17. Suspicious Minds
CHAPTER 17
Suspicious Minds
JOEL
I don’t think I can remember the last time I smiled so much. My cheeks hurt. Is that normal? Do I have lockjaw? But as I pull into the driveway I glance in the rearview mirror and my grin pulls even wider.
Oh man. I’m such a fucking goner.
One makeout session with this woman and she has me eating out of the palm of her hand. I rest my head back against the seat. What the hell am I going to tell Key? He wants everything to stay the same, but life isn’t like that. What if he hates me for dating someone? What if he thinks I’m leaving him behind? Oh fuck, what if it breaks up the band?
“Fuck a duck . . .” I mutter, grabbing a cigarette and stepping out of my Honda Accord. I glance up at the stars above me, imagining they’re Dusty’s freckles across the bridge of her narrow nose. It’s so dark now, the lit cherry of my cigarette the only light. I fumble with my keys, taking far too long in the dark to find the right one. Finally, the door opens and I’m assaulted by the lights and noise.
Key’s not alone.
Panic floods through me. What if Key brought home a girl? What if he wants us both to take her to bed? I don’t want anyone else. In fact, I haven’t thought about any other girl since Dusty reappeared in my life. I’m locked in. Hook, line, and sinker. Jesus Christ . Is this how Dave and James felt?
I close the door behind me and see Becks standing in the kitchen pouring coffee. With the noise of the door slamming, she looks up and her green eyes meet mine. “Oh good, Joel, you’re home.”
“Uh, yeah. What’s—what’s going on?”
Her mouth is turned down and a sinking feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. “You should come into the living room.”
I turn the corner to find the guys sitting around Al wearing worried expressions. Becks passes out coffee, but it’s not until I sit down in the seat next to Key that anyone notices I’m here.
“Joel,” Al says. “Good, I think it’s best that we do this with everyone here. Less confusion, I think.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Something has . . . happened,” Al starts.
I wait, but when he doesn’t elaborate I look around the room. James and Dave don’t meet my eyes, and Key has slumped forward, head heavy in his hands. Everyone seems to know but me.
I look back at Al to find him already watching me. “What happened?”
But Al can’t speak and I’m starting to get really annoyed. “Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?”
“We’re being sued,” Dave says.
Of all the things that could have been said, that was not something I had even contemplated. I thought someone died. “Sued?”
Thankfully, Al seems to have found his voice. “Yes, uh . . . a man named”—he pulls out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket—“Logan Samuels? He has filed a copyright infringement lawsuit against the band.”
“But I thought—” It hits me then and it’s as if I’ve been punched in the gut. The air is knocked out of me, and I turn to look at Key, whose hands are balled up tighter than Fort Knox in his shaggy hair. “Wait, One-Punch Logan is fucking suing us?”
James and Dave look at each other. “One-Punch Logan?” James asks.
I shoot out of my seat. “Yeah, this absolute fucknut we were in military school with,” I say, gesturing to Key. “He was always hanging around us, following us around. He played mediocre guitar . . . the three of us, well, we sort of formed a band.”
“Well, he’s claiming that most of your songs . . .” Al sighs. “He’s saying he was the one who wrote them.”
Fire burns through my veins. “He what?” I spit.
“Joel, you can back this up, right?” Dave says, trying to stay calm. “Key says he was the sole writer on ‘Neon Crush’ and ‘Firebird’ and?—”
But there’s a scraping of wood against flooring and Key is halfway across the room.
“You fucking think I’m lying about writing those goddamn songs?” he yells.
Dave is on his feet, his hands up. “Of course not!”
“Then knock off the shit about ‘oh, well, Key says .’” His eyes are red as he looks around, his face a little puffy. “Here’s what Key says right now and will forever say: Those are my songs. I wrote them. Me . For fuck’s sake, I wrote some of them as a kid!”
James is on his feet next. “We believe you, man,” he says. “But there’s one huge problem.”
I frown. “Which is?”
Dave runs a hand down his face. “He says he has proof he wrote them.”
“Proof?” Key says. “ Proof ? I’ll shove his proof up his fucking urethra.”
I place my hand on Key’s shoulder. He’s shaking, the tension in his muscles as hard as a rock.
“I don’t know what kind of proof he’s claiming,” Al admits. “But Key, please tell me you have something. Anything to prove you wrote those songs.”
“They’re mine! I don’t need to prove anything to anyone!”
James steps forward. “No one is denying you wrote them, but if this thing goes to court?—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Key shouts, louder still. “You know what?” He shrugs my hand off his shoulder then stomps away to the edge of the living room. “Fuck all of you. I don’t need this bullshit.”
The sound of his footsteps retreating to his room echo off the walls, then a door slams, then silence. I turn toward the others. Becks sits ramrod-straight in her seat, her green eyes wide and unblinking.
“Well,” James says with a sigh. “I think that went well.”
