24. Bad to the Bone
CHAPTER 24
Bad to the Bone
JOEL
“W hat the fuck is taking so long?” Dave mutters from the leather seat in the waiting area.
James shrugs. “Lawyers charge by the hour. Probably make us sit here for longer than necessary just to bill us for it later.”
My nail picks at the cording on the leather chair I’m sitting in. Part of me is back in that apartment above The Sudsy Dream and the other is terrified that One-Punch Logan is going to win this case.
“And there’s been no word from him? Nothing?” Dave asks, leaning forward in his chair to stare at me.
“Oh, how silly of me. Yes, Dave, I forgot to mention that he called this morning.” Dave frowns. “Told me he was . . .what did he say? Oh right, he was taking over production at Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.”
Dave rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
James looks over. “Is that necessary?”
My fingers abandon the chair, and I start picking at the nail bed of my left hand. “Seemed it was to me. Or have you both forgotten that I’ve spent the better part of forty-eight hours searching for him?”
“You’re the one who knows him the best,” Dave stresses. “And you mean to tell me that you have no idea where he would have run away to?”
The idea that I don’t know my best friend as well as I thought I did stings. Like suffering a deep papercut only to squeeze lemon juice on it. Biting and sharp.
“Look,” James interjects before I can tell Dave to fuck off, “for all we know, he knows exactly how to prove the songs are his. He’ll waltz in here, and this will be over in an hour.”
As if to prove him dead wrong, a young woman in a skirt and blazer approaches us in the lobby. “Excuse me, gentlemen, we’re ready for you now.”
The three of us jump to our feet and adjust our awkward suits. Al insisted we dress appropriately and while everything inside of me is screaming of discomfort, I know it’s for the best. We’ve spent too much of our lives being treated like deadbeat losers for how we look at first glance. The tattoos on James and I alone usually have women like this pretty brunette clutching their pearls.
We follow along down the wide wood-paneled hallway until we reach a large door. The woman pushes it open and gestures for us to go inside. One step in the door and my body is rigid with anger. One-Punch Logan sits, looking unfortunately suave, in a tailored suit flanked on either side by who I assume are his overpriced lawyers.
“Gentlemen, please come in,” says an older man with shockingly white hair. He sits at the end of a long conference table next to Al, who’s wearing a grim look on his face. His lawyer, who we’ve met on several different occasions throughout our music career, gives us a nod from where he sits at our manager’s side.
We take our seats in the leather swivel chairs, and I make the conscious choice not to look at the traitor across the table. His eyes are on me, I can feel it. I know he hates me. Hated me from the first moment we met. Hated how Key became closer to me and cut him out of the band.
Good. Because I hate him too.
Not because he ever did anything specifically awful to me directly, but because of how he hurt my friend. He was always a jealous leech and I saw right through him. And now, sitting across from me, he’s determined to suck the life out of all of us because he knows he’d never become anything without it.
“Right,” says the man with white hair. “I’m Judge Horowath and we’re here today to discuss the claim of one Mr. Samuels against the members of musical talent, Carnal Sins, for copyright infringement on seven songs, as outlined below.”
He lists off the songs—the only songs on both our EP and LP albums that Key was the sole songwriter.
“Are all the members of Carnal Sins present?” Judge Horowath asks.
Al stares down at me with disappointment etched on his face as I shake my head. “No, sir. Keith Prentiss is not here today.”
The judge frowns and looks down at the list again. “Mr. Prentiss is the sole songwriter listed on the tracks in question, is that correct?”
One of the lawyers next to Logan speaks up. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“I see,” he says, then turns back to us. “Is there any particular reason that Mr. Prentiss has chosen not to attend today’s hearing?”
Dave and James give me a look like Take the wheel, man , and I clear my throat. “It would seem he has gone missing.”
“Missing?”
I nod. “We’ve tried to locate him, but even after searching far and wide, we haven’t been?—”
“What I think my client means to say,” Al’s lawyer jumps in, “is that the stress of these proceedings has caused significant impacts to my client’s mental state. It is possible that he has put himself in danger because he is distraught over the betrayal of a past friend.”
“More like he’s drinking himself stupid in an alley somewhere,” Logan stage-whispers.
At this, I look up, my eyes meeting Logan’s, and my whole body crackles with fury. He sits back, a smirk on his lips. He wanted everyone to hear that— wants the judge to think Key’s a liar and an addict.
“Well, we shall have to proceed without him for the time being,” the judge says, opening up the file in front of him. “Mr. Samuels, I apologize, but since I am unfamiliar with this kind of music, and your relationship with the band and its members, could you provide me with your account of your involvement with the band and the creation of these songs.”
“Wait,” Logan starts, glancing around the table. “We’re not doing this in a courtroom? With, like, a jury?”
The judge sighs and lowers his glasses. “Mr. Samuels, this is simply a preliminary inquiry to determine if there is enough evidence to take this to trial. We don’t roll out a whole grand jury for such simple matters unless necessary.” He gives him a hard stare. “Shall we continue?”
My lips twitch with the urge to smile. It delights me seeing Logan so beautifully chastised by this judge. I’m further comforted when the judge turns to our side of the table and says, “Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance too.”
Logan whispers something to his lawyer behind his hand, and only once he gets a nod does he sit up straighter.
“Okay, fine. I first met Keith Prentiss at the Samson Academy for Boys. I was a troubled teenager. My parents couldn’t control me and after a run-in with the law, they gave me an ultimatum: go to juvenile prison, or go to military school. But it wasn’t truly a military school, more like a cult. Religious zealots who would beat us if we didn’t recite memorized bible verses and stay in line—follow orders. They didn’t want to teach us. They wanted to brainwash us.”
