Taut Strings: A Rock Star Romance (River Valley Rebels)

by Gabrielle Sands

  “That’s only if you get the cheap stuff. This doesn’t taste grainy at all. To answer your question, those guys are way older than me. Pull up that pic again. C’mon, I don’t look that old.”

  The photo was back on Molly’s phone in seconds, and she zoomed in close, just as I had earlier.

  “I mean…” I took in their handsome faces one more time and reluctantly shut my mouth. Older than me or not, they were two fine male specimens. The last time I’d hooked up with anyone was a few weeks before I’d become an orphan, and the random college student I’d picked up at a party—Riley? Robby?—looked nothing like these guys.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m going to look it up.” Molly pulled the phone away, and I felt a pinch of displeasure. They were nice to look at.

  “Okay, so they’re all in their late twenties or early thirties. It says they released their first album ten years ago, so you were in middle school then. Never mind, I doubt you’d have met them.”

  They did what I couldn’t.

  The thought entered my mind like an unexpected breeze. They’d left this place to chase after their dream of making music when they were no more than teenagers. And now look at them—successful, handsome, probably fulfilled artistically. They’d lost someone close to them, but hell, that was life. I wondered if it had been smooth sailing for them from day one, or if they’d struggled. If they ever got discouraged. If they knew how to shrug off a rejection and move on.

  I sighed into my glass, now empty. There was no point in letting my mind go there. It would only make me miserable. I’d given up on my dream of a career in music a long time ago, and now there was no time for what-ifs. Now, music was just for fun, a hobby. I’d never let myself take it so seriously again.

  After watching a few episodes of an old sitcom with Molly, I was ready to crash for the night, but I still needed to call Liam and Elly.

  In my room, I picked up my leather-bound notebook and flipped through until I found the messy scribbled set-list for tomorrow. It looked pretty darn good to me, a mix of classic rock, 90s metal, and some newer stuff. Things that people would recognize and be able to jam to.

  I took out my phone, intending to listen to one of the songs I had picked for tomorrow, but instead, my mind drifted back to the conversation with Molly. Bleeding Moonlight. God, I hadn’t listened to their stuff in years. They’d been one of my favorite bands when I was deep in my guitar obsession, but that was years ago.

  I typed in their name and scrolled down to their very first album. The familiar cover image took me right back to when I’d begged my parents to buy the CD for my birthday. When they’d obliged, I’d listened to the album on repeat for a month straight.

  It was so long ago that I couldn’t name all the songs, but when I pulled up the song list, I recognized one immediately.

  “The Thing About You” started with a harsh guitar riff. It didn’t sound great coming from my phone, so I reached for the green aux cord and hooked it up to my speaker, letting the melody fill the room.

  I fell back onto my bed. It really was like traveling back in time. All the memories collecting dust in my psyche shook themselves off and began to dance inside my head.

  I’d sit in this very room for hours after school every day, strumming the guitar and fingering chords until my fingers hurt. I’d been so excited when my dad bought me my first electric. It was a Gibson Epiphone, and it had been my most prized possession until I’d upgraded to a Les Paul the year of my audition. Dad would pop his head in when he got home every night to listen to me play, his enthusiastic reactions embarrassing and delighting me at the same time. If I’d known then how little time we had left, I would have played for him more often.

  I cleared my throat in an attempt to get rid of the sudden tightness. Thinking back to how my parents encouraged my interest in music always made me emotional. They’d done so without fail—even before I had begun to dream of Julliard. When I was ten, I’d started my first band with Naomi, my childhood friend. I had a kid-sized acoustic guitar, and she got her parents to buy her a drum kit that was more of a toy that an instrument. We’d jam in the garage on the weekends, causing my neighbor, Mrs. Dorin, to complain to my mom about the constant noise. Mom had pacified her with cookies and never asked us to stop.

  “The Thing About You” ended, and I sat up, reached for the Les Paul in the corner of my room, and turned on my amp to the lowest level. Even though I hadn’t remembered this song until a few minutes ago, my fingers appeared to have a much finer memory. I’d practiced this song over and over again until I’d been close to perfect. All these years later, the chords and even the guitar solo at the end, came to me with ease. Fuck, it was an excellent song.

