Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
Duncan
“You’re going to do great,” Bobby says as he caps his travel mug.
I raise an eyebrow. “Since when did you get to be so wise, Yoda?”
My son has the audacity to roll his eyes at me like I’m the child.
“Please. I was born wise. It’s a product of being gifted.”
I smile, shaking my head. “And modest, too.”
I don’t miss how he avoids my compliment. As smart as he is, he’s the worst when it comes to acknowledging his own strengths.
But that doesn’t mean I stop trying to get him to see he really is an amazing person, and that’s not just me saying that because he’s my flesh and blood.
“Whatever,” he says as he heads for the door.
“If I’m not home in time for dinner, grab some Door Dash or something, all right?”
Bobby looks at me with an annoyed glare.
“I can cook, you know. I don’t need to live off of pizza and Chinese food like you.”
I scoff at his words. I don’t just live off of pizza and Chinese. I eat tacos, too.
Hmph!
“Okay, well, if you decide to go all Gordon Ramsey, at least remember to make your old man a plate, okay?”
Bobby sighs in exasperation. “Okay, okay. I have to go or I’m going to be late for homeroom, Dad.”
I shoot him a soft smile as I nod, watching him anxiously tap his foot like Sonic the Hedgehog or something.
I swear kids these days are always in a fucking rush for everything.
I would’ve purposefully avoided homeroom, but Bobby hates to be late.
I guess he gets that from his mother; though, she was always, as she said, fashionably early and everyone else was late.
I wave off to him as he heads out the door, telling him I love him and he doesn’t bother to say it back.
It shouldn’t hurt, because I know he does, I am his father, after all. But I miss the days where he would laugh and say it back, like we actually were pals and not roommates, which is what it feels like now.
God, when we had him, I had no clue it was going to be this hard. Especially without Marci.
I know one day he really won’t need me anymore. He’ll go off to college and get an apartment, and I’ll be lucky if I see him at Christmas. Then, he’ll meet a nice girl and spend all his time with her, and then...
I wipe my hand over my face, feeling the beginning of tears prickling the edge of my eyes.
“Get it together, Duncan,” I chastise myself, shrugging off the emotional turmoil. I’m sure I’m getting ahead of myself.
He’s sixteen, after all, not twenty-one.
I glance at the clock, noting I have about ten minutes to leave if I don’t want to get stuck in Los Angeles traffic.
Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about rehearsal today.
It’s been a couple days since Lou offered me the gig officially, and while I’ve been following Felix Hart everywhere, getting familiar with his discography, there’s a part of me that worries with his volatile attitude that he’ll find some reason to sack me.
That I’ll walk in, he’ll take one look at me, yell “who the fuck is this?” and Lou will have to escort me out of the building.
The other part of me isn’t afraid of Felix one bit.
Isaax was a goddamn mental case half the time, and the other half he was fucking blow up dolls on stage.
Felix and his petulant attitude don’t scare me. But the power of his stardom does.
I never paid much attention to the current rock scene, mostly because I had other things to worry about, including Bobby’s education. Hollow Pointe was a successful band, and the money we made in our heyday definitely gave Marci and I a comfortable nest egg, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have to work.
But outside of being labeled a “has-been”, I didn’t particularly care to play festivals at Knottsbury Farm or do Comic-Cons or whatever the kids call them.
After my wife passed, to be honest, I didn’t want anything to do with music at all. I was in a pretty dark place.
When the music dies, you’re forced to look at other options. Song writing was great for passive income, but I enjoy making guitars. Or rather, fixing beat up instruments that no one saw value in anymore.
Not only did it give me something to do with my hands, but I found it relaxing to solve the complex problems that came with some of these guitars. My family is always telling me to sell them, and I’ve sold a couple here and there... but I’m no good at any of that business shit. That was always Marci’s department.
I haven’t sold a guitar in over a year.
When I arrive at the studio, I head up without issue thanks to the passcode Lou assigned me to be able to get in and out of the building during rehearsals.
Just like last time, the hipster twins are tinkering away in their sound booth.
Lou looks up from his spot next to Palo, grinning. “Excited to have you here today, McKay.”
His smile is as genuine as his tone, and instantly relaxes me.
“Excited to be here, Lou,” I say, tugging my backpack strap.
I know Lou said I’d be supplied with everything I need for playing, but perhaps he’s been dealing with punk-ass kids too long to remember I never play a drum set without my lucky sticks.
