On the Run (Vagabonds #1) Page 13

  Liz inhaled deeply and exhaled through her nose slowly before she responded. “It’s not the way I wrote it…and I’d appreciate it if you’d sing it as intended. When you write your own lyrics, you can change them around all you please.”

  Barbie arched an eyebrow. “Oh, and I will.”

  Jesus Christ. Surely Peter had seen that he’d taken our little group that had gotten along famously and stirred up trouble. Barbie was the oil to our water. She refused to cooperate or even try to become part of our group. It was almost as if she thought that, since she was the vocalist, she was the leader and she was expected to do her own thing, the rest of us be damned. To this day, I have no idea what thoughts if any rolled around in that woman’s head that day. “Listen, you little bitches, we don’t have all day. I need you to get familiar with the material we already have so we can begin recording. The world will never discover you if you spend your entire life arguing in a garage over a simple verb.” Wow. Peter was out of his fucking mind. Talking to us like children wouldn’t get us to obediently get cracking.

  But, as I looked at the girls around me, I saw that I was wrong. They were all nodding and getting ready to start the song again. I shook my head, wondering if I could put up with his bullshit. I was not used to being talked to that way, and I didn’t plan on taking it.

  I gritted my teeth and didn’t say anything, but I could feel the anger in the pit of my gut. I didn’t know how long I could keep it contained. Barbie—hell, and even Peter—added a shitty vibe to our group. Before they’d come in the room, we were getting along well, working together like a group. It felt like we were pitted against each other now, and I wondered if Peter felt like the drama contributed something to our creativity.

  We started the song again. I felt a little twinge of—well, it wasn’t exactly orneriness, but evil isn’t the correct word, either. I was commiserating with Liz, because I agreed with her. The words weren’t Barbie’s to change—they were Liz’s heart and soul, and flippantly switching out one word with another without permission just because it “sounded” better was bullshit. And I wanted to send a message. So I listened carefully. Barbie had long since dropped the sheet of paper that had the words on them and was singing from memory. We’d been playing the song long enough that I was beginning to memorize the verses, and I was pretty sure the line where take was being switched with tame was in the second verse, line three. And when that little bitch sang tame again, I struck a wrong chord.

  I tried not to grin when it threw her.

  She struggled to get her vocal footing again, and I tried to act innocent. Peter had been jotting notes and doing things on his phone the whole time, sitting in a lawn chair next to the bay door on our side of the garage. I didn’t make eye contact with him, but I saw that he looked up when the sounds changed, and it wasn’t until his eyes moved back to his phone that I glanced over at the other women in the band. Barbie looked pissed but she was singing for an invisible audience, one that would no doubt want to tame her, just as she was asking. Liz gave me a grateful smile, and I beamed back at her. It was then that I saw Vicki’s grin spread across her cheeks, and I think she would’ve given me a thumbs up if it wouldn’t have ruined her rhythm.

  I was still seething by the time we ended the song again, and it felt like a matter of principle. It might have just been changing ”a verb,” something Peter seemed to take lightly, even though he thought Liz was a hell of a wordsmith, but it was more than that. It changed the entire meaning of the song. Yes, one little fucking letter—one simple verb. With the phrase “take me,” the meaning of the song felt more like the singer was asking her lover to accept her as she was, to keep her, hold her, love her forever, but changing it to “tame” ruined all that. It instead twisted the song to seem to mean that the singer needed to be dominated, ruled over, and that she wasn’t good enough as she was already. As someone as fiercely independent as yours truly, I fucking hated that change.

  Let’s just say Barbie and I started out on the wrong foot. And Peter was shifting to the wrong foot fast.

  For now, I let my guitar send my message, but I already knew that I might have to get vocal at some point, so I mentally prepared for battle. The thing a lot of people have never understood about me is this—they think I was sheltered, simply because I was on the road with my mom and dad for most of my formative years, but that’s really not true. I might not have had a lot of close friends, because never letting the grass grow under our feet prohibited that, but I was certainly not spared from seeing the world as it really was. My mom and dad participated in protests in Seattle when I was a little kid that I barely remember, but the one thing I got out of all that was that I can’t shut up when I feel I’ve been wronged. I need to speak up and say what’s on my mind, no matter the cost, because no one else is going to do it for me.

