Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3

by Devon Hartford

  “Poison!” she gasps.

  “Yeah! You don’t want to get hit.”

  She nods gravely, her eyes bigs.

  I hope nobody gets killed.

  I look at Kellan.

  “Nice work,” he nods at me approvingly. “Okay, kids. You guys ready to play the song again?”

  “Yeah!” they chorus.

  Kellan smiles at them, “Remember what Victory said. Watch out for each other’s instruments, and watch out you don’t hit anybody. Nick? Count it in.”

  Nick hollers, “One, two, three, four!”

  And they’re off, playing Shoot ‘Em Down grade school style.

  At first, the kids are concentrating on moving so much, their playing falls to pieces.

  Nick gives Kellan a frustrated “I’m above this” look from behind his drums.

  Kellan shouts, “Keep going!”

  Nick does.

  I shout, “Tommy Aldridge, Nick!”

  He starts banging his head.

  I cheer and clap at him. Then I dance over to Kellan and bump his hip with mine, “Come on, Kellan! Cheer! We’re supposed to be ten thousand people!”

  Kellan smiles and cups his hands around his mouth and shouts over the amplifiers and drums, “Play it, Nick!”

  Nick grins at both of us as we cheer and shout.

  Hayley runs around the front of Matthew, watching his guitar carefully, her eyes wide, and slaps him on the side of his shoulder, shouting, “Duck!” before running away. Good enough. She circles back around between Matthew and Ethan.

  “Don’t forget to sing,” I holler.

  “Oh yeah!” she shouts into the mic and picks up the lyrics on the next bar.

  Ethan is stomping dramatically inside the circle of the instrument cable on the floor. He roars several times into his microphone for no particular reason other than he’s a T-Rex.

  Matthew is standing shyly in place.

  I shout, “Hokey Pokey, Matt!”

  He tentatively lifts his left foot back and forth a few times.

  Works for me.

  During the guitar solo, I holler at Hayley, “Turn and wave to Nick!”

  She does.

  “Now wave at Ethan!”

  She does.

  When they finish the song, I cheer because nobody was impaled on a guitar neck and no bones were broken.

  Thank you, Steph! I felt her by my side the whole time.

  Chapter 69

  VICTORY

  Kellan mutters in my ear, “Nice work, Gigi.”

  I smile to myself. Guitar Goddess. He remembered. I feel warm all over. And not because I was running around the room for four minutes making sure no one got hurt.

  Kellan claps loudly, “Nice work, you guys! Nick, great work, buddy.”

  “Thanks, Kellan,” Nick grins at him like he wishes Kellan was his older brother or best friend.

  Kellan pats Ethan on the shoulder, “That was the best T-Rex I’ve ever seen, man.”

  Ethan smiles from ear to ear and shouts “ROAR!”

  Kellan chuckles. “Hayley, good job, girl. Dee Snider would be proud. Matthew, good job, man.”

  “Thanks,” he says shyly, but he steals glances at Kellan.

  “That was incredible you guys,” Kellan says. “Wanna do it again?”

  No, please no.

  “YEAH!!” they chorus.

  For the next thirty minutes, I work with the kids. By the end, I’ve got them doing a reasonable job of stage performing. I manage to transition them from dinosaurs, Hokey Pokey, and Duck, Duck, Goose to more traditional rock & roll stage antics.

  I’m sweating my ass off and totally need a break. I don’t know how moms and childcare pros do it.

  Kellan hasn’t even broken a sweat, and he’s been as busy as me coaching and corralling the kids the entire time.

  We make a great team.

  I mean, as co-workers.

  Nothing more.

  “Time’s up, you guys!” Kellan says.

  “Awww!!” they all moan.

  “Did you guys like working with Victory?” Kellan asks.

  “YEAH!!” they chorus.

  “Would you like to have her teach class next time?”

  “YEAH!!!!”

  Hayley jumps up and down, clapping, “Please, please, please!”

  Ethan says, “Please be our teacher!”

  Kellan arches an eyebrow at me. “Sounds like they like you.”

