by Nora Flite
Sean looked at me briefly, then closed his phone. “We're going where the answers are.”
“I thought you knew, that you'd just tell me?” This was getting strange.
“I think,” he said, opening the door of the equipment van for his band, “That it would be better if you heard everything from the source.”
Standing outside the familiar, beaten up vehicle, I sensed my intuition buzzing. Something about this didn't feel right. “Who's the source, Sean?”
Sighing, he climbed into the van, clipping his seat belt down and turning the ignition. The van beeped incessantly, demanding I get in and close the door. “Lola, trust me. Do you, or do you not, want answers?”
Lifting my chin, my gaze shifted from Sean's serious eyes, to the tour bus in the distance. The big, black behemoth reminded me of Drezden. It warned me that if I didn't go now, I was giving up a solid chance at the information I craved.
And if I wanted to stay with Drez... not just as a guitarist, but as so much more...
I needed to know the truth.
Without giving my anxiety any more credit, I slid into the van and shut the door.
****
The drive was brief.
Sean steered us from the highway and into a small plaza full of tiny shops. At his suggestion, we slid on sunglasses, and I pulled my sleeves down to hide my tattoo. I'd had enough drama with the public. I wasn't keen to repeat it.
I could tell this was a very run down section of Seattle. The overhangs sported faded paint and grime, most of them missing letters. There were massage parlors, tattoo shops, drug dens masquerading as pharmacies, and a lone coffee shop in the far plaza corner. Sean led the way towards it.
“Are you going to tell me who we're meeting here?” I whispered. The whole ride I'd run through the possibilities. Would it be Drez's parents, a relative of some kind? Maybe an old music teacher?
The cafe appeared empty, I was surprised the door even opened—I'd thought it must be closed. It was cluttered with tiny, circular tables that had a sticky sheen to them. The floor was covered in the same gunk.
Grunting, I bent over to tug my heel off the tiles. Busy with removing the awful mystery goo, I didn't see him at first. But when Sean nudged me, pointing at a table in the corner... my heart stopped.
Those eyes, hard and cold as green ice, lit up when they saw me. This was a face I recognized most recently from a grainy television news feed.
Johnny Muse.
I crushed Sean's wrist and dug in my heels. My brother made a small noise, trying to pull away. “Sean.” To my own ears, my voice was a mere shadow. “Why is he here? What's going on?”
“Relax, Lola.” Untangling my grip, Sean motioned with his chin at Johnny. The former guitarist was eyeing us, not moving from his chair or the paper cup he was nursing. “You don't have to worry, he's not dangerous or something. He knows Drezden better than anyone.”
There was no way that was true. Porter. Colt. They both know Drezden, too. Why would I bother with Johnny? The answer weighed heavy in my guts. Because neither of them is going to tell me anything. Just like Drezden.
It was an awful, cold truth... but one that gave me strength. If Johnny had my answers, then fine. Plus, why was I so scared? I darted a look around the shop. This is a public place. Between Sean and the guy behind the counter, what could Johnny even do?
Balling my fists at my hips, I walked around my brother. Johnny didn't stand when I reached him. His only movement was a tiny, crooked smile. “So,” he said, voice rigid and sandy, “You're her. Lola Cooper, in the flesh.”
I stood as tall as I could. “That's right. And you're Johnny Muse.”
“Guilty,” he said.
That word was a little too appropriate. I'd seen the video of him getting arrested in the supermarket. “My brother says you can tell me about Drezden.”
Furrowing his eyebrows, Johnny looked around me at Sean. “Yeah. I called him a week ago. I wanted to get in touch with you, but finding your number was much harder.”
Nervously, I touched my phone in my pocket. The idea of Johnny reaching out to me was too weird. Did Sean sit on this information for a whole week?
My brother was dutifully avoiding looking at anything but the floor. Finally, he grabbed two chairs and set them at the tiny table. “Let's park our asses.” He took the one closest to Johnny, situating himself between us. That subtle protection didn't slip past me.
