24. Bardic Summons
Chapter twenty-four
Bardic Summons
Dex
There are probably more dignified ways to get personally recruited for a music project by a multi-platinum rock star than standing barefoot in the kitchen at eleven-thirty in the morning eating cold pizza directly out of the box.
Unfortunately, dignity has never been a core value of mine.
Neither has reheating pizza.
It changes the texture.
That's science.
I'm halfway through my second slice when my phone buzzes beside the box.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
Then a third time.
“Fucking what?”
I wipe grease off my fingers on my sweatpants and grab it.
And stare at the name on the screen.
AUSTIN FUCKING FLETCHER
I almost drop the pizza.
Okay.
First, yes, that is how I saved him in my phone.
Second, I have had this number for months.
Third, I have never once used it.
There are reasons for that.
Good ones.
Probably.
The messages are already stacked.
AUSTIN FUCKING FLETCHER
You alive?
Because I distinctly remember telling you to use my number.
Then:
AUSTIN FUCKING FLETCHER
And yet here I am doing all the work.
I stare at the screen.
My pizza slowly folds in my other hand.
“Fuck.”
I set it down.
Pick it back up.
Set it down again.
This is stupid.
I've met him.
I've performed before his band.
I've hugged the man while drenched in enough sweat to legally qualify as a biohazard.
He's just a person.
A person whose band's last tour sold out stadiums.
Normal.
Totally normal.
I type.
Dex
I was giving you a respectful amount of time to forget I exist
The response comes immediately.
AUSTIN FUCKING FLETCHER
Didn't work
My stomach does something deeply embarrassing.
Dex
tragic honestly
AUSTIN FUCKING FLETCHER
You busy?
I look around the kitchen.
Pizza box.
Coffee I forgot to drink.
One sock on the floor that might be mine but statistically could belong to anyone in this house.
Dex
extremely
gourmet breakfast time
AUSTIN FUCKING FLETCHER
Cold pizza?
I sit up straighter.
Dex
how the fuck
My phone rings.
I make a sound I would mock another adult man for making and nearly launch it across the counter.
The screen still says AUSTIN FUCKING FLETCHER.
“Okay,” I whisper to absolutely nobody. “We're being normal.”
I answer. “Sir, I'm going to need you to explain your surveillance infrastructure.”
Austin laughs.
Exactly the same laugh I remember from backstage. Easy. A little rough around the edges.
“Morning, Dex.”
“Debatable.”
“You work last night?”
“Until two.”
“That explains it.”
“What explains what?”
“The fact that you sound like you've been smoking gravel.”
“Some people pay for this voice.”
“Yeah, I've heard.”
I don’t respond.
He keeps talking like he didn't notice.
“So why didn't you call me?”
There it is.
I lean my hip against the island.
“I figured the whole thing backstage was mostly post-show adrenaline.”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“I told you to use my number because I wanted you to use my number.”
“I understand how phones work.”
“Evidence suggests otherwise.”
I laugh. “Fair.”
There's a brief pause on his end, and when he speaks again, the tone changes.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that I know we're done fucking around.
“I've got something I want to talk to you about.”
Every nerve in my body wakes up. “Okay.”
“You ever hear of the Lanternway Youth Project?”
“No.”
“They’re a Chicago-based nonprofit. Emergency housing, counseling, school support, legal referrals. Mostly LGBTQ kids who got kicked out, aged out, or don't have anywhere safe to go.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“Okay.” That one comes out different.
Austin ignores the change of tone.
“We're doing a benefit for them in February. Concert, auction, some donor shit I let other people understand.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Very. My job is mostly show up and make noise.”
“Finally, a skill set I recognize.”
He laughs again.
“The show is bringing in musicians from all over. Mostly rock, alternative, punk. Couple big names. Couple regional bands. Some people you've probably never heard of.”
“Mysterious.”
“We're also recording a benefit track.”
I go still. “Original?”
“Yeah.”
The forgotten coffee maker clicks behind me as it shuts itself off.
I don't move.
Austin continues, “Not exactly We Are the World. It won’t be thirty people swaying together in headphones.”
“Coward.”
“But similar idea. Different frontmen taking sections. Harmonies. Everybody comes together on the last chorus. Track goes out with the benefit, proceeds keep feeding the project afterward.”
“That sounds fucking cool.”
“It is.”
There's another pause.
Then he says, “I want you on it.”
Even though I knew this was where he was probably building to, everything in the kitchen goes silent.
Not literally.
The refrigerator is humming.
The washing machine is doing its weird uneven-spin thing.
A truck goes past outside.
But my brain apparently decides none of those sounds matter anymore.
“You want Grave Intentions?”
“I want you.”
Austin keeps going before I can figure out what to do with that.
