Chapter 26 Pretty Words
PRETTY WORDS
DYLAN
Believe By The Bravery
The bell over the door of Soundwave Music jingles as I step inside.
The place smells faintly of dust and guitar polish, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes.
Rows of gleaming Fenders line the wall, each one reflecting the overhead fluorescents like they’re waiting for someone better than me to touch them.
Behind the counter, a bearded guy in a faded band tee is hunched over his phone, thumb scrolling with all the urgency of a sloth. He glances up, clocks me long enough to see a tag with the name Trevor on it before his eyes drops back to the screen.
“Can I help you find something?” His voice is flat, like he’s hoping I’ll say no.
“Yeah. Liam Rhodes. He works here, right?”
“Worked.” He finally puts the phone down, leaning on his elbows. “Past tense.”
My jaw ticks. “Did he say where he was going?”
He shrugs, casual as hell. “Not sure.”
I step closer, bracing my palms on the glass display until it creaks. “I need to find him.”
He tilts his head, squinting like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. “Does he owe you money? Or is this one of those grand romantic gestures gone wrong?”
“Neither. This is important.”
“Look, man, I’m not a therapist. Sounds like you need meds. I know a guy.”
A muscle jumps in my cheek. “This is L.A. Everyone knows a guy. I don’t need meds—I need Liam. Did he leave a forwarding address, an emergency contact, anything?”
Trevor’s eyes widen. He leans back in his chair, pointing at me.
“Wait a sec—you’re Dylan Kernish-Grant.” His grin spreads, smug and impressed at the same time.
“Vibez Magazine. Thirty Under Thirty. Most Influential Record Executives. Saw your face right there next to a spread on luxury tour buses.”
The pride I’d felt seeing my name on the list evaporates faster than a shot of whiskey. Of course this is the guy who recognizes me. My mouth flattens. “Yeah,” I say, dry as sandpaper. “Career highlight.”
He nods, oblivious. “That list’s legendary.”
I glare at him until he shifts in his seat. “About Liam—”
“You know,” he cuts in, lowering his voice like we’re about to swap state secrets, “I’m in a band.”
I drag a hand over my jaw. “Of course you are.”
“We’re kind of a cross between Paper Skies and Ever Willing but, like… with less bass. You get it?”
“No,” I say flatly.
“Anyway,” he says, tapping his fingers on the counter, “I might be persuaded to check the employee records… for, say, a record exec willing to check out our set.”
My shoulders stiffen. “Not happening.”
“Come on, man—one gig. We’re playing at Willie’s Friday night.”
“Is that a bar?”
“Not exactly.”
“An underground club?”
“More like… my friend Willie’s garage. But it’s gonna be a rager.”
I let the silence hang until he shifts again. There’s no way in hell I’m standing in some stranger’s garage while Trevor’s band butchers indie rock. A better idea slides into place.
I pull a pen from my jacket, scribble a number on a scrap of paper, and slide it across the counter with a smile that’s all teeth. “This is my personal assistant, Rachel. She’s a gem. Loves scouting new bands.”
Trevor picks it up like it’s a backstage pass to the Grammys. “Sick. Rachel’s gonna lose her mind.”
I nod toward the computer.
“Right, right.” He cracks his knuckles and starts typing. “No forwarding address,” he says, and my stomach sinks. He scrolls again. “Emergency contact says… Phoenix? That’s… not promising.”
“What about his resume? Previous addresses?”
Trevor clicks. “Oh yeah—he worked at a place called the Bitter Creek Saloon in Arizona. I’ll write it down.”
I take the slip from him. “Thanks.”
“You’re not gonna ghost us, right? Rachel’s coming Friday?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Don’t worry—she’ll be there.”
* * *
The following afternoon, I find myself driving a rental car down the dusty main street of Bitter Creek, Arizona. The town is barely a dot on the map—a few blocks of rugged buildings, a gas station, a diner, and stretches of desert in every direction.
The Bitter Creek Saloon sits at the edge of town, a weathered wooden structure with neon beer signs in the windows and pickup trucks lining the dirt parking lot. My rental car looks ridiculous parked between them.