Under the table, I was acutely aware of how near my knees were to the former Headstone's guitarist. “Can we just get down to business?” I asked.
“Business, she says,” Johnny chuckled. A dirty fingernail scratched the rim of his coffee cup. “Sure thing, we can get right down to it.” I didn't like how he kept smiling. “What would you like to know about our dear friend, Drezden Halifax?”
This was it. This was what I had been waiting for.
So why did I feel so ashamed suddenly?
Glancing at Sean, I tried to gauge what he was thinking. His expression was neutral, lips bloodless as if he were trying not to make a sound.
He wasn't going to interrupt this moment. Whatever Johnny was going to say, Sean wanted me to hear it. Badly.
In my lap, I clenched my hands in a knot. My answer was brisk.
"Tell me everything."
- Chapter Twenty-Five -
Drezden
It had been years since I'd been back to upstate New York.
Home again, home again, I thought with little fondness. Sliding my sunglasses down, I pulled the shiny, pearl colored Corvette out onto the open road. I knew where I was going, even if I'd never been there in person.
The wind fluttered against my scalp, doing its best to clear the fog from my head. I was tempted to take the back roads, to roll down past my old school, my old home. There'll be time for pleasant memories later.
I had to finish what I'd set out to do—as spontaneous as it was. If I didn't, there could never be a future for Lola and me. Inhaling the crisp air, I filled myself with that realization.
For Lola.
The building loomed like a squat dragon, its mouth ready to swallow me up. The parking lot was dotted with police vehicles. One of them had an officer sitting in the front seat, the door cracked, his foot out on the cement while he sipped a paper cup of coffee.
He glanced at me when I parked nearby. I hid my chin in the thick top of my navy hoodie, giving the man a quick nod—he tipped his drink my way, going back to playing on his phone.
Go. Don't think.
With one foot in front of the other, I entered the prison.
My steps sounded loud on the concrete, announcing me to the thick, glass-covered front desk. The process of signing my name, of explaining who I was and why I was there, was surreal. It turned out that the warden on patrol was a huge fan of my band. I put on a plastic grin and signed a CD for him—did he carry it with him everywhere? —before taking the visitor pass.
The warden guided me into the halls, pointing out where I wanted to go.
Where I needed to go.
Turning the corner, I stared at the grim rods of iron that held the prisoners at bay. My hands were clammy when I reached the one I was looking for. It was stone-colored, featureless as all the others.
On the bunk, a figure in orange shifted around. His haggard features moved to me, green eyes wide in true shock. Of course he wouldn't expect to see me. I'd never even bothered to send a letter.
My voice was a dry husk. “Hey there, Dad.”
****
Nine Years Ago
“Wow!” My face ached from grinning, but I didn't mind. Eagerly running my fingers down the length of the guitar neck, I spoke without looking away from the beautiful instrument. “Did you really make this for me, Dad? Holy shit, you didn't need to do that!”
“Watch your mouth,” my mother said, struggling to sound upset over her own glee. My parents were crushed together on the couch, hovering above me where I sat with my new gift; a guitar my dad
had carved for me.
I caught him rolling his eyes. “Come on, honey. If he's going to be a famous rock star someday, swearing is just going to happen.”
“Well, when he becomes whatever, he can swear all he wants.” Pushing off the couch, she gathered up the shreds of wrapping paper. “Under this roof, he watches his mouth.” Moving my way, her scowl broke, lips puckering to press a quick kiss to my forehead. There was only joy in her eyes when she stood straight. “Happy birthday, Anthony.”
My dad hit me in the back of the head with a ball of wrapping paper. “Yeah, happy birthday, kid.”
Scratching at the back of my neck, I turned the guitar around. My father had always been a great guitarist, but he excelled at woodworking—a fact that I knew bothered him, even if he never flat out said it.
He cleared his throat. “Go on, strum a bit.”
“Ah, you know I'm not that good still.” My neck was hot at his coaxing. Singing was my passion, but I'd never turned away my dad's attempts at teaching me to play. It had to increase my chances at getting into a big band someday if I could do both, didn't it?
