worthwhile pursuing.
Butler enters the warehouse at around noon, with a short, dark-haired woman in tow behind him. Butler isn’t the sort of guy to have that sort of woman following him around. For a second I think she’s some sort of exec from MVP, but that doesn’t fit. Her ripped jeans and Slayer shirt tell a different story. I can’t quite figure out what that story is, though.
I glance back down at my notepad, not wanting to stare. I hear the other guys clearing their throats and can't help but smirk. Pete and Paul think they’re smart, trying to catch Cole’s attention with the strangled choking sounds they’re making, but they couldn’t be more obvious.
“Guys, this is Marika. She's going to be our session guitarist until Luke's healed and Cole's back in his spot.” I look up as Butler speaks, my eyes locking onto the exotic woman standing slightly behind our band manager, wondering where the hell he found her. Most session guys are exactly that: guys. To find a female guitarist worth their salt at this short notice, especially a hot one, is nothing short of a minor miracle. Her skin is the color of caramel, her hair long and thick. It looks silky, like she uses some seriously expensive products on it, but I could give two shits.
The guys all jump to their feet to greet her, Cole included. Pete and Paul sound slightly stunned when they say hello, but not my best friend. Hell no. Cole sounds like he’s already planning all the different ways he’s going to fuck the girl.
He never loses his cool over women. Money and music fuck him up on a regular basis, but never chicks. I watch with mild interest to see how she’ll react to him as he turns the full force of his charm on her.
“That’s a really pretty name,” he tells her. “Where’s it from?”
“My mother,” she replies.
“And where did she get it from?”
“Hers.”
Cole offers her his hand, shrugging. Knowing him, he’s unfazed that she’s not already miraculously on her knees with her mouth wrapped around his cock. He’ll see her sharp attitude as a challenge to be overcome and nothing more.
Marika shakes his hand and smiles curtly, then turns her attention on me. I get up and shake her hand. “Hey, I'm Luke. Thanks for helping us out.”
She doesn't interest me in the least, though I am male—I do notice that she’s startlingly attractive. Her dark, smoky eyes are intriguing. I bet she has a million stories to tell. Her looks and her stories are irrelevant, though. The only thing about her that interests me is how well she can play guitar. By breaking my hand, I’ve seriously jacked things up for the guys. I'm hoping by some miracle that this woman is going to be good enough to mend things. The guys are still pissy at me for putting my hand through a wall. Shit happens.
“I know. I'm Marika. Glad to be here.” She gives me the once over, her expression guarded. She’s probably expecting me to come out with a smooth pick-up line to rival Cole’s. Front men are typically the most sex-addicted members of any band. How ironic that I am, for all intents and purposes, a goddamn monk.
“So this is probably gonna be hard for you,” I tell her. “We’ve been playing together for a couple of years. We know our old material inside and out. And we’re guys, so we’re gross. We fart and talk about our dicks a lot. But if you can put up with that, we’ll make sure you’re up to speed in no time. And we’ll respect your boundaries.” I shoot Cole a sideways glance as I mention that last part. I catch the flicker of a smile chase across his lips, but I know he’s grinning like a motherfucker on the inside.
“Sounds like a deal,” Marika says. “I normally play with guys, though. I don’t need any special treatment. I’m used to the abnormal odors and the pissing contests. It won’t bother me. The timeframe might be an issue, but I learn fast. I’ll do a good job.”
She’s so self-possessed and straight up that I don’t doubt her for a second. “Good to know.”
“You wanna hear me play?” she asks, looking around at the four of us.
Cole sinks back into his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “That would probably be a good idea,” he says. His body language is stiff, but he’s not trying to intimidate her or freak her out. He has his business head on right now; I can read it on him a mile away. At the mention of hearing her play, his brain quit focusing on her pussy and started focusing on how fast her fingers can move up and down the frets of a guitar instead.
Marika heads back out of the room, presumably to grab her guitar. I join Cole on the sofa, my left ankle resting on my right knee as I send him a sideways glance. He curls his mouth up into the beginnings of a smirk. “I take it I don’t even need to call dibs,” he asks quietly.
“You really don’t.”
Marika returns with a guitar case and gets herself set up. Everyone sits in silence and watches. You can tell a lot about a musician simply from observing the way they handle their instruments. Marika handles her classic Les Paul like it’s her most valuable possession, as well she should since it probably cost her a cool twenty grand. I'm not so sure I like the idea of a female addition to the group, but if it’s just while we record the album until I’m able to play again, this could work.
“Good?” Butler asks Marika as she sits down on a stool in front of us.
“Yes, sir.” She's completely at ease, no sign of a single nerve anywhere. She runs through a very quick tune up, quickly strumming to make sure everything is as it should be, before she asks us for some sheet music.
“What?” Cole asks. He looks dumbfounded.
“Your music. Your new stuff? I’ll play the lead sections for you.”
