Chapter 3
“ T hanks for inviting us all here,” Dizzy says to War, apparently trying to distract him from making one of his infamously long speeches. He lifts his bottle of Mt. Ranier beer. “Cool idea and nice new digs, man. Great view of the lake.”
“Thanks.” War shrugs from his spot where he’s standing at the head of the dinner table. “It’s all right. But I do like having you all here at the house for the holiday. Missed you guys.” His brown gaze sheens with sudden serious emotion.
“Oh no.” My dad groans. “Here it comes. Your distraction didn’t work, Diz. War is gonna make a speech.”
“Got things to say, smart-ass.” War narrows his gaze at Dad. My dad has been best friends with the lead singer of Tempest since high school.
“Can we get the CliffsNotes version?” Sager Reed, the bassist, asks. He’s married to Melinda, who is sitting beside him. She’s blind and her sight wand is on the table beside her plate.
“Please,” Melinda adds. She’s currently training under Mary Timmons, the current CEO of Black Cat Records, Tempest’s label. Everyone knows the plan is for Melinda to take Mary’s place soon.
“Fu—I mean, hell yeah, what Sager says,” King weighs in. The Latino drummer and his best friend Sager share a commiserative nod.
“I vote for CliffsNotes.” Dizzy raises his beer again.
“That’s my vote too,” Dad says, and everyone around the table raises their hands to cast a vote, even me, King’s daughter Hope, and War’s twin daughters. But I only have eyes for one twin.
“Put your hands down,” War grumbles, glaring at everyone.
Harmony grins at her dad, and he grins back. Obviously, he’s not really mad, but Peace lowers her hand and scoots her chair closer to me as if seeking my protection.
“Just joking around, Peace,” War says, his gaze on the pretty but shy girl beside me.
“Right.” Peace nods but brings the book on her lap up to cover her face. Her cheeks turn pink as she slinks down. She doesn’t like all the attention. Opening her book, she drops her gaze. Her parents exchange a worried glance. Because Peace is shy? I don’t see the harm in that.
“So, first off,” War says loudly to regain everyone’s attention. “This band isn’t a democracy.” That quip gets groans from his bandmates and some amused smiles from the wives, even my aunt Miriam, who is my dad’s sister and married to King. “Secondly, Merry effing Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” Dad returns, and everyone echoes the sentiment.
I look at Peace and whisper the words. She lifts her head and gives me a shy smile that makes me feel like I’ve suddenly grown ten feet tall.
“ Feliz Navidad .” King lifts his chin that sports a black soul patch that I’m sure all his millions of rap fans find cool. His solo career has made him the most recognizable public figure in the band.
“To you too, man.” War nods. “I want everyone to feel free to bring your presents down and place them around the tree tonight so we can open them all together in the morning. I know there will be a lot.” He grins. “Since most of them are for me.”
“Lame.” Dad shakes his head.
“War.” Shaina’s green eyes dance as she smiles at her husband. I observe that Peace’s parents seem to have as tight a relationship as my own.
“There’s no formal agenda for the morning.” War looks at his daughters. “Knowing my girls, they’ll likely wake me before the sun rises, wanting to open their presents.”
Harmony’s eyes twinkle. They’re mostly brown like her dad’s, with little flecks of peridot green. They’re all right, but I think Peace’s thickly lashed brown and gold eyes are prettier.
But Peace isn’t looking at me. Her gaze is on her book again, her eyes moving back and forth over the page. When she reads, I can tell nothing else exists for her because she’s been transported to another world. I get it. That’s how I feel about music.
“I’m making homemade cinnamon rolls for breakfast,” Shaina announces to everyone.
“Thank you, sweetness.” War nods approvingly at his wife. “Love those.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiles softly, and they exchange a loving glance.
“But after dinner”—War passes a stern glance around—“the band is going into my studio to get some work done.”
“What?” King glowers at the lead singer.
Anyone else but War would probably be intimidated, given that King is huge, but War is the leader of his band of misfits, and from the stories I’ve heard, he was also the former ruler of all the losers at their high school in Southside. I don’t think War is intimidated by his drummer or anyone else.
“On Christmas Eve?” Sager shakes his head. “No way.”
Dizzy releases his wife’s hand and shoots War the double bird.
“I’m in.” Dad throws in his support for War, which probably has less to do with their longstanding friendship and more to do with the fact that my dad is always in the mood to shred his guitar. That is one thing we have in common.
“Hear me out.” War raises his hands in mock surrender. The silver rings on nearly every one of his fingers glisten, reflecting the chandelier lights. “There’s something you should know.”
“What?” King’s tawny eyes narrow beneath his black hair.
“They’re saying rock music is dead,” War replies.
“Who’s saying that?” Dizzy pops a skeptical brow. The shiny silver surface of the hoop in it reflects the lights like War’s rings.
“Guitar Universe. Rolling Rock.” War counts on his fingers. “Who’s Who in Music. All those prominent but nerdy motherfucking publications with writers working for them who think they can sit behind their computer screens and know everything about music.”
“War,” Shaina says in warning about the cursing, glancing at their daughters.
“Sorry, sweetness.” War rakes a hand through his light brown hair. “Those idiots think the only rock bands still relevant are those that are pivoting to pop.”
“Who’s pivoting?” Sager’s dark brown brows draw together.
“Don’t remember the entire list, Sage,” War says with a shrug. “Most were second-tier bands compared to us. But there was one that bears mentioning.”
“Who?” King asks.
“Brutal Strength,” War tells him.
“ Putas ,” King spits out. “Except Red. Avery’s all right.”
“Yeah.” Dad nods his agreement. “Keep Avery Jones out of any trash-talking involving BS.”
Lace frowns. Although my parents are solid, there have been articles that have hinted that my dad’s friendship with Avery is more than it is. That friendship is a sore spot between him and my mom.
“She’s Avery Anthony now.”
When Dizzy points that out, Dad frowns.
“Marcus Anthony is an arrogant prick.” War offers that opinion and gets unanimous nods of agreement from his bandmates.
“Of course, you’re one too,” Dad adds with his gaze aimed at War.
Sager nods wisely. “But he’s our arrogant prick.”
“Right.” War sets his glass on the table. “Thanks for the support, Sager.”
“Don’t mention it,” he deadpans.
“But back to this very important PR issue.” War plants his palms on the table. “The marketing department at Black Cat polled our fans, asking them who they think is the best rock band in the business. Tempest or BS.”
“Who did they pick?” King leans forward. All the guys do.
“You’re not gonna like this, guys.” War doesn’t keep them in suspense. “It wasn’t us.”
Dad scowls. “That’s totally whacked.”
“How close was the vote?” Sager asks.
“Too close,” War replies grimly.
Dizzy looks skeptical. “When did this vote take place?”
“A month ago,” War shares.
“Why didn’t you tell us about this as soon as we arrived, ese ?” King asks, his fingers twitching as if he’s itching for his sticks to bang out his frustration on his drums.
“I’m telling you now,” War lets him know.
“We’re better than BS,” Sager says somberly.
“We are,” War agrees. “Wholeheartedly.”
The bassist gives his lead singer a questioning look. “So what are we going to do about it?”
War grins. “We’re not going to sit around on our asses. We’re not going to sell out, pivot, and write pop songs like BS has.” He lays out his plan. “We’re going to make the best motherfucking rock album anyone has ever heard. Sorry, sweetness.”
His wife just shakes her head.
“And we’re going to start right after dinner,” War concludes.