Chapter 21 Lou
LOU
We take the back elevator because it’s easier on everyone.
Houston holds the door with his foot and a paper tray of coffee in one hand.
Salem has a box of cables he didn’t trust the runner to carry.
Knox checks the hallway mirrors on instinct and then looks at me.
I nod. I’m fine. I like being part of the check.
The doors open on the ground floor. The hotel swallows us without comment.
We cross the service lot and climb into the SUV that gets less attention than the bikes.
Knox drives. I ride up front with a notebook and a pen, comfortable in my corner.
The guys hum with the low energy of morning—quiet, awake, already thinking about takes.
Sagebrush waits behind its new glass. The guard logs us in and sits back down, bored but useful. I like the boredom. The room smells like wood, tape, and cleaner. It’s almost cozy.
Talia beats us to the control room. She’s in a fitted floral dress and heels that could be a weapon and a cardigan the color of peaches.
Her blond curls are up, her lipstick is bright, her diamond bangles clack when she waves.
West Coast Dolly Parton, with a look that says she has stories and blackmail material on celebrities that she’d never use.
“Baby,” she says to Houston, kissing his cheek. “Sweetheart,” to Salem, patting his chest like a drum. “Soldier,” to Knox, squeezing his forearm. Then she turns to me and softens. “Lou. Look at you. This room likes you.”
“Hi, Talia.”
“Come here and tell me what you’re making these boys do.”
We do a quick hug. She takes the coffee from Houston, picks one without asking whose it is, and claims the engineer’s chair like a throne she let someone else borrow until today.
“Quincy’s coming later,” Knox says, setting his bag under the desk.
“Mm,” Talia says, not a fan noise. “He’s a good manager. I’ve never liked him, though.”
Knox merely sighs like he’s heard it all before.
But I’m confused. “You don’t like Quincy?”
“Never have,” she says, casual. “He gets results. He also gets on my nerves. Vibe’s off. Too much math in his smile.”
Houston laughs. Salem grins. Knox pretends to check the patch bay. I like Quincy more than I expected to, but I trust a woman who has seen every kind of man twice.
“Don’t fuss,” she adds, tapping the board’s armrest. “You don’t have to like a manager for him to do his job. You just have to know where he ends and you begin. Some men don’t know where they end.”
Houston sets a small cassette on the edge of the console like it’s a fragile thing. “I need to confess something, Lou. It might make you hate me.”
I glance at Talia and the brothers. They look as confused as I feel. “What are you talking about?”
“I found a demo in the archive. R. Navarro.” He turns the cassette around to show off the label.
My throat clicks. I look at the label. I don’t reach for it. “Oh. Okay.”
“We did open calls,” Talia says. “A lot of tape came through these doors.”
Houston’s voice is careful. “I know there’s no chance you’re related,” he says, running a thumb along the plastic.
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up. Not showing you felt wrong too.
So, I wasn’t sure what to do, but I’m not Troy.
I don’t hide things from you, even if they amount to nothing. Are you mad?”
I chuckle because it’s true and because he’s a sweet man and because he needs me to release him from whatever promise he made to himself. “You’re fine. I’m not na?ve. Navarro is a common last name. R can be anything. I understand where you’re coming from on the hope thing, but we’re good.”
He looks relieved and still a little tense. He wants to fix things before they break. He can’t help it. I understand that part of him.
“Play it,” Salem says, already leaning closer.
Houston glances at me for permission. I shrug. “Go ahead.”
He slots the tape and presses play. Hiss, a count, a guitar that sounds like thrifted wood and newer strings.
A voice comes in, low and smoky, not trained, not afraid.
The kind of tone that makes you want to sit down without knowing why.
My mouth goes dry, not from hope, just from the sound of someone telling the truth with their tone.
Talia’s face lifts. “Mm. Listen to that.”
The chorus lands simple and then is gone. Houston stops it there. He doesn’t make a thing of it. He doesn’t watch me watching it. Good choice.
