Chapter 2 Keeley
Keeley
I was stretching the truth a little bit to Jane—I might have been chilling out on my patio when she called, but I really didn’t have all afternoon.
One text to Bianca fixes that.
I try not to feel too bad about ditching practice as I head inside. Quickly, I change into linen shorts and a button-down to ward off the surprise late-September heat wave, then grab my stick bag and the keys to my Rivian before hurrying out the door.
As I drive out of my neighborhood, I push the guilt of cancelling on Bianca away, as much as I hate cancelling on anyone.
But I can rationalize it easily. I played these songs with her band enough times during the three years we were dating, and we still have a sound check tomorrow before the event, so I’m not worried.
Besides, what is she going to do, break up with me?
She already did that after we got too busy for anything more than a quickie between gigs.
This industry will do that to you. We probably could have made it work, but while the sex was good, the romantic sparks between us were starting to fizzle out.
I tap my finger impatiently on the steering wheel as I brake for a pause in traffic. Driving a massive SUV is the worst, especially in So-Cal, but hauling drum gear requires cargo space. At least I was able to go electric when I had to replace my old rig.
A response from Bianca pops up on my nav screen, and I swipe it away to focus on the road. Hopefully she’s not upset.
We’ve managed to stay friendly since our breakup. Bianca is famous enough that our split earned us a few headlines, but they weren’t very inflammatory. The media has never really cared about my personal life—it’s one of the perks of not being a frontperson.
Valerie, on the other hand, has inspired a true media circus ever since the first Glitter Bats single dropped.
The internet is obsessed with who she dates, and every move she makes is analyzed for the worst possible motivation.
Even now that she and Caleb are married, they make headlines whenever they go out, and people still speculate about if it’s “real”—or even worse, if she was playing up her bisexuality for the attention.
Fucking pricks.
God, I’m so glad that my drum kit protects me from that life. Valerie and Caleb’s relationship made it, eventually, but watching it all go down from the inside was brutal. Now, more than ever, I know I’ll do anything for my fellow Glitter Bats.
And Jane needs help only I can give.
Okay, maybe not only me, but I’m a drummer and I can help her, and I always want to help Jane.
Is there more to it that motivated me to drop everything?
Sure. Have I had a crush on her since high school, when she was the dance team captain and I was playing with the pep band at every football game? Maybe. But I’m not going to act on it.
I’m just going to fucking help her, because she’s my fucking friend, and I’m fucking good at what I do.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from fluffing up my bob and touching up my mascara at the next red light.
I think I did okay for putting in almost no effort—it’s wild how access to top-quality skin care and a kick-ass stylist can make it easy to look good.
I know I’m lucky to have that…and so many other things.
A lot of people think I’m living a dream: because sure, at twenty-nine, I’ve already had one hell of a career.
Glitter Bats are back and rocking again with our third album.
That same album has received rave reviews thanks to the songwriting brilliance of Caleb and Valerie, our star-crossed lead singers who finally figured out their personal shit and got the band back together last year.
Beyond that, I’ve drummed on chart-topping tracks for everyone from Pizza Dream to Daphne Rose, and I’m never wanting for gigs.
Hell, my cowriter credit on Bianca’s “Your Body and Mine” got me nominated for multiple awards two years ago.
But some days, it doesn’t feel like enough.
I was on track to go to Stanford before we got a record deal, and on the quieter days, my mind can’t stop racing to think what might have happened if I’d chosen another path.
It’s especially bad when I’m talking to my twin brother, Oliver, who actually went to the prestigious university he got into and is now a hotshot attorney.
On paper, he’s a lot more successful than me.
I know that path would have burned me out eventually.
Back in high school, I was at the top of my class, managing extracurriculars, and spending every free moment at Glitter Bats practices and gigs.
But I wasn’t happy. I had undiagnosed ADHD, and I was surviving on caffeine and my day planner and the sheer urgency of deadline stress.
It’s not that I couldn’t have continued down that road, but I wouldn’t thrive the way I do with the surprising amount of flexibility in the music industry.
Objectively, I know my career is impressive. Without it, I wouldn’t have my best friends in the world. But I’m bored of drumming for other people, and I want to do more with Glitter Bats.
When I get to Jane’s studio space in Culver City, I miraculously find quick parking and head inside.
