Force of Will (Incendiary Ink #2)

The Sound of Winter

WILL

The Whiskey's packed despite this being a "secret" show. Another Angel hasn't played venues this small since their third album went gold, but breaking in a new drummer deserves intimacy – even if half of Blackmore Records' roster crashed the party. Twenty-eight years behind a kit and watching Lucas adjust the throne on my old DW still makes my hands twitch.

He catches my eye as he checks the tension on the kick pedal. The same pre-show ritual I taught him on his first junior kit. His hands are steady as he tests the hi-hat, muscle memory I recognize in my bones. The continuous glucose monitor sensor peeks out from under his sleeve as he reaches for the cymbal - another kind of ritual we've learned to live with, one I never had to think about during my own shows.

The band launches into their opener – one of the tracks that made them famous, but already transformed by Lucas's touch. Where their old drummer would have muscled through with showy fills, Lucas lets the groove breathe. He's got my ear for dynamics but his mother's instinct for space. When to push, when to pull back.

The crowd surges forward as the chorus hits. Industry types who've seen it all still can't help moving when the hook lands. Lucas drives them there with a build-up I taught him years ago, but he's added his own flourishes. A subtle hi-hat pattern that wasn't there in rehearsal. A way of opening up the crash cymbal that makes the whole thing soar.

I find myself cataloging every choice, every variation. The way he's modified the bridge pattern to better support their singer's tendency to rush. How he's worked out a completely new groove for the pre-chorus that somehow makes their old hit sound fresh. All the little tricks I've taught him over the years, now transformed into something entirely his own.

From my spot near the sound booth, I can see the band's manager nodding along, phone forgotten in his hand. Even the label reps look impressed, and those guys wouldn't show excitement at the second coming. Lucas has done what every musician dreams of – he's made them forget they're working.

Our Sunday afternoon practice sessions flash through my mind: Lucas banging on pots and pans at five. At ten, graduating to his first real kit. At fifteen, already better than half the pros I knew. Now, here he is, twenty-two, making one of LA's biggest bands sound better than they ever have. A far cry from the kid who used to sneak into my studio to practice when he should have been doing homework.

A subtle mistake in the pre-verse transition – something probably only I would catch – and I see his jaw tighten just like mine used to. But he recovers smoothly, turning the stumble into an intentional variation that works even better than the original pattern. That's all, Raine – she could always spin any mistake into gold. Some talents skip a generation. Some get perfectly blended into something new.

"He looks good up there."

The voice stops my heart quicker than any drum fill. Raine. I'd know that tone anywhere – the slight rasp that made her harmonies legendary, earned her spots on countless platinum records. A long way from the club singer I fell for years ago.

"Sounds good, too," I manage, not turning. Not yet. My fingers curl against my palm, an unconscious grip on phantom sticks. "Been practicing the new material for weeks."

"Like father, like son."

Now I turn. Mistake. She's standing closer than I expected, close enough that I catch the familiar scent of her perfume. Still the same after all these years. Her dark hair now has subtle silver streaks, but her hazel eyes are just as bright as the night she owned this stage.

"Maya here?" I ask, desperate for safe conversation.

"Running late. Client meeting." Pride colors her voice. "But she promised to catch the second set."

Lucas launches into the opening of Another Angel's new single – technically still under wraps, but the label's hoping this "leak" will build buzz. His kick drum pattern is precise but not mechanical, adding ghost notes where I wouldn't have thought to. Raine's eyes drift closed, swaying slightly. She always did feel rhythm in her bones.

"He's better than I was at his age."

"He had a good teacher."

The compliment lands heavy. We stand in loaded silence as Another Angel tears through their set. Every A same long brown hair, same soft features, same doe eyes, except Maya’s are a warm brown. And they’re always calculating.

"Heard you're doing backing vocals on their album," I say to Raine, just to break the tension.

"Mmm. Both albums, actually. Blackmore's keeping me busy."

Both albums. Right. Because Incendiary Ink is back in the studio next week. Because I'll be seeing her there, in that intimate space where we recorded our first album, where she was already my wife, already Maya's mom, already everything.

"Dad!" Lucas bounds off stage during the break, high on performance adrenaline. His dark blonde hair like mine wet with sweat. "Mom! You made it!"

He hugs Raine first – always did have a mama's boy streak. Maya slips through the crowd behind him, designer suit slightly rumpled from her rush to get here. When Lucas pulls back, she steals her own hug.

"Sorry I'm late, little brother. That merger meeting wouldn't end."

When Lucas hugs me, I catch Raine watching us, something soft in her expression. Maya hangs back, that knowing look in her eyes, again too much like her mother's for comfort.

"You killed it, kid," I tell him, meaning it. "That new bridge?—"

"Changed up the pattern like you suggested." His grin could power Los Angeles. "Trent says it's definitely making the album cut. Thanks for coming, all of you." He glances between us, too perceptive for his own good. "Means a lot."

"Wouldn't miss it," Raine says softly.

For a moment, we're just us – our little family, watching our son's dreams unfold. Then reality crashes back as the stage manager calls for Another Angel's second set.

"Knock 'em dead," I tell him.

"Make your old man proud," Raine adds.

Lucas practically bounces back to his kit, adjusting his monitors with practiced ease. I drift toward the bar, needing distance from the way Maya's watching us, her head tilted close to Raine's as they whisper together.

"He's really good, Will." Raine's voice follows me. "You did good with him."

"We did good," I correct, turning back. "Both of us."

She smiles – that genuine smile that still hits like a power chord – and returns to Maya. I lean against the bar, watching them together, trying to remember when our daughter got so grown up, so knowing. She’s got her wedding coming up, but she can’t help but meddle in the love lives of everyone around her. Always the romantic. Not sure where she got that from…

Thirteen years since Raine and I divorced. Ten since my second marriage imploded. Six months since her second marriage ended.

Not that I'm counting.

The music starts up again, Lucas's drums driving the band forward. He's got something I never had at his age – the patience to play exactly what the song needs, no showing off. His kick drum locks in with the bass line, solid as bedrock, while his cymbal work adds just enough color to make it interesting.

Maya catches my eye across the room, arching one eyebrow in a gesture so like her mother, it aches. Sometimes, I think our kids see right through us.

Lucas launches into another fill – this one entirely his own. His moment. His future. I lean against the bar, letting the familiar pulse of drums and bass wash over me, and try not to count how many beats until I’ll get to talk to Raine again.