Cole’s surprise shifts into admiration. Usually when learning a new piece of music, you have to listen to it a couple of times before you move across to the actual language of it. Makes it easier to map out in your head. Apparently Marika doesn’t need to do that.
Pete produces one of my latest pieces and hands it over to her. She scans it briefly before she nods, like she’s confirming with herself that she’s got this, and then she starts to play. Her fingers move up and down the neck of the Les Paul with lighting speed, immediately impressive and clearly very competent.
I'm better, but she's good. Very good.
“Nice. Awesome work.” Cole claps, and the other guys follow. I don't. For one, I’ve got a broken wrist. I also don’t clap because I’m reserving judgment until I’ve heard a little more.
D.M.F. are doing well right now. Marika seems to know her away around a piece of music, but band dynamics matter too. A poor decision here will have huge consequences later on down the track. We only get to find the right person once. There won’t be any do-overs. There simply won’t be time to hunt down another guitarist if we want to get this whole album down in time to meet MVP’s deadlines.
Makira continues to play, concentration on her face, which is understandable since she’s playing a completely new piece of music for the first time. She doesn’t miss a beat, though. Literally. If we needed her to, she could easily pick up the lead parts for the band. There’s no way Cole would ever let that go down—he’d have a shit fit if anyone even suggested passing him up for lead—but it’s comforting to know she’s talented enough.
Eventually, Cole holds up a hand, saying, “I've heard enough. What about you guys? Yes or no?”
Pete: “Shit yeah.”
Paul: “Without a doubt. She’s almost better than you, man.”
Cole gives Paul a rather unpleasant look. He then glances at me and cocks an eyebrow. “Well? You got the final vote.”
I smile at Marika, leaning forward. “You got any drama following you around?” I ask.
“Nope. Nothing. Clean slate,” she says.
“Then you’re in.”
Pete and Paul high five each other, then realize that looks a little weird so they high five Marika instead. Cole gives me a nod.
Butler grins with the power of a hundred watt light bulb. “Glad you boys are in. Saves me from yelling at you all afternoon. Especially you, Reid. Here, while I remember…” He pulls something out of the inside jacket of his pocket and tosses it to me—an envelope. “You can’t get your personal shit mailed to the label, man,” he says. “You do not have a PA service there, no matter how many records you sell for us.”
“What the fuck?” Cole groans, pulling an annoyed face. “Fan mail’s coming in and it’s all addressed to this asshole? Shoot me now.”
Butler laughs. “I’ve seen fan mail in my time, and not a great deal of it includes ‘Asshat’ as the artist’s middle name.”
Sure enough, when I look at the front of the envelope, it’s addressed to Lucas Asshat Reid. I feel like a swarm of wasps is suddenly stinging at the inside of my head.
“Open it,” Cole says. “That shit’s a weird shape. I bet it’s a dead rat.”
“Fuck you,” I say, laughing, but I’m a little worried that he might be right. “Why don’t you guys carry on welcoming Marika to the band. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Cole looks put out but he doesn’t try and stop me when I head out onto the balcony. I’m seriously fucking glad I’m alone when I manage to rip open the envelope with my teeth and tip the contents out onto the small table next to me. Keys. Two of them. The keys to my apartment in Williamsburg.
I slump back against the wall, feeling utterly hollow. She sent me back the keys. She’s moved out. For some absolutely crazy reason, it never occurred to me that she might. The thought of her there, in my place, has brought me endless comfort over the past couple of months. It makes complete sense that she would, of course, leave eventually, but this is coming as a shock to me right now. I feel fucking sick.
What does this even mean? She got sick of looking at my stuff? She despises me within an inch of her life? She’s…she’s moved on? Found someone else to be with? Moved in with them?
I press my head to my hands, trying to edge myself away from the pain of thinking about the girl I love with another man. If she has moved on, if she is with someone else, it’s my own stupid fucking fault and I deserve the agony of it.
God, what an absolute mess. I hate this so much. I know I seriously hurt her, but I wish she’d just stayed there in the apartment. I never would have gone back there if that would have made her happy. She could have fucking had the place.
I pull my phone from my pocket. I owe Tamlinski, my old partner, a call on Sunday, but he'll take it early. Bastard's probably at the donut store anyways. He knows a little of my break-up with Avery, but he's the kind of guy that doesn't believe in anything long-term, much like Cole. Everyone’s so damn jaded. I guess I’m becoming that way myself these days. I dial the number and hold my breath, almost hoping he won't pick up.
“Reid. What's up, asshole?”
I allow myself a bemused smile at the sound of his voice. “Same old shit. Just trying to take over the world, right?” I say.
“One smoking hot blonde with giant, fake titties at a time, I assume?”
“Of course,” I lie.
“Lucky son of a bitch.”
“How’s New York?”
“Oh, this is my city now, Reid. Don’t even think about raiding my territory, too. You’ll have a hell of a fight on your hands.”
