On the Rocks Read online

  The first two lines I sang were a little tentative as I tried to wrap my mind around the words, continuing to play the music with my fingers and finding the melody I’d pondered weeks ago when I’d penned the lyrics, but I got them out just the same: “You think you’re so smart, / That you’re way ahead of me.” By the time I hit the chorus, though, I was belting out, “Gonna Get Ya.”

  I didn’t dare look over at CJ.

  I just focused on the sound—and it sounded pretty damn good. Yeah, a little rusty, because I hadn’t played it much and CJ was just learning it, plus we had a stupid drum machine and I’d never sung the damn song before.

  But just the same…I could feel my first single being built from the ground up. And it was fucking good. I heard what I’d wished the Vagabonds had sounded like all along: Heavy, hard, and kick ass.

  Chapter Two

  CJ AND I practiced for hours and Vicki never did show up. I sent her another text asking her to call me the next day…and as I was touching the send button, CJ’s lips were on my neck and we were in bed not long after.

  Once I’d gotten over feeling freaked out about singing in front of him—essentially pouring out all my heart through the mike—I realized that playing music with him was an almost sexual experience. Music affected my emotions anyway, but playing with the man of my dreams, the love of my life (unfortunately, the very same guy I couldn’t make that confession to) made me horny as hell.

  It seemed to have the same effect on him.

  After making love, my heart rate had finally slowed, my breathing returning to normal, the warmth of my skin beginning to cool when I heard his voice. “Goddamn, Kyle. You should sing for your new band.”

  “Hell, no. No fucking way.”

  “Why not? Give me one good reason.”

  I already had a litany of reasons in my brain, and I just had to pull out one. “I need to concentrate on playing my guitar.”

  “That’s not good enough. You can get used to it. Look at all the artists who already do it. Lots of your favorites have done it—Kurt Cobain, for one. That’s a lame excuse. A little practice, it’d be nothing you couldn’t do.” Then he chuckled. “That’s why the coolest parts are in the solo—so they don’t have to sing while playing the most difficult parts.”

  Damn it. He was right there. I had to try another tactic. “My voice sounds like shit.”

  CJ sat up and so I had to as well. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. It’s not like I can’t hear myself. I sound stupid.”

  He drowned me in a sweet kiss. “We all sound stupid to ourselves, but you have to trust me here. You have a sexy voice. It’s not like Barbie’s—all sweet and ready to be a pop queen—and it’s not completely down and dirty and bordering on masculine like Liz. You’ve got some harshness, a little gravelly quality, but it’s sexy. You’ve got a metal voice, but it’s all woman. You have to do it, Kyle. You’ve already been the guitarist. Now lead your damn band.”

  I inhaled sharply. I wanted to protest more but part of me really liked the idea. And I trusted CJ. “How do you think Vicki will feel about it?”

  “Is Vicki even part of your band anymore?”

  I shrugged and looked down at the bedspread. Vicki might have been off in her own little world, but CJ was right here living his life with me and helping me become the very best I could be. He cared. He wanted me to be great. And it gave me a crazy stupid idea. “Marry me.”

  CJ chuckled. “You’re too much, Kyle.” He grabbed me around the waist and lay down, pulling me back down to him before burying me in another hot kiss…which led to more hot lovemaking. And my stupid, semi-serious proposal was forgotten in sweat and writhing and eventual sleep.

  But my id didn’t forget. Not by a long shot.

  * * *

  If my id was obsessed with CJ, my superego was preoccupied with my band and taking it further. I called Vicki each day before a planned rehearsal, and three more days in a row—after making a promise—she didn’t show. I’d call her a little way into rehearsal time and she wouldn’t answer. I didn’t know what she was doing—if she was partying or just blowing me off. I only knew I was growing tired of her not showing and not giving me a valid reason for it.

  CJ continued rehearsing with me, and I was so grateful, because I could hear my new band’s sound shaping up. It was time to bring new people on board, though, and it was time for me to find a new rehearsal space. I felt bad continuing to use his small apartment to play my music, even if it didn’t seem to bother him.

  As for my friend, I was at the end of my rope. I called Vicki one last time. After she answered, I asked, “How you doin’?”

  “Okay.”

  “Why do you keep missing our rehearsals, Vicki?”

  “Eh…just stuff that keeps getting in the way, you know?”

  I took a deep breath. Goddamn…this was harder than I’d thought it would be. “Priorities, Vicki. You have to choose—the band or everything else. I’m not saying you can’t have a life, but if you can’t make it to a rehearsal now and then, I have to assume you don’t want to be part of it all.”

  “No, I do. I swear.”

  I swallowed. “Then I have to issue an ultimatum. I need you at the next rehearsal. We need to get together.”

  I could hear a crack in her voice. Maybe she was actually listening. “When?”

  I wanted to make it easy. I wanted her with me. “When can you do it?”

  She paused before she said, “How about tomorrow? Like around three?”

  “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  She showed up, much to my surprise, and it made me happier than I would have expected. But she was stoned off her gourd and had a hard time concentrating and even staying awake. The music should have been enough to keep her alive and kicking, but she was out of it.