I close my eyes and rub my forehead. “Look, I’ll talk to him. He’s . . . he hasn’t been having a good go of it lately, and then this? I’m sure we can come up with something.”
Al mops at his sweaty forehead as the front door slams shut. Izzy appears, holding a stack of newspapers under her arm. When Dave sees her, he’s immediately wrapping her up in his arms.
“I thought you were going to Memphis?” he asks, holding her out at arm’s length and scanning her face.
“I rescheduled that interview.”
“What? Why?”
She holds out the newspapers. “Because of this.”
Dave takes one in his hands but I can’t bear to look. His expression is enough for me to understand whatever it is, it’s not good.
“‘Carnal Lies? The metal band’s rise to stardom could be the worst sin of all.’” James reads softly, the paper crunching in his hands.
“This story isn’t out yet,” Izzy explains. “My friend from college—you know Henry? He works for the East Bay Chronicle now and called to give me the heads up. But this paper will be everywhere first thing tomorrow.”
“How can they print something that hasn’t even been proven true yet?” Becks asks.
Izzy rolls her eyes. “It’s the Chronicle. You know all they print is trash. But because they don’t come right out and use accusatory language, they can get away with it. It’s bullshit.”
Al grabs a copy of the paper, then pulls his car keys from his pocket. “I need to head back to the office to try and deal with this. See if they can pull the article before it hits the streets.” He stops when he reaches me. “Joel, please see what you can get out of Key. I wish it was as easy as taking his word for it, but if this goes to court they’re going to want some kind of proof and . . . so will the public.”
I stand, shell-shocked, as he leaves through the front door.
“What the fuck are we going to do?” Dave whispers.
“You don’t think this guy could be telling the truth, do you?” Becks asks.
James shakes his head. “No. No, there’s no way. We’ve all been in a studio with him. Key knows how to compose songs. I’ve watched him do it.”
“But what if he has no way to prove he wrote them?” Dave adds.
James turns to Dave with a frown. “Wait, you’re not actually thinking?—”
“No, definitely not,” Dave admits. “But in all that studio time, all those rehearsals . . . have you ever seen Key bring a piece of paper with him? Has he ever written down a song? Who does that?”
“ He does.”
I don’t even realize I said the words until the four of them turn to me.
“I know him,” I say. “Key’s brain works differently. You’re right though, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him write down a composition.”
Dave steps toward me. “We need proof. If this Logan guy has something and we don’t? How will we ever be able to clear Key’s name?”
“I’ll talk to him,” I say. “It’ll all be okay, you’ll see.”
Four pairs of eyes watch me as I back out of the living room, and when I reach Key’s door, my legs are heavy.
How is this happening? There’s no way that bastard has proof and if he does, it’s obviously fake. There isn’t a lot that I’m certain of in this world, but one thing I know one hundred percent? It’s that Key is the furthest thing from a liar or a thief. It’s impossible. So I stretch out my hand and knock on the door.
“Key?”
“Fuck off, Thanger,” he shouts.
My guts turn. He never calls me by my last name. He must really be pissed. I grip the handle and turn it, thankful he didn’t lock me out. When I step inside, I spot him laid out on the bed, his face buried in the pillows.
“Hey man,” I start.
“I thought I told you to fuck off,” he mumbles into his sheets.
“You ought to know by now that I’m terrible at following instructions.”
“I have nothing to say that I haven’t already said.”
I cross the room and stand next to the bed. “You could talk to me. Like you always do.” There’s a grunt, and I roll my eyes before perching on his bed. “Or, you know, I could just beat the shit out of you until you spill it.”
He’s quiet for a moment before he turns, his eyes obscured by his hair. “How am I supposed to prove I wrote those songs, Joel?” he whispers.
I take a deep breath. “We’ll figure it out. You wrote some of them before you left home. Maybe you just have to bite the bullet and go back there. Go through your old stuff for anything you might have written down.”
“I didn’t . . . I mean, I did, but?—”
A spark of hope flickers in my chest. Could Key have the songs written in a journal back home? “But what?”
“They’re gone, Joel.”
“Gone? What do you mean?”
He sits up and rubs at his jaw.
“I only ever wrote them down once, and I-I just always kept them up here, you know?” he says, pointing to his head. “And the paper copies? Trust me, they’re probably nothing but ash now.”
“Surely your parents wouldn’t?—”
“Joel!” His hands fly up into the air. “Can you just . . .” He covers his face. “Just get out.”
“Key—”
“I said, get out!” he yells.
He lies back down and turns onto his side. I frown. I guess that’s the only thing I can manage for the night. My hands flex and tighten into fists. That article will come out tomorrow and people all over San Francisco will think Key is a thief. It makes me sick.
“I’ll be here, when you’re ready,” I say. “Whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere.”
He turns his head to face the opposite wall and, with a sinking feeling, I leave the room.