  “I guess so,” I gasp.

  Kellan leads the kids out of the practice room.

  “Should I wait here?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I’ll be right back.”

  He turns and marshals the kids out of the room.

  Is it just me, or were his eyes just smoldering at me? I remember my moment with Kellan in the hallway before we entered the practice room an hour ago. Was he feeling it too?

  Or was I imagining all of it?

  I don’t know for sure.

  Now I’m worried I’m going to have a problem working with Kellan for the opposite reason I had when I came in here.

  Am I the one who’s into Kellan and not the other way around?

  Of course you are, Ms. Sensible grumbles, But remember, young lady, you need a paycheck, not a plaything.

  I like to play with things, Ms. Mischievous says suggestively.

  Ms. Sensible rolls her eyes.

  I tune out my internal committee.

  The truth is, I really want to work here. And not screw it up by getting involved with my co-worker.

  A very hot co-worker, Ms. Mischievous reminds.

  I ignore her.

  I remind myself I probably won’t be teaching classes with Kellan most of the time. It’ll just be me and the students.

  I’ll be fine.

  Ms. Sensible shakes her head, curling her lips in a thin grimace, You’re fooling yourself, young lady!

  Ms. Mischievous barks, Hush, you!

  Kellan walks into the practice room a second later, “Were you talking to yourself just now?”

  “No!” I bark.

  He cinches his brows, “I could’ve sworn I heard you talking before I turned the corner…”

  I shake my head violently, “Nope. Not me. Must’ve been the wind.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “Anyway, the kids loved you. And…”

  You love me, Ms. Mischievous blurts telepathically so Kellan can’t hear her.

  “…you did amazing,” he finishes. “The Hokey Pokey was genius.”

  “Thanks,” I grin.

  “Anyway,” Kellan sighs, “I have to run everything by the boss.”

  Why does Kellan suddenly sound like he’s not into the idea of me working here anymore? That’s weird. Or maybe it’s just me?

  Am I imagining everything I thought was happening between me and Kellan? I can’t really tell. But I do know that starting with the night I slept in his apartment, he hasn’t put a single move on me.

  What happened to all his hot passion the night we met at The Cobra?

  Is he not into me anymore?

  I sigh internally.

  Kellan is totally inscrutable at the moment.

  “Sure,” I say confidently, despite my sudden doubts, “I totally understand.”

  “Assuming Rich says yes to hiring you—”

  My Ms. Salesgirl telepathically blurts, Which he will, duh, because I rock.

  “—do I tell him you want the job?”

  Does Kellan have mixed feelings about me working here? I don’t care. I need the job, and Ms. Salesgirl is in control at the moment. She doesn’t think about long term consequences. She’s a closer.

  I confidently say to Kellan Burns, “I do.”

  Chapter 70

  VICTORY

  My phone rings in my purse which lies on the passenger seat of my Altima. I’m halfway back to Hollywood. I grab the phone but I don’t recognize the number.

  I answer anyway. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Victory,” a strange voice says.
<
br />   I blurt, “Kellan?”

  “It’s me.”

  Wow, I totally didn’t recognize his voice. Why does he sound so strange? I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the number, “What number are you calling from?”

  “I’m calling from the school phone. Anyway, you got the job. When you have a chance, you need to call Rich Aymes so he can go over some stuff with you. He’s the owner, but he had to run out for awhile. You need to fill out the employee paperwork and tax stuff.”

  “Okay. When do I start?”

  “For now, it’ll be a few days. You’re replacing Steve, one of our regular teachers. He has to finish out his lessons, but you’ll be taking over his students. Probably next week or something.”

  Wow, Kellan sounds really apathetic about all this. Does he hate me all of a sudden? That doesn’t make any sense. We had a ton of fun working with those kids.

  But he’s all reserved and distant.

  What happened?

  I don’t know.

  I sigh.

  Maybe his disinterest and distance is for the best.

  I say to him, “That’s cool. Do I need to do any prep work for the lessons? I’ve never really taught seriously before.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” he sighs.