  Much as I hated to admit it, the drum machine had been better.

  I didn’t say anything to her that afternoon because I didn’t think she’d retain it but, more than that, I didn’t know that it would make an impression. So, when she was getting ready to leave, I asked, “You need a ride?”

  “Nah. Andrew should be here soon.”

  Andrew? She was with that loser again? Or still? Had she ever left him? And then I knew she’d probably be a hopeless cause until she kicked him to the curb. Still…I wanted to give my friend every chance possible. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yeah.” She looked spaced out.

  And the next day when she didn’t call, I dialed her number late afternoon. “Yeah, Vicki. We need to schedule our next rehearsal.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And…please don’t take this wrong, Vic, but…come sober, okay?”

  I didn’t know if it was sadness or denial I heard in her voice when she replied. “Okay.”

  But she was late to the next rehearsal and trying really hard to act like she wasn’t on anything. And then she didn’t show up to the next one. Or the one after. Or the one after that.

  That was when I knew I’d have to go on without her.

  I told CJ and he said, “Don’t sweat it, Kyle. You’re not the first person to dump a band member because they won’t get their shit together.”

  I knew he was right but it didn’t make me feel better. “Name one.”

  He shook his head. “Stop tormenting yourself.” He sighed, and then I knew he was growing weary of being my cheerleader. I really had to pull myself up by the bootstraps and focus on what was important. I wanted to have my own band and Vicki wasn’t part of the solution, so I had to move on.

  So I nodded. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  CJ smiled and I could have melted. His disarming grin could make a rainy day feel sunny. “You need to fill your empty slots. You by yourself are not a band, no matter how good you are. I have no doubt you could actually write your whole damn album and maybe even record it, but you’ll need people to tour with.” I nodded again. I knew he was right. “You’ve already written all your materia
l?”

  “Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  “Well, yeah…I’m constantly thinking of new words and music, but that stuff could always go on the next album, right?”

  “Yeah. So what positions do you need? Drummer, bass?”

  “I think I want a rhythm guitarist too. I really liked the dual guitar sound Liz and I had.”

  “Okay. Nothing wrong with that—just more personalities to deal with.”

  “Who cares? If you have the right people on board, it shouldn’t be a problem, right?” CJ grinned but didn’t add anything else. “And a vocalist.”

  “I really think you should give it a go, Kyle.” I shook my head. “I can put out feelers for musicians. You want an all-female band again?”

  I hadn’t thought much about it. I’d only known CJ was right, that I needed warm bodies to play instruments. I looked back over the past few years of my life as a musician—yeah, the girls in the Vagabonds had felt like sisters, but they’d just as often felt like enemies. They’d filled my life with drama and we’d all been bitches off and on. There’d been moments of backstabbing, fighting, yelling, and screaming. Barbie had been the worst, but we’d all—including me—had our moments. Each woman had required a different tactic—Barbie had needed constant attention; Liz worked better with respect and logic; Vicki often had to be coerced or threatened (and even that no longer worked); and Kelly had discovered that our world wasn’t for her, but when she’d been with us, she was one who’d needed a delicate touch in that if a suggestion was too hardcore, she tapped out. Working with women was fucking exhausting.

  So then I thought about the men I’d worked with. No, not Peter or Andrew, because they were slimy assholes. Peter had been on a weird power trip and Andrew had started out as “Mr. Slick”—good looking to a fault with the sensibilities of a used car salesman—but had become a junkie—and a lovesick one to boot.

  No—I needed to look to the men who did the real work around the band. It had been a while since our first tour, but Bad Dog and TT always came to mind. They had a job and they did it every day. There was no drama. There was no jealousy. There was no bickering or underhanded comments. So I answered CJ. “Hell, no. I’m done working with women. Women are catty and bitchy and a pain in the ass. I’d rather work with men.”

  CJ tilted his head slightly. “Men can be a pain in the ass too.”

  “Yeah, that may be, but they’re straightforward.” Even the man I was talking to—he might have been a huge pain in the ass, but I always knew where I stood with him…even when it hurt. And so the matter was settled—my next band would be me and male musicians. No more women and, I hoped, no more drama.

  Just the music.

  Chapter Three

  ABOUT THE TIME CJ had rounded up some guys he thought would be perfect for me and my sound, I was contacted by my label. The jackasses didn’t call, though. They didn’t even send an email. No, they sent a letter letting me know they’d ended their contract with me. I hadn’t had the opportunity to put out an album yet and they were already letting me go.

  Fuckers.

  I knew why, though. Liz was also under contract with them, and her album was just weeks away from release. In fact, I expected to hear her first single any day.

  All that did was make me more despondent, and knowing that CJ and Death Crunch were getting ready to go to Florida for two months to record their next album didn’t help. He had become my rock and I was afraid of how I’d function without him.

  He’d become my lifeline.

  But, crazy guy, for my auditioning band members, he’d booked the old studio where the Vagabonds and I had recorded our first album. He’d even talked to Guidry, who was no longer just a sound guy. He was now managing the place and, for a small fee, he said we could practice there as long as it didn’t interfere with other things on the schedule—indie bands recording, concerts, et cetera. He said he’d give me a schedule I could work around.