  I listened to it a few more times, going over the nuances of the guitar and the tone of the vocalist. I wanted to play it tomorrow. Sure, it was a bit heavier than our usual stuff, but Molly was right. These guys were the biggest thing to ever come out of this town of forty thousand people. The crowd would recognize it, and even if they didn’t, it was a damn good song.

  I penciled it in right before the original I wanted to play and dialed Liam and Elly.

  Liam picked up first. “Hey, Ade, what’s going on?”

  “Hello?” Elly’s voice sounded a moment later.

  “Hey, guys, sorry for calling a bit late. Wanted to run something by you for tomorrow.”

  “Cool, what’s up?” Elly asked.

  “Two ideas. You guys remember Bleeding Moonlight? They’re a heavy metal band, they’re from around here.”

  “Yeah, of course,” Liam said. “They were on the news a few weeks ago. One of their members died.”

  “Right, so I heard.” Apparently, I was the only one tragically behind on all the depressing town gossip. “Molly was talking to me about them today, and I listened to a few of their old songs just now. I think we should play one tomorrow. ‘The Thing About You.’ It’s a good one, and it might be a crowd-pleaser if they’re back on people’s minds.”

  “Dun dun dun, duun duun,” Elly hummed. “Yeah, I remember that one. It’s old, but their newer stuff is way more technical, so this one would work better for us. I’m into it.”

  “I need to listen to it. Give me a few minutes,” Liam said before lapsing into silence. A moment later, I heard the song playing on his end through what sounded like his laptop speakers. My fingers went back to my guitar, fingering the chords along with the music.

  “The solo is pretty hard. You think you can take that one, Ade?” Liam asked.

  “Yeah, I can lead on this one,” I offered, excitement bubbling in my gut. For the band, I mostly played rhythm guitar, given that I also sang on most songs. Whenever I played lead, the instrument weaved deeper into my soul and my mind, demanding more and more of my attention. But I was over that kind of a commitment to something that would never pay off.

  “Bass sounds simple enough. We’ll need to raise the octave, I think,” Elly said.

  “And I can do the backup vocals,” Liam offered.

  “Sounds perfect. We can toy around with it a bit tomorrow at Mason’s.”

  “Cool. Great idea, Ade. I think it’ll be a hit with the crowd.”

  “What was the other thing?” Liam asked, turning off the music on his end.

  “I wanted to play ‘Green Roses’ near the end. Maybe second last? It fits the mood of the set, and it will be a nice way to break up ‘The Thing About You’ and ‘Crosstown Traffic.’”

  “Yeah, we could,” Liam said with little enthusiasm. “Though most people are there to hear songs they know.”

  “It’ll be a good bridge though,” Elly countered. “It’s a great tune, Ade. I like what you’ve done with it.”

  I chewed on my lip, grateful we weren’t doing this over video call. Like most of the songs I’d written in the past two years, it was about my parents. I didn’t—couldn’t—talk about their deaths very well, but I could package up fragments of my feelings in my music. The lyrics were about l
ove and loss and all the things that don’t pan out like we want them too. I’d written the guitar parts and vocals, and while the band had filled in the gaps, it was my baby. Most of our originals were.

  “I think it’s a great song,” Liam chimed in, probably worried I’d taken offense at his initial response. “I’m just, you know, thinking of what the audience wants. But if you want to play it, let’s do it.”

  I fingered the tear in my jeans. If we played this song and the crowd didn’t respond well, it would be on me, that was clear enough. But what was the point of writing music if no one ever heard it?

  “Thanks, guys. I want to play it. I think it’ll be well received.”

  “Sure,” Liam agreed, his voice light. “Sounds like a plan.”