  The day turned out to be grueling. Between each song (we wound up practicing with three different ones), Peter would give us no encouragement. He’d never say we’d done a good job or that we sounded great or that we seemed to be jelling as a group. Instead, he’d point out mistakes (like my “accidental” screechy chord) or tell us we weren’t good enough, that he’d rather eat “syphilis-infected, botulism-riddled fish tacos out of a dumpster” than promote us at this point before telling us to “do it again and try not to fuck it up as bad this time.”

  He was trying to make us feel degraded, and I saw my comrades fall one at a time. His chiding made our playing worse, not better. It started with Kelly. I could hear her playing wrong notes more and more as we went on, and I was certain it was her nerves. Then Vicki began to get off beat here and there, and Liz’s playing got quieter. Even Barbie was affected. She didn’t hit any wrong notes, but she sang the wrong words over and over. I wasn’t certain that that was Peter’s influence, but that she lost the sparkle in her eyes, the confidence in her poise—that was all him.

  Me? It made me fucking pissed, and I could feel a defiant streak surging through my veins. As evening approached, my blood was boiling.

  We were all hungry and tired by around seven. Sure, Liz had kept us hydrated (there was a fridge full of bottled water and beer and we went through almost all of the water), but we had had enough. I also found it odd that there was no sign of Liz’s family that entire time, but I wasn’t going to ask.

  Even Peter was tired. He stood from his lawn chair and said, “I think I’ve had enough tonight, you stupid, cumstained tramps. We’ll be back at it again at ten AM tomorrow.”

  That? That was it as far as I was concerned. I was tired of his constant insults. He hadn’t uttered one word of encouragement, and the dreams he’d dangled in front of me as a carrot? They weren’t good enough or close enough to reach for me to want to deal with his bullshit anymore. My calloused fingers were near bleeding, I’d played so hard that day, and I knew I wasn’t the only one who’d given blood and sweat to this band already. A few of them had also given the requisite tears, thanks to Peter.

  I scowled and pulled my cable out of the amp, leaving my guitar draped on my frame. “I won’t.” I looked at the girls before looking at Peter and starting to walk toward the door that led into the house. “I don’t need this shit.”

  “Wait!” I heard from Vicki, but I was already committed. Peter didn’t say a word, and I wrapped my hand around the doorknob.

  Yep. Nothing. No apology, no request for me to stay. That confirmed that I was nothing but an expendable female guitarist. Well, fuck him. I’d said it aloud, and I meant it: I didn’t need this shit.

  I paused in the front room to grab my keys before heading out the front door, and I heard a commotion of teenage girls behind me, but I wasn’t looking back. I might have only been sixteen, but I deserved a little respect, and Peter wasn’t giving us any. We were working our asses off for him, and he did nothing but fling insults—if he even bothered to appreciate the work we were doing, the art we were creating.

  I was halfway to my car when I felt a hand on my arm. I thoug
ht it might be Vicki, my fast friend, the girl who felt like my soul sister, and it was going to make me sad to tell her goodbye, but it had to be done. They could—and would have to—go on without me.

  Ah, I could’ve walked away if it had been Vicki. I already had in my head my dad’s salesman speech. I was ready and willing to walk away from Vicki…but it was Liz whose hand was on my shoulder, the girl who was probably the exact opposite of me. She and I were cut from different cloth, had different outlooks, but I respected her more than any of the other girls there. She was a true artist, someone who took the job very seriously. She respected and loved her instruments, was thoughtful about her art, cared about the message she was communicating—and, hell, she’d never chided me for speeding up her music like she’d groused at Barbie for changing her words. I might have thought Liz needed a lot more work on her style (because it felt too derivative of so many others), but I respected the hell out of her work ethic and her desire to grow and become.

