Chapter 4
Juliet
“What the hell is that shirt?” Stone Zeeland asked.
I lifted Princess, my precious 5-string Sterling bass who had been with me for many a gig, from her case. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
He scowled. Stone, the Road Kings’ lead guitarist, was very good at scowling. “Barstow, I’m talking about your fucking shirt.”
We were at the Road Kings’ studio, which was called RKS. They had built this place custom, and it was by far the nicest space I’d ever played in. It had a recording space, a rehearsal space, and a songwriting room, which was basically a big room filled with sofas. It even had two empty apartments upstairs for crashing in after pulling an all-nighter. Working at RKS was only one of the perks of this gig.
I ran my fingers along Precious’s strings. We were in the rehearsal room, getting ready for a session. Denver Gilchrist, the Road Kings’ lead singer, was sitting with Axel de Vries, the drummer, their heads bent together as they conferred about something in Denver’s notebook. Denver had dark, poetic good looks to go with his crazy amount of talent, and even though he looked like he just woke up—which he likely had—he was still stupidly hot. Axel was blond in contrast, lean and blue-eyed like a Nordic model, with tattoos on his arms. He gave me a wave, then turned back to what Denver was saying.
“Barstow,” Stone barked at me again.
I turned to look at him. Stone Zeeland, the Road Kings’ near-legendary guitar god, was over six feet tall, muscled, and bearded. I had learned early that a scowl was his usual expression even when he was pleased with something, and that words weren’t his strong suit. He illustrated this now by glaring at me in silence.
“What’s wrong with my shirt?” I asked.
He continued to glare, so I looked down. I had changed out of the stained shirt and put this one on as I left the house. It had no rips or stains on it. My tits were covered. What was his problem?
Then it clicked.
“Oh,” I said. “It’s a Seven Dog Down shirt.”
Stone looked pained as I said those words aloud. Seven Dog Down was a hit band that had had a string of number-one albums and sold-out stadium tours. They were also the enemies of the Road Kings. Each band had taken public shots at the other and had talked shit about the other in interviews. At the Road Kings’ final show of their reunion tour, Seven Dog Down had sent a bottle of champagne backstage that had disguised a glitter bomb. The Road Kings had popped the cork, and then they had to perform the show covered in glitter.
Even though Seven Dog Down had broken up recently, apparently the memory still stung.
“I’m not even a fan,” I admitted to Stone. “Their music sucks. I only have this because I dated a guy who left it at my apartment.”
“Change it.” Stone walked to an opened cardboard box in the corner, pulled out a Road Kings T-shirt, and tossed it at me. “I can’t look at that all night.”
“You intimidated by a shirt, Zeeland?” I asked. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”
“Bite me,” he said.
Stone Zeeland had first seen me play in a dive bar with a ska band called Checkerboard Sadness. It was as pathetic as it sounds. It was a shit gig, but afterward he approached me along with his girlfriend, Sienna Maplethorpe, a music journalist.
“I’m Stone Zeeland,” he’d said in his blunt way, without a greeting.
“So?” I knew who he was. Of course I did. The man was a fucking genius, but that didn’t mean I was going to suck up to him. “What do you want?”
“You’re really talented,” Sienna had said, trying to be the nice one.
“Your band sucks, but you don’t,” Stone agreed. “I’m looking for a new bass player.”
“You already have a bass player.” Neal Watts, in my mind, was also a genius. I’d admired his work for years, though us bass players never got the same recognition the others did. “Wait a minute. Is Neal Watts dead?”
Stone looked annoyed. “No, he isn’t fucking dead.”
“Are you guys breaking up again?”
“It was just the one time. And no, we’re not.”
Sienna stepped in again. “Neal and his wife are having a baby. He’s taking a temporary break from the band. We’re wondering if you?—”
“No,” I said. “Whatever you’re asking, no.”
That didn’t make sense, and I knew it. I was a nobody playing this terrible gig, and Stone Zeeland himself was offering me some kind of chance. I should be grateful and excited. I should jump on whatever he wanted. Who was I to tell the Road Kings to get lost?
The problem was, I had been offered chances—plenty of them. I’d gotten excited for opportunities that someone offered, I’d dropped everything, I’d gotten my hopes up. And every time it had happened, I had been let down. Dumped, ghosted, stiffed for pay.
Talk was cheap in the music business, which was full of liars. If Stone Zeeland was just another dirtbag, I didn’t want to know it. So I told him off.
He came back, though. Him and Sienna. They came to another gig, and another, and they offered again. Eventually, they wore me down.
When I came out of the bathroom, now wearing the Road Kings shirt, Stone was leaning against the wall, waiting for me.
“I’m not giving this shirt back,” I told him. It was a great shirt, honestly. Whoever was in charge of the Road Kings’ shirts was doing a great job.
“Fine,” Stone said. “Get your bass and follow me.”
I grabbed Princess and followed him down the hall. I dropped back to walk behind him. Stone might be grumpy and he might have a girlfriend, but he was still a delight to look at from the back view. Just looking never hurt anyone.