  And the day came. CJ had gathered together three guys: a bassist, another guy he said was a versatile guitarist and could easily play rhythm to my lead, and a drummer (maybe this guy was too versatile—he was used to playing double bass drums, and I didn’t know that I needed that for my band; CJ reminded me to let the guy play to see what he could add to my sound and then decide).

  I only hoped I loved them all; otherwise, I’d have to continue searching.

  CJ came with me that first day to make the introductions. When we got there, I barely recognized Guidry. He was still a chubby guy, but his ear lobes were stretched to the size of donut holes and he’d chiseled his beard. It looked less like it belonged to a guy who played videogames in his mom’s basement and more like a guy who was trying to look metal. He’d pierced his tongue in the meantime too. He looked good and definitely more metal. But I already knew what he could do. I didn’t need to be impressed by his appearance because I was already aware of his expertise.

  The first guy to walk in the door after our arrival was a hairy guy carrying a beat up black guitar case. He had long black locks accompanied by a mustache and goatee. He would have fit in the seventies just as much as today, but his clothing gave him away as a modern child. His name was Jake Mills and, while his training was classical, he could play a bad ass metal bass—I found that out quickly.

  Next was Teddy O’Neal. He too had longish hair, but it was brown and almost wavy and its length, unlike that of Jake’s, did not put mine to shame. He had high cheekbones and green eyes that sparkled as though he had a titillating secret.

  He did, but I didn’t know it yet.

  Finally, a kid by the name of Brandon B. He looked to be barely eighteen and I initially had my doubts, but what kind of hypocrite did that make me? I’d been younger than he was when I’d recorded my first album. I was going to listen before passing judgment. I didn’t care what he looked like—I only cared what musical talent he could bring to my band. Brandon had blonde hair, blue eyes, and the body of a basketball player…and I soon found out he was one of the greatest drummers I would ever have the pleasure of playing with.

  What I hadn’t expected was that CJ had sent recordings of seven of my songs to these guys unbeknownst to me, so when we sat down to play, they already knew most of the music. I’d been thinking that day one I’d just see how adaptable they were and have them practice a little, but instead they were able to show me their stuff right off the bat.

  One hour in and we were jamming our asses off. CJ had, perhaps, chosen the best bandmates ever for me. They were good musicians, yes, but they were adaptable and flexible and, as we continued to play, we found ourselves experimenting with and against each other. It was amazing. It was in those first few hours with these new guys that I felt I had really matured as a musician. Sure, I’d gelled with my old band—we’d learned each other’s cues and needs and wants, but I had no idea how fresh blood would invigorate my style. They challenged me in a way I hadn’t been challenged in years. And it was all without words. Teddy would smile and then play a riff a different way—different tempo or syncopation—forcing me to go with the flow. Then I’d do the same thing back to him. And Jake kept up. His basslines were basic at first but he too made his sound more complex as we went on. Brandon? Holy shit. That kid was in his own world, and he’d change up his beats, trying to find the perfect rhythm for each song.

  By the time we were done that first day, I was exhausted.

  But I knew I had a hell of a band.

  * * *

  I don’t know why I kept expecting Vicki to call…or text even, but she hadn’t been communicating with me before, so why would she now? Every morning that I woke up and went to rehearsal was a great reminder and it reinforced my decision.

  Damn. These guys were amazing too.

  We weren’t rehearsing every day, but that didn’t matter. The guys in my band seemed to be consummate professionals.

  Week two, the third day of practice, we were playing once more and Guidry walked in. He would
be around more once we were ready to record demos, but for now he was just there in case we needed him. At the end of the most recent song I’d written (one called “This Bitch is Back,” a preemptive response to anything my former bandmates might have to say about me), he asked, “You got a vocalist yet, Kyle?”

  “No. You recommending somebody?”

  He grinned. “I have it on good authority that you have a hell of a singing voice and that you should be fronting your own damn band.”

  Yeah, I really needed to figure that part out. “I’m considering it.”

  “What’s to consider? If you’ve got the chops, do it.”

  Jake, my new bassist and a guy I couldn’t quite get a bead on, gave me an enigmatic smile. “Let’s hear it.”

  I smiled back. “Hear what?”

  “Your voice.”

  I got ready to protest, but all four men in the room—Guidry and my bandmates—stared me down, challenging me. Finally, I nodded and said, “Okay. From the top.”

  Quiet Brandon gave me one nod and then started pounding out the drum intro to “This Bitch is Back,” and then it was my turn to play the opening notes. In just seconds, we were all playing our parts and I was scrambling in my head, trying to remember the exact words I’d penned to this song. It was newer, so it hadn’t been rolling in my head as long.

  It didn’t take long. The song was close to my heart and should have had the subtitle, “Barbie, this is dedicated to your ass.” Instead, though, I wouldn’t ever tell a soul who I’d written the song about or for.

  By the second verse, I was feeling it inside and out and belting into the mike.

  You talk so much shit.

  Does anyone listen?