  She was the only one I couldn’t say no to.

  So when I turned and saw that it was her hand on my shoulder—a hand with fingers that I knew had to look and feel much like mine, shredded and numb—I took a deep breath and didn’t say a thing. My eyes searched her dark ones as I waited for her to speak, and it felt as though time were frozen.

  I thought she was going to kiss me for a brief moment, and then I felt confused.

  But then she took my other shoulder into her free hand and said, “Kyle, you do what you feel is best for you, but this band needs you. You…you are the most amazing guitar player our age I’ve ever met. You put me to shame. You’re intuitive—and adaptive. You were doing things in there I hope I can learn in a decade or two, but…I can only pray to try to be as good as you.” I blinked, dumbfounded and dumbstruck. I had no idea Liz felt that way about me or my skills, and it made me love her on the spot. Before I could even try to reply, she said, “I can’t do this without you.” I saw the other three girls come out of the door into the warm evening outdoors as Liz finished by saying, “I won’t do it without you.”

  Vicki was still holding her sticks as she got close. “Whatever Liz says, I second it. You gotta stay, Kyle.”

  Kelly nodded. “We need you, Kyle.”

  Even Barbie joined in, and I was surprised I didn’t fall backward onto the pristine green lawn behind me. “Yeah. You’re amazing, girl. You are the Vagabonds.”

  There was no walking away after that.

  Chapter Twenty

  PETER’S SLIMY ASS walking out the door at that moment should have made me stick to my guns, but those four girls and their confidence in me made me change my mind. They were the car salesman in glittery Vegas clothing, and I’d never seen them coming. They played to my ego and my newfound sense of loyalty, and I wasn’t going to walk away then.

  But I could still hear my dad’s voice in my head, echoing and rattling in my ears, telling me I had to be willing to walk away. I was already part of the band, and I knew I didn’t want to leave, but I was going to play that card nonetheless. Seeing Peter solidified that. I simply stuck my middle finger up at him and turned, walking to my car. I laid my guitar in the backseat, silently cursing myself in my head for leaving the case inside Liz’s house, but no way was I returning for it now. I was way too proud and far too stubborn to go back. I’d made a statement. “Love you guys,” I said to the girls while I stuck the keys in the ignition.

  I could feel my phone vibrating against my ass once I was a block away, and I knew they were texting me. Well, Liz and Vicki, anyway. I doubted Peter was. I pulled over and took the phone out of my back pocket. It was distracting and irritating, and I threw it on the passenger seat. Still, as I drove home, my thoughts on his asinine words, the fingers of my left hand throbbing and tingling, my neck aching, I thought of but one thing: I was going to fuck the shit out of Decker tonight, get my mind off that stupid dream I’d allowed myself to be sold on. Yeah, I was going to go back the next day, but I wasn’t going to listen to Peter anymore. And the more I thought about it, I began to wonder if I should walk away anyway. Yeah, the girls had made me feel good about being part of the group, but I didn’t need to listen to Peter’s degrading bullshit.

  By the time I got home (in about forty-five minutes, which told me I’d been speeding, because it should have taken longer), I hadn’t cooled off. Mom wasn’t home, and I didn’t know if she was on one of her weird dates or working her cashier job, but I called Decker. It wasn’t long before he was over and pounding into me, taking my mind off the bullshit of the day. But as we lay in bed afterward, I wanted to talk about it, get his thoughts on the whole matter—and he kept drifting off.

  “Decker,” I urged, rubbing his chest with the palm of my hand.

  “Hmm?” he asked, trying to open his eyes.

  “This band is pretty cool.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah.”

  I rested my head on his chest, swirling a finger around the smooth skin of his pec surrounding his areola, and began telling him about my day, how I’d even grown to accept Barbie and her oddness but how Peter had eventually ruined it all. “What do you think I should do?” I lifted my head to look at him and saw his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyelids fluttering in REM sleep in the soft glow of the lamp in my bedroom. “Damn it, Decker. You fell asleep again.”