Every show I’ve ever played with my lucky sticks has been amazing, not to mention, I met Marci the night I played with my lucky sticks.
All the shows I played without them... well, Marci wasn’t the only one into witchy shit.
Some things carry good energy, and I can use all the good energy I can get if I’m going to get through this.
“Duncan, this here is Eddie.” Lou motions to the bassist, whose long, black hair covers half his face. “You might remember him from the other day.”
I wave, but he doesn’t seem all that interested in me, but then again, I guess that’s fair. I am replacing a guy they probably knew very well, and were friends with, after all.
“And of course, that’s Cory, but we all call him Corpse, because he’s better off dead.”
Cory flicks Lou off. Like Eddie and Felix, he has a similar dark meets neon vibe, though his hair is pulled back into a jet-black man bun, and he has far less tattoos than Felix.
Apparently Rolling Stone said he has fifty.
I take my seat behind the drums, dropping my backpack. As I pull out my sticks, I ask, “Where’s Felix? Or are we not rehearsing with him today?”
Lou’s smile fades as he sighs.
“Probably hitting the bottle again.” Corpse shrugs.
A glance at my watch tells me it’s barely a quarter after ten. “At ten in the morning?” I ask, looking at Lou over my set.
“It’s five o-clock somewhere,” Eddie says with disdain.
“Fuck me sideways...” Lou gripes as he turns, likely to go get Felix, when the younger man stumbles right into the room, nearly knocking Lou over.
“And the star arrives...” Eddie scoffs.
“Fuck you, Eddie,” Felix grumbles.
“Enough bickering,” Lou gripes as he brushes off some dust from his suit. “Let’s get this show on the road.” With that, he leaves us in the booth.
The tension in the air is thick as Felix grabs his guitar, nearly falling over. The man is so drunk he can barely stand, and it’s not even ten thirty.
His bandmates don’t seem to give a shit, though, and I realize, they’re probably used to this.
Used to Felix Hart and his careless punk attitude.
But I won’t stand for it. This gig may be a joke to Felix, but it’s not to me, and I’ll be damned if I let him fuck shit up for the rest of us.
I get up from my seat, and walk over to him, which isn’t that far. I reach out, holding him still, and he flinches.
His gaze flashes to mine angrily.
“What the fuck do you want, McKay?” he sneers.
I sling his strap over his shoulder, and he tenses. I look him dead in the eye like I would a snake on my lawn.
He wants to strike. I can tell.
Felix Hart is pissed at the fucking world, and he wants blood.
But I know firsthand that blood doesn’t satisfy the hole you’re trying to fill.
“Cut this shit out, Felix. You’re embarrassing yourself and your bandmates.”
Felix angles his arm away from me, gripping his guitar.
“What do you care, McKay? You’re just the stand in.”
A part of me flinches internally, knowing he’s right. I am just the stand in.
But I also recognize someone in mourning, someone who’s so hurt they think they have nothing, and no one.
Strangely, a part of me wants to scream from the rooftop, “Me too, asshole! The world fucked me, too, I get it!”
That same part wants to give the drunk, bright-eyed Goth Ken doll a hug. To tell him to pull it together for himself . His fans, his music. But I push those thoughts down, instead, settling on something much less scary.
“I may not be Sullivan Reign, but you are Felix Hart. So start fucking acting like the four times platinum, 2023 Grammy winner you fucking are instead of acting like some tweaked out garage band idiot.”
Felix stares up at me with shimmering blue eyes, his eyebrows furrowed, and for a minute, I forget he’s drunk.
Because for the sheer whisper of a moment, I sympathize with him.
My gaze dips to his lips, noting the tremble in them.
He wasn’t that much older than I was when the fame hit him, and I understand all too well how it can warp you.
This life, it’s not for the faint of heart. It will eat you up and spit you out, if you’re not careful.
His breath is warm on my skin, and I realize how close we are. The tension in the room is thick.
I drop my hands as his body relaxes, as his fist eases up on his guitar.
And for a moment, when he looks at me, I think he actually gets it.
A moment of silence passes as he strums his guitar, looking away from me, to Eddie.
“We’re starting with Paradise , right?” he asks with a sniffle, and I can’t help but crack a smile.
“Yup,” Corpse deadpans.
I head back to my drum set, catching Lou’s smirk. When I sit down, putting my earplugs in, all I can do is focus on the music.
And damn, does it feel good.