  When we ended the call, I collapsed on the bed, a gust of air escaping my lungs. Sometimes these conversations were just like the goddamn college audition. Me trying to share something important with someone who might not give a damn. I don’t know why I kept writing stuff. No one else in the band really cared to do it, but for me, it wasn’t a choice. I just had crap that needed to come out, and when the seed of an idea made its way into my mind, it wouldn’t get the hell out until I planted it into existence. The urge didn’t come all that often anymore, not like it had in my teenage years, but it had never fully gone away.

  Not yet, at least.

  ADELINE

  The Barnyard was a fifteen-minute drive from Mason’s house. We piled into his mom’s minivan around eight pm, all of us equal parts nervous and excited. The practice session had gone well, and I felt as confident as I ever had about a set.

  The large barn stood like a beacon on the side of the highway, lights strung up all along its edges, making it impossible to miss. We pulled into the parking lot, taking the spot closest to the back entrance. It was a mild summer night, but a vicious breeze made me glad I’d worn my trusty leather jacket.

  It was just us tonight—no opening band. A three-hour performance, broken up into two seventy-five-minute sets, with a half-hour break in between. It was nights like these when all my training at the gym paid off. This kind of shit required serious stamina.

  Bryan, the Barnyard’s manager, stepped outside just as we unloaded Mason’s drum set.

  “There you are. How’s it going?” He gave me a warm smile through his thick gray beard.

  “Good,” I responded, going in for a quick hug. Bryan had been hooking us up with gigs for years from when he’d worked at the Horse’s Hoof, a popular local bar. I knew that our invitation to play here was mostly due to his patronage.

  “Should be a hell of a night. It’s getting busy already, and it’s not even past nine.”

  “Fuck yeah,” Mason said, stretching his hand toward Bryan for a fist bump. “Adeline put together a tight set. We’re pretty pumped.”

  The back of the Barnyard smelled like a typical concert hall—spilled beer, lingering cigarette smoke, and old sweat. I took a deep breath, because I was a weirdo, and to me this lethal combination was better than any cologne. Instantly, I felt at home.

  The stage didn’t have a curtain, but the lights were dimmed so that when we got up there to set our things up, we were no more than moving shadows. Bryan wasn’t kidding, the place was busy tonight. Angry punk rock played over the speakers, drowning out the cacophony of voices. I tore my eyes away from the frothing crowd, knowing that lingering on it would make my heart race. This close to showtime, I had to keep my head on straight.

  With soundcheck done, all that was left was a quick pep talk with the band. We huddled in a circle behind the stage.

  “Let’s crush it tonight,” I said, looking at all of them one by one. I got a mixture of grins and anxious smiles in response. “It’s a packed crowd, and we’re gonna give ’em a hell of a time. Yeah?”

  “Damn right!” Mason clapped his palm against the top of my back. A few more friendly claps later, we were ready to go.

  The guys and Elly went out first, grabbing their instruments and doing a final check on my guitar. I had a few seconds for my ritual. It was simple. I cut off whatever thoughts were in my head—any doubts, nerves, anxiety—as if pulling a plug from a wall socket. Gone. I let out a long breath. There. Now I was ready to put on a show.

  “Good evening! We are Through Azure Skies. You want to hear some music tonight?”

  The crowd cheered in response, and more than a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on me and the band. I loved this moment, the awareness of us here onstage blooming across the sea of faces.

  “One, two, one, let’s go!”

  We kicked off our set without further ado, jumping into an energetic cover of “Cypress Grove” by Clutch. As we often had to do, we played it in a different key so that my higher voice fit better with the music. I loved putting my own spin on the songs we played. It kept it fun for us and surprised the audience.

  The crowd began to move before us, heads swaying to the music pouring out of our instruments. I strummed the chords on my guitar as I sang, liking the sound of my voice tonight. I’d warmed up for a while before we left for the venue, knowing that singing for nearly three hours in one night was gonna be a marathon. The first song ended to enthusiastic applause. So far so good.

  “Thank you! Let’s see how you like this next one.”

  By the time the break came, my skin prickled with sweat, but I was on top of the world.

