Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
“ K ansas sure is….”
Kit glanced over at Luka, who was looking out over the terrain with a puzzled expression. They were on their way to Wichita, having finished up their gigs in Chicago, St. Louis, and Kansas City. It was only a short hop, and they’d spent the night in a good hotel the day before, so they were all rested and ready for that evening’s show.
“Flat?” Kit supplied helpfully. It was true, too — there were nothing but cornfields stretching out as far as they could see, even from the higher perspective provided by the bus. At least it was green at this point, alive and growing, whereas he imagined it would be truly boring to see the dead and empty fields after all the corn was harvested.
“Flat,” Luka agreed. “Which no one better be tonight.”
Kit laughed. In the last few days, Luka had seemed to have made peace with his presence. And if he wasn’t exactly as warm and welcoming as the rest of the band was, at least he wasn’t glaring as he had at first, or even withdrawn in the way he’d been for several days after their “conversation” about the past. He seemed almost normal, treating Kit more like a casual acquaintance, but not one who was barely tolerated.
It wasn’t what Kit was hoping to achieve, but it was a start. At this point, any progress was cause for celebration.
“I’m never flat,” Kris said, giving a huff of indignation and sticking her nose in the air.
Luka actually chuckled. He had his notebook in front of him, and Kit had seen him jotting down things from time to time as ideas came to him. It made Kit glad. Luka wasn’t one for therapy — again, thanks to trust issues from his parents — but he worked through his issues by putting them to music. Sultana had reaped the benefit of that, something Kit still felt bad about. Luka’s songs about his relationship with his parents, his doubts and fears and pain, as well as his ultimate defiance, had resonated with the fans and had driven Sultana to the top of the charts. After everything had fallen apart, Kit had even realized that the one love song in the mix, a passionate piece called “I’ll Never Tell” all about hidden desires, had probably been written about Jordan. It had been a kick in the gut when he’d figured it out, because for a while, Kit had dared to hope Luka had written it about him .
But if Luka was writing, it meant that he was getting things out of his head, rather than letting them spin around and around. That was definitely a good thing, and he hoped it might eventually mean that Luka wouldn’t drop him from his life again when Kit’s time with the band was done.
Of course, if Kit had had doubts of his own, they were nothing compared to the texts he’d gotten from Blake and Josh after they’d learned he’d joined the F-Holes. He’d had to calm them both down, insisting it was just a temporary thing and that he knew what he was doing. Both of them knew Luka’s temper, though, and Blake in particular had expressed concern for Kit’s safety. That, at least, had made Kit roll his eyes. Luka had one hell of a temper, but Kit had never known him to lash out other than verbally when he was upset. When he thought about it, he couldn’t remember once in all the time he’d known Luka when he’d ever hit anyone, including when he’d been bullied by some seniors during their freshman year in high school. He reminded Blake that even when things had been at their worst, Luka hadn’t taken a swing at either Kit or Jordan. He’d simply removed himself from a situation he’d found unbearable, much as he had done with his own parents. No matter how alarming the sight of Luka in the grip of fury could be, he had never once been violent. Often, in fact, Kit worried Luka directed too much of his anger at himself.
“The venue tonight is the smallest one we play, right?” Dmitri asked.
“It is,” Greg replied. The manager was looking at his iPad. “It’s a small hall that only seats about five hundred. I wouldn’t have recommended Carter book it, except for the fact that the owner is a huge fan and offered us a deal too good to pass up.”
Luka nodded, seeming pleased. “I’m looking forward to being able to play our other instruments for a change. This should be much more laid back. We’re doing the more acoustic set from back in our club days. We’ll run through it during soundcheck.”
Kit was surprised about the set list change, but he was fine with it.
“Great!” Dmitri nodded in agreement, then looked between Kit and Luka. “Um, does that mean you’ll do the Rossini?”
“Rossini?” Kit felt a surge of nostalgia, and he glanced at Luka in surprise. “You do the rock riff on Duetto in D Major?”
Luka looked at him intently for several moments, and Kit gazed back calmly. The particular riff on the classical piece was one the two of them had developed together back at Juilliard when they’d been assigned to come up with a new spin on a classical work in Composition. The duet for cello and double bass was two hundred years old, and it was actually a fun piece all on its own, in Kit’s opinion. But it was even better when they set it to a heavy beat, adding a drummer and pounding it out, in a similar vein to — if not nearly as intense as — the “Fuck Off” piece Dmitri and Luka played on their electric instruments.
“Yeah, Jett and I used to do it on the club circuit, since he can play acoustic and electric bass,” Luka admitted. He hesitated. “Do you even remember the bass part?”
“Of course I remember!” Kit rolled his eyes. “If you’re up for it, I am. I assume there’s an acoustic bass for me to use, since I don’t have mine?”
Luka nodded slowly, then looked over at Andre. “Are you willing to back us up?”
Andre gave a thumbs up, then grinned evilly at Dmitri. “It’s a fun piece, and it’ll give Blondie here a chance to rest his dainty hands.”
“Oh, geeze, I say one time that ‘Fuck Off’ is exhausting, and I’ll never live it down.” Dmitri scowled back at Andre, though his eyes glinted with humor. Kit had picked up on the teasing between the drummer and the cellist from the beginning, and he wondered if they had a thing for one another.
Then he looked back at Luka. “So, what do you say?” He mentally crossed his fingers, hoping Luka would agree to the number. He wanted Luka to remember the good times they’d had together, and he felt like that particular song was a great place to start.