  Geez, thanks for the help.

  Whatever. I suddenly feel defensive because he’s being so cold. I don’t need his help anyway. I ask impatiently, “Anything else?”

  He says, “You should probably get your own guitar.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  A heavy silence lingers between us. But he isn’t hanging up or saying goodbye.

  I sigh again, “I should probably go. I’m driving. Need to focus on the road.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye.”

  I end the call and toss my phone into my purse.

  What was that?

  What happened to fun Kellan when we were both working with Hayley, Ethan, Matthew and Nick?

  Whatever.

  With any luck, I’ll be teaching on my own and not stuck in a room with uncomfortable Kellan.

  But more importantly, Yay!

  I’ve got a job!

  Chapter 71

  VICTORY

  Time for me to get a guitar.

  When I arrive in Hollywood, I drive up to guitar alley on Sunset Boulevard and park on a side street near Guitar Central.

  I feel a pinch of guilt when I approach the Guitar Central building, like I should buy my guitar from Johnny and Karen’s shop, which I can see down the block. But there’s no way I can afford a vintage guitar. I need something bare bones. A cheap new guitar, or a cheap used one. Not a classic work of art.

  I skulk toward the doors of the gigantic Guitar Central building. They have huge ten foot tall posters of guitar icons mounted on the front of the building: Eric Clapton, B.B. King, Jimi Hendrix, Randy Rhoads, Zakk Wylde, Joe Satriani, George Lynch, and Stevie Ray Vaughn.

  I open one of the double doors and I’m assaulted by a cacophony of ten people playing ten different styles of guitar and bass all at the same time. Someone is testing out a drum kit in the drum department, beating out a rhythm that is not in time with any of the people playing guitar. It sounds like a sawmill and it brings a smile to my face.

  I love guitar stores.

  “Welcome to Guitar Central,” says the girl stationed at the counter inside the doors. She has black emo hair, black eye makeup, a lip ring, and leggings ringed in purple and black.

  “Hey,” I smile as I walk past her.

  I take a moment to survey the scene.

  Guitar Central contains literally thousands of guitars, amplifiers, bass guitars, drum sets, keyboards, microphones, and every other possible piece of gear related to playing rock or popular music.

  All the usual suspects are in attendance.

  The Beginner. He nervously strums a cheap Chinese Strat copy four or five times before stopping because he’s afraid everyone is listening to how bad he sucks. The truth is, no one is listening. They’re too busy playing with all the toys in the store, meaning the expensive guitars and amps they can’t yet afford but dream of buying one day.

  The Showoff. He’s on the opposite end of the spectrum. He’s the kind of guy who has been playing for years but isn’t in a band. So he comes down to Guitar Central to show off his chops to whoever will listen to him noodle for hours. The showoffs never buy anything.

  The Snooty Blues Purist. He wears a Stevie Ray Vaughn style hat and constantly snarks about how all non-Blues guitar players suck, except maybe Jimi Hendrix, and blues is the only true form of music from which all styles of rock music were born. These guys forget that the lute came along before the guitar, and minstrels were writing lute music long before anything other than alligators lived on the Mississippi Delta.

  The Jazz Devotee. He only plays hollow body guitars, Roland Jazz Chorus amps, and knows literally every chord ever invented, all of which he manages to play quietly without anybody noticing or caring.

  The Terrible Metalhead. He wears a Wild Child concert shirt and plays louder than anyone in the store. It’s all about the noise. They’re my favorite. They have no shame and make no apologies. If the sales people would let them, they would turn the amps up to eleven. Metal, metal, metal!

  Lastly, the rare and elusive Girl Guitarist. She looks out of place in a predominantly man’s world. She’s either in the acoustic guitar room, which is soundproofed, and she’s letting her inner singer-songwriter shine, or she’s a tough as nails badass like me.