His eyes warmed. “Just a bit, for me. I worked hard on that.”
Smiling sideways, I set the instrument in my lap. It smelled of sawdust and polish, fresh enough to make me dizzy. Tweaking the pegs, my fingers were shaking. I wanted to impress him so badly. I'm already thirteen, I should be better than I am. All the hours of practice, of classes my parents scrimped to save for...
I should be better.
Moving my fingers like a wave, I began to play. My eyes were stuck on my movements, working so hard to make everything perfect. Each mistake screamed at me, gnawing into my teeth like cavities.
Better. I need to get better.
It was all I ever wanted.
Looking up, I spotted the sad smile on my father's face. Then it was gone, and I knew what he was going to ask before his lips started to move. “What's the most important thing you need to be a good guitarist?”
As I'd done a hundred times before, I shook my head.
His answer was always the same. “If you ever figure it out, let me in on the secret.”
I will, I thought determinedly. When I find out, I promise I'll tell you first.
****
Eight Years Ago
“Why doesn't he want to come?” Colton asked, twirling a drumstick lazily. He dropped it twice before I bothered to try speaking.
Looking up, I shrugged into my ears. “Mom says Dad's just really tired. I don't know, you'd think he'd want to see my first show.” It had taken Colton and myself weeks of work to feel ready to perform on our high school's stage.
Picking at his ear, the lanky kid studied me. “So, it doesn't bother you?”
“Of course, it bothers me.” I fidgeted with my guitar case. “But what the hell can I do about it? It's his life, not mine.” He used to be so involved. What changed? The days where my dad would practice with me ‘til we were drained, would talk to me about music, discuss his own grand wishes and plans and dreams... those had faded soon after my thirteenth birthday.
In the wake of that time, my mother had started to pick up his slack. She took me to every practice, drove me to the music store, endured my chatter about what band was up to what.
It wasn't the same, but her support kept me motivated.
I still wish we could have convinced Porter to play with us, I thought grimly. Colton had done his best to talk our friend into it, but he'd dodged the attempts every time. I didn't understand, but I also didn't pry.
Colton said nothing for a while, just poked his nose with his drumstick. We were virtually alone in the hallway; the auditorium was starting to buzz with the growing crowd. Hearing it made my senses flare.
“Well,” he coughed, staring at the far wall. “My whole family is going to be in there. They'll cheer hard enough for us both. Okay?”
Grinning wide, I gave him a hard shove. “Everyone will be cheering for us, you mean.”
“Yeah.” Adjusting his shirt, he flashed me a knowing look. “Yeah, that's what I meant.”
Inside the auditorium, people were shouting; it was time.
Hoisting my guitar case, I paused with my hand on the knob. I didn't look back as I spoke. “Thanks, Colt.”
Together, we pushed into the room.
****
Seven Years Ago
The walls of my bedroom were decorated with trophies in silver or gold.
Mostly gold.
Winning singing contests had become easy for me. It didn't make me try any less; all I ever did was practice. Playing guitar, running through exercises for my vocal cords, I never stopped.
I couldn't.
I'm still not there yet. I still haven't made it.
At age fifteen, I was starting to feel old. Like my road to being a star was beginning to narrow. Seeing the pinched looked on my father's face as the years went by, I feared my future lay where his did now.
Failure.
I have to try harder. I have to be the best.
Dropping my backpack on the kitchen counter, I poured a glass of lemonade from the fridge. I'd downed all but a final swallow when I spotted the envelope. It was a fat, manila thing addressed to me and my mother.
Setting the glass aside, I wiped my hands on my jeans. The mail was heavy; an important kind of weight. Fingering the edge, I saw it had already been opened. I lifted the letter into the air and read it with mounting excitement.
It was an offer letter from Goldman's—an arts school known for its highly skilled students. Many of my favorite musicians had attended. And they want me to attend. When had I started shaking?