“Your band is good. I'm not blowing smoke up your ass. But this is frontmen. Vocalists. And I want your voice on the track.”
I stare at the cold slice of pizza on the counter. “Okay.”
“You're also a songwriter.”
That gets me.
More than the rest of it somehow.
I straighten. “Yeah.”
“I've listened to more of your stuff since Denver.”
“You have?”
“Yes, Dex.”
“Sorry. That's just extremely fucking weird to hear.”
“Get over it.”
“I'll put it on my calendar.”
“The track is mostly there, but I'm not happy with the bridge, and the second verse is trying too hard.”
I blink. “Trying too hard how?”
Austin laughs softly. “There he is.”
“What?”
“That right there. That's why I'm calling you.”
Something hot moves through my chest.
Not performance adrenaline.
Different.
He continues.
“Come out a couple days early. I've got the studio booked before everybody else comes in. You, me, couple of the guys. I want another songwriter in the room before twelve singers start having opinions.”
Holy shit.
Austin Fletcher wants me in a writing room.
Not opening for him because his original opener got sick.
Not joining some giant charity chorus because I happened to know somebody.
He wants my brain there.
My songwriting.
The thing I've been doing in bedrooms and rehearsal spaces and behind the bar for years because songs show up and apparently need somewhere to live.
At some point I apparently multiclassed from bartender-bard into actual songwriter and nobody informed me.
“Dex?”
“Yeah.”
“You still there?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You got very quiet.”
“Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my brand.”
He laughs.
Then, “You interested?”
“Yes.” It comes out before he finishes the question.
Austin laughs harder. “Okay.”
“Like, extremely yes. Aggressively yes.”
“Good.”
“I can pretend I considered it longer if that gives me leverage.”
“You have no leverage.”
“Devastating.”
“The studio day is Friday. Benefit is Saturday night. We’ll pay for everything. I'll send you flight options, hotel info, the current demo, anything you need.”
“Okay.”
“You can bring two people backstage for the show.”
My answer forms before I even think about it. “Micah and Cami.”
“They were with you backstage in Denver?”
“They were all with me.”
“The tattoo artist and the woman wearing your shirt.”
My chest warms. “Yeah.”
“Bring them.”
“Cool.”
Austin hesitates for half a second.
Then his voice drops slightly, like what comes next isn't information he's casually handing around. “Megan'll probably be happy to have another woman backstage.”
“Megan?”
“My girlfriend.”
I blink.
Austin Fletcher has a girlfriend?
I'm almost positive the internet doesn't know Austin Fletcher has a girlfriend.
And if the internet knew, the internet would currently be on fire.
Apparently, I've just been entrusted with information.
I immediately decide not to be an asshole about it.
“She's coming?”
“Yeah. She's supportive of the whole project. Especially the cause.”
“Cool.”
“She also spends enough time around musicians now that another sane person would probably help.”
“You think Cami is sane?”
“Compared to us?”
“Fair.”
Austin laughs.
“We're keeping Megan out of the press side of things, though.”
“Got it.”
No explanation needed.
No joke.
Just a boundary.
“Thanks.” Then his voice changes again, going lighter. “So. You coming to Chicago or what?”
“Fuck yes.”
“Good. And Dex?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time somebody gives you their number and tells you to use it?”
I grin. “No promises.”
“Asshole.”
The call ends.
I remain exactly where I am.
Phone against my ear.
Barefoot.
One hand on the counter.
The pizza has now achieved room temperature, which feels like a personal attack.
I lower my phone.
Stare at it.
Then say, very calmly, “What the fuck?”
Nobody answers.
Which is probably good, because the next sound out of me is somewhere between a laugh and a scream.
I reheat the coffee.
Still, not the pizza.
I have standards.
I'm sitting on the counter reading the email Austin sent approximately ninety seconds after we hung up.
There are dates.
A studio address.
Hotel information.
A rough schedule.
A private link to the current version of the song.
And, horrifyingly, my name.
Not Grave Intentions.
DEX MERCER — vocals / writing session
That's me.
Probably.
Unless there is another Dex who happens to sing and write music and also got personally invited by Austin Fucking Fletcher, in which case I wish him well but he needs to get the fuck out of my email.
The front door opens.
Micah walks in wearing a black hoodie, his hair pulled back and still smelling faintly like green soap when he reaches into the refrigerator.
He glances at me.
Then glances again.
“What happened?”
I narrow my eyes. “Why do you assume something happened?”
“Because you're sitting on the counter staring at your phone without talking.”
“Maybe I'm growing.”
“No.”
Fair.
He pulls out a bottle of water.
I try to say it casually. “Austin Fletcher called me.”
Micah freezes with the refrigerator still open.
Then slowly closes it.
“Okay.”
“He's doing a benefit in Chicago for an LGBTQ youth organization.”
Micah leans back against the opposite counter.