I forego the elevator in favor of the stairs, and it doesn’t take long before I’m pushing my way into the cramped recording space.
It’s a little stuffy, but the place is otherwise immaculate: music is stacked neatly on one table in the corner, while guitars and basses are hung in a perfect row on the far wall.
Even the vintage-inspired rug is tidy, save a few errant cords.
Jane is leaning over a laptop next to the soundboard, her wild red curls pulled back into a haphazard braid.
She looks more casual than usual for work, wearing the hell out of an oversized Shooting Stars T-shirt and faded cutoff jeans that hug her ass.
While I can’t pretend I mind the view, I’m more concerned by the weary slump of her shoulders.
“Thank you for coming,” she says faintly as she turns to me, sinking onto a stool. She looks fucking defeated, and it’s hard to take in. I just want to fix it.
“Of course, Mercer. I’m always here when you need me.”
She’s silent for a beat, and the way she’s staring makes me wonder if I’ve said too much.
“I know,” she finally says, biting her lip. “You’re the best.”
My mouth goes dry at that.
“Keeley!” Riker says, emerging from the booth, toasting me with a watermelon Red Bull. I stiffen as I see him. I don’t know why I’m surprised. These two are inseparable.
Still, I wasn’t expecting him, and it throws me.
Quickly, I fix my face and roll my eyes at Riker. “Maddox! Do you still have shit to do, or are you just loitering?” There’s a strange bite to my tone, and I try to fix it by casually leaning against the wall.
Riker shrugs, but something flickers in his gaze, like he can’t figure out why I’m being weird. “I got done a little while ago, but I wanted to say hi before I left.”
“I’m honored,” I deadpan. I turn and look at Jane. “So, Mercer, what are we doing?”
Opening the binder next to her on the table, she hands it to me. I lean back against the wall again and start to read through the piece titled “Never Your King.”
Normally, when we’re doing Glitter Bats stuff, we don’t bother with anything more formal than guitar tabs, but TV is a completely different arena.
I took years of piano and percussion lessons and can actually read music, unlike some rock musicians I won’t mention, and it’s easy to follow along with Jane’s melody.
It’s fucking brilliant. Of course it is.
Jane bites her lip, like she’s nervous for some reason.
Maybe she’s shy about sharing her work—neither of us ever really wrote anything for the band, so this is new.
Still, it’s not like I didn’t already know she’s amazing at this.
Sometimes I listen to the Shooting Stars soundtrack even when I haven’t played the game in months.
There’s something comforting about it.
She picks up a loose cable off the ground and starts winding it. “I wrote this song when the showrunners decided to take episode two point one in a different direction. Think ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ meets ‘Lost in the Woods.’ ”
Nodding, I run my hand over my hair. “I dig what you’re doing with the vocal line. This is for Kyle Harris, right? It’s perfect for his range.”
Jane ducks her head. “Thanks. I, uh, just want to get this right. Trevor took my only hard copy of the drum part, but I can print it out again if you want.”
Fucking Trevor Barnett. Over the phone, Jane gave me a quick rundown of what happened, and I honestly can’t believe she was even in this position to begin with. If you’re going to hire a rocker to do soundtrack work, they need to actually know what the fuck they’re doing with a drum kit.
But I know I can handle it. It’ll be a fun afternoon.
“It’s fine. Can I just hear what you did in Sibelius?”
“Yeah, of course.” Jane hurries over to the sound system and plugs her laptop into a jack.
“You should flip through more of her stuff for season two. It’s all so good,” Riker suggests.
“Of course it’s good. Jane wrote it,” I say as the track plays. The piano part starts off, the output tinny and robotic from the music-writing software. But even beneath the awkward sound, I can hear the genius of what Jane has put together.
It’s going to be so fucking epic. A big, dramatic piece, perfect for this kind of show.
“So?” Jane asks after the song ends, in a voice that almost sounds shaky. “What do you think?”
“It’s fantastic. That drum part you wrote is great.”
Jane moves to grab her fancy water bottle and takes a long sip. I try not to laugh at the absurdity of it, because I know there’s no way she bought that for herself. She’s been reusing the same Hydro Flask for ten years. Still, I’m a little distracted when she licks a stray drop off her lips.