  His eyes flew open. “I’m awake.”

  I sat up. “Yeah, now, you dick.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Kyle. I’m listening.”

  I sat up and turned, scooching so I could sit on the edge of the bed. “What part did you fall asleep listening to?”

  A few seconds passed. “Um…”

  I picked my bra up off the floor. “That’s what I thought.”

  I felt him sit up on the bed behind me. “Look. You like playing with them, right?” I nodded, fastening the clasps on my bra. The weight of his body caused the bed to shift as he moved closer and placed his lips on my shoulder. “I’ve only seen you play your guitar a few times, but it’s no secret to me that it’s the only thing you really love. You’re more alive when you do that then when you do anything else.”

  I grinned as I felt my nipples harden, feeling the coolness left behind on my skin where his lips had touched it, juxtaposed with the heat of his breath in the same area. “Well, almost anything else.”

  He laughed and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Maybe you can just block the asshole out and focus on making good music.” I nodded. “Didn’t you say he said he could make you guys big stars?”

  I nodded again and turned a little. “That’s what he said.”

  “What did he mean by that? I was thinking you’d be playing at different places around Colorado. Has he shown you any of his plans, proven to you he can do anything?”

  “He said worldwide fame—albums, videos, touring, the whole shebang.”

  Apparently that fact hadn’t registered with my boyfriend, because that news seemed to shock him. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. His voice was soft when he spoke. “Well…just ask him to prove it. Don’t believe shit till he does.”

  I could tell Peter didn’t have any fans in my bedroom. “Decker, I think that’s the best advice you’ve ever given me.” He grinned. “But my mind is not on that asshole right now. I think I’m wanting to fuck you again. You game?”

  * * *

  After Decker left that night, I finally checked my phone. I’d been right—I had multiple texts from Liz and Vicki…and even one from Peter, requesting that I attend practice the next morning.

  I decided to do it—but I wasn’t going to text anyone back to let them know. Nope. Let ‘em sweat.

  I also planned to do exactly what Decker had advised—ask Peter to put his money where his mouth was. Maybe he was a big fat liar—and if he was just some psychotic freak, maybe I could talk my new friends into dumping him and we could be a band on our own without his help.

  So I drove to Colorado Springs that morning, and I left late, so I knew I’d arrive l
ate. I wanted to send a very clear message that I wasn’t thrilled. Yeah, I see in retrospect that it was childish. My defense is that I was still technically a child.

  As I strode up to the front door, I had a lot of thoughts swirling through my head but I was emotionally cool. I would be fine no matter what came of today…in spite of the dream lodged in the back of my head. Peter’s vision had awakened something inside me that I hadn’t known was there—a desire to be seen and heard. Yeah, his sales pitch had affected me, all right, and it was getting harder and harder to walk away. If the Vagabonds didn’t work out, I’d have to find another outlet for my musical creativity.

  But I would try this first.

  After longer than I expected, the front door opened. Liz, dressed in camouflage from head to toe, said, “Kyle. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Hey, Liz. I left my guitar case here yesterday.” It was as if I had no control of my mouth, but I knew the guitar in my hand would likely give me away. So would the taped fingers, if they happened to notice. They gave away my intent to play.

  She must have sensed it but she said nothing about it. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. “Why don’t you stay a while? Peter is a bit…subdued today.”

  I couldn’t help how the corners of my lips turned upward a bit. “Yeah?”

  She whispered, “Maybe he actually listened to what you said.”

  I smirked. “I doubt it.”

  “Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

  I couldn’t resist and followed Liz through her house to the garage. All the other girls and Peter were there, and Kelly and Vicki both grinned when they saw me. Vicki rushed across the room to tackle me with a hug. Barbie and Peter were standing near the Mercedes talking in quiet voices, but I could hear snippets of their conversation. Barbie was talking about wardrobe.