  “You guys are awesome. Grab some drinks, and we’ll be back in thirty,” I said to the crowd with a huge grin on my face. My gaze found Liam, who’s expression matched my own. We placed our instruments in their stands and walked offstage.

  “Damn, these folks are loving it!” Mason said excitedly once we were well out of sight. “The energy tonight is amazing.”

  “Fucking electric,” I agreed. “This might be the best show we’ve ever played.”

  “Knock on wood,” Elly said, lifting her fisted hand and making a show of looking for a wooden surface.

  I laughed at her and walked over to a small cooler filled with beer and water. I didn’t usually drink when we performed so the alcohol wouldn’t irritate my throat, but fuck it. Tonight, I was killing it on that stage, and a single beer wasn’t going to change that.

  Mason collapsed on a torn-up leather couch, his dirty-blond hair sticking to his forehead. He pulled his plaid shirt open to reveal a white tank top drenched with sweat and chugged a bottle of water. “I think I sweated out about a thousand calories out there.”

  I sat down by his side. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does.”

  “Shit, I think I dropped my phone onstage,” Liam said, looking around before walking back out on the darkened stage.

  I pulled out my phone to check for messages. Molly’s name glowed on the screen.

  “Own it, sis! Love you! Proud of you!”

  I snorted to myself. Of course, my seventeen-year-old sister was telling me that she was proud of me.

  Mason peeked over my shoulder. “How’s Mol doing? She excited to come to Northeastern with me?”

  I nudged him away with my elbow. “She’s fine, and I’d encourage you to rethink the phrasing of that question. She’s not going there with you.”

  He responded with an easy laugh. “Technically, I am going to be driving her there. That’s all I meant.”

  “Sure,” I said, shaking my head. “And I remember just how eager you were to play driver when I asked. My sister isn’t one of those girls you like to pick up at pit parties, so you better watch yourself.”

  A rosy tint appeared on Mason’s cheeks even as he rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, who do you take me for? Mol and I go way back. I’m just excited I’ll get to see her friendly face on campus.”

  I nudged him again, harder this time. “Well, if that’s the case, I’m trusting you to keep an eye on her. You’ll be my eyes on the ground.”

  He shrugged with a laugh and ruffled my curls that had grown even more voluminous in the heat of the venue. Before he
could respond, Liam rushed back into the room, his face pale.

  Something was wrong.

  COLE

  On the drive over to the venue, for the hundredth time in the past few weeks, I wondered if we’d made a mistake deciding to stick around River Valley after Charlie’s funeral. In my mind, it was the lesser of two evils. We could either remain in a place full of painful memories or admit defeat and say goodbye to our band. I wasn’t used to making these kinds of decisions, but at the time, I’d been the only one who would.

  Ezra leaned his head against the window of the car, his eyes seemingly fixed on the blurry outline of trees on the side of the highway. These days, when I looked at him, I struggled to recognize my old friend. His smiles faded more quickly, as if he couldn’t quite hold on to whatever it was that made him laugh. My invitations to hang out sat unread and unanswered on his phone until all I could do was show up at his door. I expected this kind of behavior from Abel, but from Ezra…He turned, and his eyes met mine. I glanced away, unable to deal with the hollow emptiness I saw inside.

  I’d seen that same emptiness in Charlie’s eyes sometimes, but it had disappeared whenever we came to River Valley. Despite being from Michigan, he had loved this place more than the rest of us combined. Loved might be the wrong word. He’d been obsessed with this town because of the significance it held for the band.

  “This is where it all started,” he’d often say as we drove past the sign: Welcome to River Valley. Population 40,560.

  Back then, I’d never thought that this might be the place where it all would end.

  I think Charlie had felt like he’d missed out on something important by not being here at the beginning. Whenever we’d come back, he’d wanted us to show him all the spots we’d spent time in growing up. Where we first met. The place that inspired the name for the band. The bar where we first performed. To him, our memories were precious gems, and he’d been an avid collector. We knew he’d want to be buried here. In his death, he’d finally get his unspoken wish and become a part of Bleeding Moonlight’s history in River Valley.