AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He scowled. Stone, the Road Kings’ lead guitarist, was very good at scowling. “Barstow, I’m talking about your fucking shirt.”
We were at the Road Kings’ studio, which was called RKS. They had built this place custom, and it was by far the nicest space I’d ever played in. It had a recording space, a rehearsal space, and a songwriting room, which was basically a big room filled with sofas. It even had two empty apartments upstairs for crashing in after pulling an all-nighter. Working at RKS was only one of the perks of this gig.
I ran my fingers along Precious’s strings. We were in the rehearsal room, getting ready for a session. Denver Gilchrist, the Road Kings’ lead singer, was sitting with Axel de Vries, the drummer, their heads bent together as they conferred about something in Denver’s notebook. Denver had dark, poetic good looks to go with his crazy amount of talent, and even though he looked like he just woke up—which he likely had—he was still stupidly hot. Axel was blond in contrast, lean and blue-eyed like a Nordic model, with tattoos on his arms. He gave me a wave, then turned back to what Denver was saying.
“Barstow,” Stone barked at me again.
I turned to look at him. Stone Zeeland, the Road Kings’ near-legendary guitar god, was over six feet tall, muscled, and bearded. I had learned early that a scowl was his usual expression even when he was pleased with something, and that words weren’t his strong suit. He illustrated this now by glaring at me in silence.
“What’s wrong with my shirt?” I asked.
He continued to glare, so I looked down. I had changed out of the stained shirt and put this one on as I left the house. It had no rips or stains on it. My tits were covered. What was his problem?
Then it clicked.
“Oh,” I said. “It’s a Seven Dog Down shirt.”
Stone looked pained as I said those words aloud. Seven Dog Down was a hit band that had had a string of number-one albums and sold-out stadium tours. They were also the enemies of the Road Kings. Each band had taken public shots at the other and had talked shit about the other in interviews. At the Road Kings’ final show of their reunion tour, Seven Dog Down had sent a bottle of champagne backstage that had disguised a glitter bomb. The Road Kings had popped the cork, and then they had to perform the show covered in glitter.
Even though Seven Dog Down had broken up recently, apparently the memory still stung.
“I’m not even a fan,” I admitted to Stone. “Their music sucks. I only have this because I dated a guy who left it at my apartment.”
“Change it.” Stone walked to an opened cardboard box in the corner, pulled out a Road Kings T-shirt, and tossed it at me. “I can’t look at that all night.”
“You intimidated by a shirt, Zeeland?” I asked. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”
“Bite me,” he said.
Stone Zeeland had first seen me play in a dive bar with a ska band called Checkerboard Sadness. It was as pathetic as it sounds. It was a shit gig, but afterward he approached me along with his girlfriend, Sienna Maplethorpe, a music journalist.
“I’m Stone Zeeland,” he’d said in his blunt way, without a greeting.
“So?” I knew who he was. Of course I did. The man was a fucking genius, but that didn’t mean I was going to suck up to him. “What do you want?”
“You’re really talented,” Sienna had said, trying to be the nice one.
“Your band sucks, but you don’t,” Stone agreed. “I’m looking for a new bass player.”
“You already have a bass player.” Neal Watts, in my mind, was also a genius. I’d admired his work for years, though us bass players never got the same recognition the others did. “Wait a minute. Is Neal Watts dead?”
Stone looked annoyed. “No, he isn’t fucking dead.”
“Are you guys breaking up again?”
“It was just the one time. And no, we’re not.”
Sienna stepped in again. “Neal and his wife are having a baby. He’s taking a temporary break from the band. We’re wondering if you?—”
“No,” I said. “Whatever you’re asking, no.”
That didn’t make sense, and I knew it. I was a nobody playing this terrible gig, and Stone Zeeland himself was offering me some kind of chance. I should be grateful and excited. I should jump on whatever he wanted. Who was I to tell the Road Kings to get lost?
The problem was, I had been offered chances—plenty of them. I’d gotten excited for opportunities that someone offered, I’d dropped everything, I’d gotten my hopes up. And every time it had happened, I had been let down. Dumped, ghosted, stiffed for pay.
Talk was cheap in the music business, which was full of liars. If Stone Zeeland was just another dirtbag, I didn’t want to know it. So I told him off.
He came back, though. Him and Sienna. They came to another gig, and another, and they offered again. Eventually, they wore me down.