I clear my throat. “She’s good.”
“She is,” Houston says. “And that’s all it has to be.”
Talia leans in. “R. Navarro,” she repeats, rolling the R. “Let me see the handwriting.”
He hands her the tape. She squints, then smiles the way someone smiles at a memory that isn’t sad anymore. “That might be Rosa Navarro’s demo.”
“Rosa?”
“Sweet, shy thing,” Talia explains. “Big eyes, tiny hands, twice the courage she thought she had. Came in with a borrowed guitar and shook when she plugged it in. Then she sang, and the room lit up like a theater. We only had her for a couple of sessions. She had places to be, or someone told her she did.”
“Do you remember the year?” Knox asks.
Talia taps her nail on the plastic. “I remember what I wore. I remember who fixed the door that week. I remember she asked for hot tea with honey and apologized to the kettle for using it. But not the year.” She points at a faded show flyer on the wall.
“Memory is a liar. It lies more when you get older.”
“Did she say where she was staying?” Houston asks.
“Not a peep. She was quiet.”
“It would be cool if I were related to her.” I shrug. “But I don’t believe in coincidences. Not for me.”
Talia frowns, not scolding, more like she found a splinter in something she was wrapping for me.
“Everywhere I’ve ever gone, there’ve been coincidences.
Bus stops. Green rooms. Choir lofts. Casinos.
I’ve seen the same song twice in two cities with two different writers who happened upon the same verse or melody.
I’ve heard the same laugh from a different face.
World’s bigger than our math, honey. Coincidences make life fun. ”
“Maybe for other people,” I say, and try to make my voice light. “My luck is practical. I get cavities and parking tickets. I get real deadlines and small wins. I don’t get mystery relatives and mythic tapes.”
Houston nudges the tape with his knuckle, thoughtful. “Cynicism just means you know you’re onto something.”
I smile at him because he’s just so pure sometimes. “You are your mother’s hopeful son.”
“Guilty.”
Talia pats his cheek. “Hope is a tool. Not a pillow to smother yourself with. Doesn’t hurt to keep a little bit of it around for the bad times.”
I look at the cassette again. R. Navarro. No date. No instrument list. I picture a woman with a thrifted dress and a voice too big for the room. I’ve done this before, let the fantasy of family run away with me. I stop the picture before it gets legs.
Salem elbows me soft. “You want to Google Rosa? See if there’s a face that looks familiar?”
I hadn’t even thought of doing that. Avoidance has been my strategy since I was old enough to understand that looking hurts worse than not looking. I pull my phone halfway out of my pocket and then slide it back in. “There has to be a million Rosa Navarros. What are the odds?”
“Good if you want them to be,” Talia says. “Bad if you don’t.”
“Neutral if I’m working.”
Salem leans over the console and squints at my locket like he’s going to read the engraving by willpower. “Let me at least try a search string,” he says, teasing. “Rosa Navarro voice smoky brave.”
“That’s not how Google works,” I say, laughing despite myself.
“Everything works like that if you want it enough.”
Knox opens the rack drawer and sets out a clean notebook, a pencil, and a roll of tape like a mise en place. “We’re losing the morning,” he says without heat. “We can play detective at lunch.”
“He’s right, guys,” I tell them. “Let’s get to work.”
Everyone mulls to their corner, and I think about coincidences. Useful until they turn bossy. There were times I looked for my face in other faces and came away with only a headache. I think about a girl named Rosa with a borrowed guitar.
“Lunch will be chili,” Talia says, final. “I brought plenty.”
Knox claps his hands once, quiet. It carries anyway. “All right, crew,” he says. “Break’s over. We’ve got takes to cut and glass to test. We can chase ghosts at lunch. For now, work.”
Sounds like exactly what I need to stop spinning out about a random tape that means nothing. “Work.” I nod, pull out my laptop, and do exactly that.