“Well, what do you think?”
Spinning, I looked into the watery, smiling face of my mother. The look in her eyes said it all—she'd been waiting all day for me to read that letter.
Wordless, I grabbed her in a hug, listening to her delighted laughter and hoping it would never end. I didn't want this feeling to ever go away.
This is the first step. I can really do it.
I can be a rock star.
She pried herself out of my arms, taking the letter gingerly. “It came this morning. I couldn't wait to show you.”
A thought burrowed in my guts. “Did Dad see it?”
Her small frown muddled the joyous occasion. “Not yet.” Smoothing her hair, she put the envelope back on the counter. “I'll tell him about it when he's... in a better mood.”
When he isn't drunk. I knew her code. “Can we really do this? It means moving to Colorado. I won't get to graduate with my friends.” Colt and Porter are going to hate me.
My mother reached out, kind hands holding my cheeks. “Anthony, honey, this is all up to you. If you want to go here, we—you—have to decide.”
Leaning in brought us together. I'd gotten taller than my mother—tall as my father—soon after turning fourteen. In my arms, my mother felt... small. Frail. She hasn't been eating well since Dad started drinking so much. I was familiar with the strain he brought.
I was also very familiar with the bruises he could leave.
Thinking about his misery made me hold her tighter. “Listen, Mom.” The words were escaping faster than my brain could make sense. “Let's just go together. You and me, we'll vanish and Dad can be the depressed fucker he clearly wants to be by himself.”
“Language, Anthony.” She squeezed me briefly, her voice low. “I can't leave your father like that. Not... without saying something.”
“He doesn't say much to me at all these days.”
Pulling away, my mom considered my bitter grimace. Her kiss on my cheek nullified some of my distaste. “He has his reasons. Don't take them personally. Now, why don't you go clean up before dinner.”
“What?” Grinning, I ruffled my dark hair. “You saying I smell?”
Together we laughed in the kitchen, a moment of peace that would forever remain cemented in my heart. I could never forget how pleased my mom looked, how she playfully sw
atted me and chased me upstairs to my room.
It was pure bliss.
Of course it had to end.
****
I heard the screams—no, I felt them. It's such a primal, protective reaction when you hear your own mother in danger.
My hair was still wet from the shower, steam escaping me and my hastily thrown on jeans. There was no time for anything else; I just ran towards the source of the noise.
Inside my father's workshop, the scent of polish and pine brought confusing nostalgia. As a child, even a young teen, I'd spent so much time watching my dad work on what he loved.
The sight of him working over my mother—someone I loved—made me want to retch.
He had her on the floor, blood on his knuckles, blood on her forehead. He was saying something, but my ears were blinded to all but her pleading screams.
“Stop! Donnie, it's not what you think!”
“You're going to run off and abandon me, you little bitch! After everything!” He pulled his arm back to swing again. In the whites of his eyes, insanity bloomed.
I didn't remember moving. Circling my forearms around his shoulders, I wrestled my father backwards, down to the sawdust covered floor. “Get off of her! Stop it, Dad!” My skull vibrated, birthing confusion. How could this be real? What had gone so wrong?
He'd hit me before, but never my mother.
Scuffling, he threw me against the legs of a heavy table. “You'd try to fight your own fucking father!?” Hands clung to my throat, nails ripping my cheek. “You piece of shit, you fucking piece of shit!”
The back of my head slammed into something solid; the edge of a work bench. Dots of color fizzled inside of my eyelids. I was blacking out—I couldn't hold him, he scrambled free. I thought he'd attack me again, but instead, he swayed towards my mother.
She looked like a terrified animal. Sliding sideways, holding her palm to the crimson seeping from her left temple, my mom sobbed. “Please, please stop! Get away from me!”
“Ungrateful family,” he huffed heavily. “Think you'll just go off and become rich and famous, think you're better than me. After all of the time I put into making that son of yours so fucking talented!” Bending low, his fingers coiled in her hair. The sawdust at his feet had turned into sludge from the blood.