“I can take you, no problem.” I smirk. We are pretty evenly matched—I’m a decent fighter, but he’s a big motherfucker. Most of his weight is fat, but it counts for something when you can crush a man to death just by sitting on him.
“Ahh, so you’re missing me are you, sunshine? I thought you were gonna call later in the week?”
“Yeah, I kinda need a favor, man.”
“What kind of favor? Need me to go check your fan mail and shit?”
Behind me, the door to the balcony opens and Cole walks out, a huge shit-eating grin on his face. I don’t ask. Highly inconvenient that he’s come out here, though. I want to know how Avery’s doing, but asking my old partner to spy on her in front of Cole? Yeah, that would be a bad move.
“Luke? You still there?” Tamlinski shouts down the phone line.
“Yeah, sorry, man.” I war over whether to tell him I’ll call him later or if I should just spit it out. After a drawn out second, I figure fuck it. Cole can go jump off a really high cliff. “Sorry, Tamlinski. I was wondering if you could check on Avery for me once every couple of days, just to make sure she's okay. Let me know how's she's getting on, y’know?”
Cole elbows me, giving me his what-the-fuck? face. As predicted, he’s less than happy to hear these words coming from my mouth.
“Avery?” Tamlinski says. “I thought you guys were done?”
“We are. She was staying in my place, though, and I kind of felt better knowing she was safe there. I just…she just sent me the keys to the place, so I’m guessing she’s gone. I don’t exactly know where she’s living now.”
“So you want me to figure that out, too?” he asks.
I hold my breath, pondering this. I want to say yes, absolutely, hack whatever network you need to in order to get her new address, but deep down I know that’s not healthy. Rafferty wouldn’t approve. “No, that’s okay. Maybe just…if you know what neighborhood she’s in, you can just make she’s okay?”
“All right, man, whatever you say. I’ll check in on her. I think you’re crazy, though. You should be forgetting all about this chick.”
“Probably.”
“I’ll call you when I have an update, then. I should probably be charging you P.I. fees,” Tamlinksi grumbles as he hangs up.
I slide my phone back into my pocket, not wanting to look at Cole. I don’t really having much choice in the end. He steps in front of me, his eyes wide.
I do my best to look innocent. “What?”
“She sent you back the keys to your place? Fuck man, that’s…I mean, I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I really don’t want to talk about it,” I tell him.
“Think of it as a good thing. You were meant to be distancing yourself anyway.”
“Twenty-five hundred miles isn't distance enough? Look, how about we just focus on the band right now? That’s what I need?”
“Are you even capable?”
“I’ve written you fifteen new songs in the past few weeks and I can sing them all perfectly well. What more do you want from me?”
“Mmm,” he grunts. “The songs are good.”
“I’ll write you even better ones if you’ll get off my back.”
“With your left hand? Can you even jerk off, man?” Cole asks, grinning. Typical that he would consider the logistics of masturbation when I have a broken right hand.
“I’ll type the songs up if I have to. As for my dick… How about you don’t concern yourself with my dick, Cole?”
I go inside. I leave the keys to my apartme
nt behind.
SEVENTEEN
AVERY
Brandon stays with me for a week. Every day when I get back from my guitar lesson or hanging out with Morgan, he has dinner made and is waiting for me a cheesy grin on his face and a board game to play. It feels normal, like when I was back at high school.
At first, he refused to believe Luke had just upped and left me behind. “There’s something else going on here, kid. I’m gonna talk to him, see what the hell he’s playing at, okay? We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
I’d told him good luck. Then I remembered Brandon is a persistent guy and probably would manage to get hold of him somehow, so I made him promise not to try.
Now, after Brandon has gone home, I’m glad I wasn’t weak enough to let him get involved. Summer is in full effect, and New York City is hotter than hell. It’s been three and a half months since Luke and I have spoken. As much as I like to think I'm over him, I'm not so sure. A song will remind me of him, or I’ll get hit with the smell of his cologne and I'll be right back where I started, in my pajamas on the sofa with a bucket of ice cream keeping me company. It's getting old, this fucked up routine, but I'm not sure how to break it.
Morgan thinks Noah’s probably the answer. When she found out he and I were going to try being friends, she lost her shit. Took her a full two weeks to come around to the idea. She even sat down with him and threatened him with bodily harm if he did absolutely anything to upset me. He’d been amused but also solemn when he promised that he never would. Never again.
Seeing Noah and Neve on a regular basis has been great. Noah’s been funny and kind, and hasn’t compromised our new, weird dynamic once. I’ve had one or two awkward dreams where he and Luke seem to morph into one another, and for a few days after I’ve steered clear of him, not wanting to feel any guiltier than I already do. I haven’t had one of those dreams in a while now, though, so there’s no reason for me to skip out on the regular Tuesday afternoon walks I’ve started taking with Noah and his little girl.