Stone led me to the control room and gestured to a stool. I sat down with Princess in my lap. He tapped a few buttons on the control panel and handed me a pair of headphones. I put them on. He put on a pair, too, then tapped another button, and music filled my head. It was “All These Things That I’ve Done” by The Killers. A great song, one I appreciated all over again because I hadn’t heard it in a while.
When the song ended, I took the headphones off. “What was that for?” I asked Stone.
He took his own headphones off. “Learn it,” he said.
“Right now?”
“We rehearse it in an hour.”
I frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because we’re playing a gig on Friday night, and this song is going to be the closer.”
I made a surprised sound. “We’re playing a gig? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” We hadn’t played live yet.
“I’m telling you now,” Stone said.
“With four days’ notice? Where are we playing? What’s the set list?”
Stone stood up and put his headphones away. “It’s a bar downtown. We’re playing under the radar, a trial thing. We’ll see how it goes with a crowd. We’ll nail down the final set list later, but we’re gonna close with a cover, and it’s gonna be this one. So learn it.” He gave me a level look. “Or can’t you do it?”
“Fuck you,” I shot back. “I could learn it with my eyes closed.”
He nodded, as if he expected that. “Prove it, Barstow,” he said. “See you in an hour.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Fuck you,” I said again to the empty room. I was tempted to add more curses, to have a temper tantrum for the usual reasons. I was being bossed around; no one had consulted me; no one had asked me whether I was ready to play a gig.
But the truth was, I was scared. It was the same fear I’d felt the first night I’d met Stone, when I said no before he could finish a sentence. Panic tried to crawl up my throat and freeze my fingers on my bass.
This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
After a gig five years ago, I overheard someone backstage talking to the lead singer about me. “She’s hot,” the guy said. “Is she actually playing?”
What he meant was, Is she just miming playing bass over a recorded track? Because it was more believable to him that a band would go to the trouble of recording a track and miming over it than that a real-life girl could play bass.
After all these years, I was a novelty, a piece of ass, eye candy.
I had learned early to expect the worst, and that the better something seemed, the more certain the letdown would be. But for three months and counting, the Road Kings had proved the exception to that rule.
In fact, they were the opposite of everything rock stars should be. They were nearing forty, and instead of ageing like sour milk, they were writing and playing better than they ever had. There were no groupies, no drugs. They were sober. They were all in serious relationships, so no one made rude comments at me, stared at my tits, or told me I should dress sexier. They worked hard. They paid me well. They were talented as shit. They treated me like a professional. And the music was good—really good.
I kept expecting it to blow up. I was braced for it.
But on Friday night, instead of wasting another day with Checkerboard Sadness, I would play with a real band for once, playing real music. I would play a Road Kings show instead of standing in the audience.
If I could just make it to Friday night, it would be worth it.
I put the headphones back on, picked up Princess, and listened to The Killers again.
“I hear you guys are playing Friday night,” Neal Watts said when he let me in the front door of his house in West Linn. He was lean, with brown hair worn slightly long and a trim beard. He wore dark gray sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie over a tee. “You can set up. Sam’s awake, but he’ll chill with us. Let me go get him.” He gave me a second glance. “Nice shirt.”
I followed him into the house, where he’d set up chairs and an amp in the living room. I took out Princess while Neal went into a back bedroom. He came out with his three-month-old son, Sam, who wore a onesie and made contented squeaky noises. Neal held Sam in the crook of one arm and patted Sam’s back with the other.
When I signed on with the Road Kings, I was determined not only to learn their songs, but to master them. This meant more than just studio rehearsals. It also meant that I spent time with Neal while we went over the music together. Neal was home with his new baby, so that was where we met.
Neal’s wife, Raine, was a successful real estate agent, and she had recently gone back to work while Neal stayed home. This was the opposite of the usual rock star setup, and I respected it. Also, I had met Raine, and she was a gorgeous brunette who made bank. Frankly, I’d marry her and look after her babies, too.
I put Princess on my lap. “We’re covering The Killers on Friday, apparently,” I complained. “And they won’t tell me the set list.”
“They don’t know the set list yet.” Neal put Sam into a baby carrier that sat on the counter and arranged him carefully with a blanket over him. “I can give you an idea, though.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know what set list I’d play if it was up to me. I’ll write it down for you. I predict ninety-five percent accuracy.” He sat down and took out his phone, swiping open the music app. “Which Killers song is it?”
I told him and glanced at Sam, who had fallen asleep in his carrier.
“We have an hour, tops,” Neal said, following my gaze. He tapped his phone screen, and the intro to “All These Things That I’ve Done” started. “Play it,” he said.
I did, and he listened, and then we were in it. We were like two expats who meet in a foreign land and can finally speak their native language with someone. We not only spoke the language of music, we spoke the language of bass.
I didn’t think about my sister’s wedding while I played with Neal. I didn’t think about my messy family, the sort-of argument with my mother, the problem of the fitting weekend. I didn’t think about Finn Wiley and all the ways I might avoid him, because the idea of seeing Finn made me even more terrified than the idea of playing with the Road Kings.
I let it all go for the music, which was what music had done for me all my life. When Sam woke up and started fussing in his carrier, I felt like only minutes had gone by. I also felt relaxed, even though Neal hadn’t done anything to make me feel better.
Then again, maybe he had.