For a moment, he thought Luka was going to refuse, but then he sighed. “Okay, fine, we can do the Rossini,” he said, then mock-glared at Dmitri. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
Dmitri smiled serenely. “I simply enjoy listening sometimes,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Besides, it’s tradition.”
“Do you have any other classical pieces in your acoustic set?” Kit asked, and others started telling him about things they’d experimented with in the last few years, and why they’d rejected most of them except the Rossini. Luka was quiet, seeming lost in thought, but his expression wasn’t grim or unhappy. More introspective, in a way, and Kit hoped that was a good thing.
They arrived at the venue, a charmingly small and obviously antique theater that had been converted into a multipurpose venue. The lightbulb illuminated marquee simply read “CROWN”, while the more modern, backlit signs announced “One Night Only — The F-Holes”.
If the outside harkened back to the early twentieth century, the electronics on the stage were as modern as they could have wished for. While the roadies were setting up the additional speakers, Kit took a short time to acquaint himself with the bass he was borrowing for the Rossini. It had been several months since he’d handled a bow, and despite his confident claims to Luka, he appreciated the opportunity to bang some of the rust off his skills.
Fortunately for him, muscle memory from years of practice came to his rescue, and he could warm up and get a feel for the instrument. It wasn’t quite as elegant as his personal bass, which was still at his parent’s house in New York, but it was definitely good enough for the one song. He felt a little pang as he worked on some of the Rossini, and resolved to himself that no matter what happened with him and Luka, he really needed to take some time for his acoustic instrument. Hell, maybe he could even convince the rest of Sultana to develop a song where he could play it on tour.
He caught Luka watching him from the wings before Luka picked up a case and walked toward him. There was a chair nearby, and Luka nudged it over with his foot before putting the case on the ground and opening it. He pulled out a cello that was familiar to Kit, since he’d watched Luka play it for years. It was a French-made Hilaire that he’d bought used for a steal when they’d been in high school and which Luka had thought would one day be replaced with his grandfather’s Strad. Of course, all that had gone to hell when they’d been in their freshman year of college and Luka’s father had died, and Luka had finally cut off his toxic mother completely. What would ultimately become of the incredibly valuable instrument was anyone’s guess. Personally, Kit hoped that Arda Petrov would mellow out and leave it to Luka, because he knew it would be a vindication, in Luka’s eyes, of all he’d been through.
“I wish I’d thought to bring my own bass with me,” Kit said conversationally. He plucked a few notes on the instrument he held. “This one’s fine, but seeing you with the Hilaire brings back memories.”
Luka didn’t answer, though Kit thought he caught the hint of a smile curving Luka’s mobile lips. Once Luka was settled in his chair with his cello between his knees, he raised a brow at Kit. “We can bring in Andre in a bit, but shall we give it a run though? I’ve not played the Rossini myself in nearly a year.”
“Sounds good.”
With that, they both took up their bows, Luka gave a four count, and they started. Oddly enough, Luka seemed to have more trouble with the piece than Kit did, though honestly, it might have been that playing with Kit again one on one was harder for him than it was for Kit himself. They went slowly through it several times, and by the fourth round, Luka seemed to overcome some of whatever nerves or discomfort had beset him at the beginning. He didn’t look totally at ease, however, and Kit realized that Luka wasn’t losing himself in the music the way he normally did. It was as though he was consciously thinking about it, rather than playing from the gut.
When they finished that round, Kit noticed that Andre was approaching, twirling his drumsticks between his fingers.
“Are you ready to rock it, my dudes?” he asked, and Kit grinned at him, giving a thumbs up.
“Whenever you are, stick boy.”
Andre snorted, and as he made his way behind them toward his drum set, Kit leaned toward Luka and dropped his voice.
“Everything okay?” he asked softly. “You seem tense.”
Luka glanced up at him with a frown. “I’m fine,” he insisted.
Kit raised a brow. “You’re thinking about the music. Don’t think. Just play.”
Luka started to say something, then stopped himself and nodded instead. “Right.” He raised his voice. “Rock it for us, Andre!”
The drummer started a roll on the snare, and Kit straightened and put his bow to the strings. Luka led off, and from the way he played, he had either taken Kit’s advice, or the addition of Andre had helped him find the spark he’d been missing. Kit hoped it was the former, but then he was too busy with trying to keep up with the others to worry about it any longer.
The full classical piece was fifteen minutes long, but while they only played the first and third movements, they went at such a speed that the entire thing was only about five minutes long. By the time they finished, Kit was breathing hard and his bow was in tatters. But he felt elated, and he laughed, pleased that he’d made relatively few mistakes despite the almost frantic tempo.
“Not bad, bass-boy,” Andre said. “I guess you’ll do.”
Kit threw him a grin, pleased. “Thanks! I can tell you were trying to bust my balls, but I’ve got your number, Sticks.” He directed his words to Andre, but he kept his eyes on Luka, whose head was still bent forward, the longer front fringe of his hair hiding his face. When he finally looked up, he turned his head to the side away from Kit and swiped his left hand over his face before finally meeting Kit’s eyes. To Kit’s shock, he saw evidence of tears on Luka’s face.
What in the hell could that mean? Was it a good sign or a bad one?
“You were slow in the transition at the end of the first movement,” Luka said crisply. “Shall we run through it again?”
Kit nodded, still in shock. At least Luka hadn’t gotten up and stormed away, so maybe the tears were a good sign? But he knew the worst thing he could do was to ask about it, or draw attention to it, so he just put his bow against the strings. But it gave him something to think about.
“Anything you want, Luka,” he replied, and he was offering much more than simply playing through the music again. Even if Luka wasn’t ready to hear it, Kit was ready to do anything for him except walk away. “Anything at all.”