I can’t help but sneak a look at him as he tells his story. To be honest, I hadn’t even known why Logan ended up at Samson Academy. I guess I never bothered to ask and he was never willing to share. Not many of us were.
“While I was constantly getting punished for not following the rules, this other boy wasn’t. He was clean cut and quiet. He never said a word back against any of the drill sergeants. Just followed every order, every rule to a tee. At first, I thought he had been there before and was already brainwashed. But then I realized that if I did what he did, I wouldn’t get punished. So I started following him around, copying his mannerisms and such, and miraculously, my time at the Academy became easier—tolerable.
“When he caught on that he was helping me, we became friends. He kept me out of trouble and I helped him with school. He had terrible grades, which was surprising because with the way he talked, you’d never suspect he was stupid. So we started helping each other. He gave me advice on how to best make the beds and stay out of trouble and I helped him write out his homework. He would dictate and I’d write. From then on, it was like finally having a friend.
“One day he told me he wanted to be a musician. He told me he planned to get out of there when he turned eighteen, and head to California. That he wanted to start a band and make metal music. Well, that sounded exactly like the kind of thing I wanted too. We worked really hard over the next few months to gain enough favor with the sergeants to let us use the guitars they had stashed in the staff house. During our free time, we sat in the bunkhouse together and jammed for as long as we could. This was how the band was formed. We didn’t have a name yet, but he played rhythm guitar and I played lead. And those seven songs are what came out of those jam sessions.”
I narrow my eyes at him. While I know he’s lying, I do actually believe that the first part of his story is true. That this is the way they really met. After all, I was the third wheel who broke them up. But what’s bullshit is how Key and Logan created the songs together. That, right there, is the first lie.
“I see,” Judge Horowath says thoughtfully. “How was the creative process split between you and Mr. Prentiss?”
At this Logan shrugs. “It’s hard to say, really. When you’re being creative like we were, it’s difficult to determine where his ideas ended and mine started. It was a fairly organic creative collaboration. He would say a line, then I would say a line, or he’d suggest a different word. I’d write everything down, so . . . fifty-fifty, I’d say.”
I can’t help the scoff that escapes my throat, and for a moment all eyes are on me. I roll my lips inward and slouch down in my seat a little.
“Right. So where do the other members present fit into the narrative?”
Logan looks at me. “Joel Thanger was another punk who showed up at the Academy. They dumped him in our bunkhouse in the middle of the night. He reminded me a lot of myself, actually. Didn’t think he belonged there. Refused to obey orders. Thought he could be a smart-ass and get away with it.”
Again . . . true.
“I found out from one of the officers that Mr. Thanger had brought a bass with him. That it was locked up in the staff house with everything else you had to earn back. I was beside myself with excitement. I thought he could round out the band. It seemed that Keith had the same idea. He was quick to show Mr. Thanger that his efforts were misplaced, and shortly after that, we had our bass player.”
“However, it became very apparent, very quickly, that they were becoming closer than I thought they would. I’d find them huddled together whispering, or playing their instruments together without me. They were even writing their own songs together. I’ll admit, it hurt.”
His eyes are on me and, when I glance up at him, I can see it. There, deep down beneath the betrayal and the lies, he felt cut out—pushed aside. Hurt. Even though that’s never how we meant it—it’s what he felt.
“They even decided on the name for the band without me. I was sure they were going to cut me out. So, one afternoon, I decided to confront Keith about it. Told him that if they didn’t want me in the band anymore, it was fine, but that I wouldn’t let him keep the songs we wrote together. There was a scuffle, and he tore open my trunk of belongings where I kept the pages of written songs. He tried to take them. He said he was going to burn them. He even managed to set fire to a few I had been working on solo. We got into a fight, and next thing I know, Mr. Thanger was there. He attacked me, and I can’t remember much after that besides waking up in the infirmary.”
My hands and teeth are clenched so hard I fear they might break. I remember the smell of paper burning, the curling charred scraps smoking on the floor as I leapt across the bunks to tackle Logan. I remember Key with tears streaming down his face as he clutched at the ashes.
This is at least partially true. But also all wrong.
“I didn’t go back to the Academy after that. When my parents visited me in the hospital and learned about the abuse I had suffered, they took me home. For a long time, I chose to forget about it all. I knew about the success of the band, of course. How could I not? It was devastating to learn that Keith had taken the songs we’d written together and pawned them off as his own. But I had nothing. No proof except my word against his.
“Until . . . I visited my parents a few months ago, and came across the songs buried in the bottom of a box in their garage. I thought they had been lost between moving apartments over the years, but there they were, and I finally had hope.”
His lawyer speaks up from his right. “It’s not just that Mr. Samuels’s songs were recorded, but there was no songwriting credit given, no royalty share, no mention of his contribution to the band in the acknowledgements. It’s as if the rest of them simply tried to erase his existence. That is why we are here today. To make right a terrible injustice.”
“A terrible injustice?” It bursts out of my mouth without thought.
Logan sneers at me from across the table. “I have as much right to those songs as Keith does and I’ll be damned if you push me out again, Joel.”
Judge Horowath turns to me with a solemn expression. “Mr. Thanger, since Mr. Prentiss is not here to explain his version of the events and the other two members of your band were not present at the time in question, I will now ask for your perspective.”
I release the tension in my hands, and after a nod from our lawyer, I start.