  Oh, I almost forgot. The Bored Girlfriend. She isn’t a musician but is forced to accompany her man while he drools over the next guitar or amp he wants to buy. These women are the equivalent of the men you see dragged along on shoe shopping expeditions to parts unknown by inconsiderate wives or girlfriends. Personally, I would never make a man go shoe shopping with me. Ladies, you know why. No matter how old the men are, they always sound like insistent infants who incessantly whine, “Are we done yet? Are we done yet? I need to pee. I’m tired. I’m hungry. Can we go home now?”

  A Guitar Central salesman walks up to me. His name tag says Felix. He doesn’t look like a Felix, but he’s pretty cute. He asks, “Can I help you find anything?”

  I smile politely, “I’m gonna look around first.”

  “Okay, let me know if you need anything.”

  I nod and he walks away.

  I scan the wall of hanging guitars. There’s at least two or three hundred of them, if not more. The ones closest to the front door are the super expensive American Made guitars. Les Pauls. Fender Strats and Telecasters. Paul Reed Smith. Jacksons and Deans. Music Man. Next to those are the expensive Ibanezes and ESPs from Japan. I can’t afford any of them.

  As I move down the wall, the guitars get cheaper, and they’re made in other countries like Mexico and China. I know from experience the cheap guitars are junk. They don’t stay in tune, they don’t sound good, and they don’t play well.

  I need to find something used that isn’t crap.

  The used guitars are hidden way at the back. I recognize a bunch of 70s and 80s guitars nobody wants anymore. A bright pink Kramer. I take it down and play it. It feels solid and plays nice. But do I want a pink guitar? It looks like fingernail polish.

  Is it me?

  Nope. I wear black nail polish.

  I hang the Kramer back on the wall.

  That’s when I notice it.

  It.

  Some guy is playing a white Fender Strat.

  My Fender Strat.

  I recognize it from a mile away.

  The guy playing it is plugging into an amp, playing random distorted guitar chords. He’s middle aged, dressed in a fancy button down shirt and designer jeans, and has thick shoulder length curly black hair and glasses. He’s focused on playing and doesn’t notice me.

  I edge closer and closer until he finally notices me.

  He looks up and says, “Hey.”

  “H
i,” I say nervously, “Um, this is going to sound weird, but that’s my guitar.”

  He takes a good look at me and smiles.

  I’m going to use every bit of my girl power to woo him over into giving me my guitar. I say, “What’s your name?”

  He slides his guitar pick between the strings on the neck, which holds the pick in place. It’s a trick many guitar players use so they don’t lose their pick. He extends his hand, “I’m Frank.”

  I shake his hand. “Hi, Frank,” I try to sound super friendly, like I’ve known Frank for twenty years, “I know it’s weird, but that’s really my guitar.”

  He says, “What do you mean it’s your guitar? I was kind of thinking about buying it. I really like it. It’s a really nice guitar,” he chuckles enthusiastically, holding the guitar in both hands at arm’s length, admiring it.

  “I know,” I say ironically. “I’ve been playing it every day for fifteen years. Until it was stolen last week.”

  He says skeptically, “Did you want to buy it?”

  The first thought that crosses my mind is, Buy?! I shouldn’t have to BUY back my stolen guitar! He’s still not getting it, but I understand. He doesn’t know me from nobody. That’s okay. I’m walking out of here with my Fender even if I have to pry it from his cold dead fingers. My rainbow rape knife is in my purse and ready for action, if need be. Not that murder is my preference, but I’m not above drastic measures when it comes to my Fender.

  It’s my baby, after all.

  I’ll try pity first. It’s gentler than murder, and often works better.

  I say, “The guitar in your hands was stolen from my car a week ago. If you check the back of the headstock, you’ll see the name Shawn Payne stamped into the wood. Shawn is my dad. He bought that guitar new in 1987 and gave it to me for Christmas when I was seven.”

  It sounds like a sob story, but it’s totally true.

  Frank checks the headstock. A pained look passes across his face. He chuckles despondently, “But I really like this guitar…”

  I sense he’s believing me. But he’s not giving up my Fender just yet. Hoping to grease the wheels of his good will, I pull out my driver’s license and show him. “See? My name is Victory Payne. Just like on the headstock.”