Taking a deep breath, I push through the swinging doors. The interior is dim and cool, smelling of beer, fried food, and decades of cigarette smoke no amount of cleaning could ever remove. A few patrons glance up, their stares lingering long enough to let me know I don’t belong.
Behind the bar stands a guy with weathered features and a permanent scowl, wiping glasses with practiced efficiency. He eyes me with open suspicion as I approach.
“What’ll it be?” he asks, not bothering with pleasantries.
“Whiskey. Neat.” I settle onto a barstool, trying to look casual. “I’m looking for Liam Rhodes.”
The bartender—McCoy, according to his name tag—pauses, eyes narrowing. “And you are?”
I hesitate for a moment. “Dylan. I’m his brother.”
McCoy sets the glass down with more force than necessary. “Funny. Liam never mentioned a brother coming to visit.”
“It’s… complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” He pours my whiskey, his movements deliberately slow. “He’s in the back, bussing tables.”
I take the drink, grateful for something to do with my hands. “Thanks.”
McCoy grunts in response, moving to serve another customer, but his eyes keep finding their way back to me—watching, assessing.
I sip my whiskey, letting the burn in my throat steady my nerves. I catch sight of Liam exiting the double doors to the kitchen. I down the rest of my drink and stand, making my way toward him.
“Liam.”
Surprise flashes across his face before his expression shutters, becoming carefully neutral. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice quiet but tense.
“Can we talk?”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Now you want to talk? After you made it pretty clear at the club you wanted nothing to do with me?”
“I screwed up,” I say, the admission sticking in my throat.
“What’s done is done,” he says, turning back to his work.
“Please,” I say, the word feeling strange in my mouth. “Just five minutes. I came all this way.”
He pauses, cloth still against the bar top. I can see him weighing his options, deciding whether I’m worth the time.
“I’m working,” he says finally.
“I can wait.”
He glances toward McCoy, who’s watching us with narrowed eyes, then at me. “Fine. I’m due for a break in twenty. Find a table in the corner. But I’m not promising anything.”
I nod, not pushing my luck, and return to the bar. McCoy slides another whiskey in front of me without asking.
“On the house,” he says, though his tone suggests it’s not exactly a friendly gesture. “Liam’s a good kid. Part of our family here.”
The implication is clear: hurt him, and you’ll answer to more than your conscience.
I accept both the drink and the warning.
I find a small table in the corner, away from the main crowd but with a clear view of the small stage area. The twenty minutes crawl by as I nurse my whiskey, feeling the heat of curious stares from the locals.
Finally, Liam emerges from behind the bar, untying his apron. He catches McCoy’s eye. “Taking fifteen,” he calls.
McCoy nods, eyes flicking between us. “Don’t be late back.”
Liam slides into the chair across from me, his posture guarded. “How’d you find me?” he asks without preamble.
“Bribed your old co-worker at Soundwave.”
A flicker of surprise crosses his face. “You bribed Trevor?”
“Pretended to care about his band.”
The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “Let me guess. They’re the next big thing?”
“Apparently.”
“He couldn’t keep a beat if you nailed it to his forehead,” Liam says.
A brief silence falls between us.
“You shouldn’t have quit the band,” I say finally.
His eyes harden. “You think I wanted to? That was my shot. My big break after years of scraping by, playing every dive bar that would let me on stage.” The controlled calm in his voice gives way to quiet intensity.
“But I wasn’t gonna stick around where I wasn’t wanted.
Where people might think I got there because of connections, not talent,” he says pointedly.
I sigh. “I know that now, and I’m sorry, but what was I supposed to think?”
“You could have asked.”
It sounds so simple.
“I never thought I had issues about being adopted until your email. It threw me,” I admit.
Liam shakes his head, shifting uncomfortably in the booth.
“Morgan says they’re struggling without you.”
He shrugs as if he’s not struggling without them.
“You’re throwing away your dream because of me.”
He looks away, jaw tight. “You have no idea what that band meant to me. I moved to L.A. with nothing but my drums and enough money for a month’s rent. I answered an ad, auditioned against twenty other drummers. I earned my spot.”
“Why did you mention being in a band in your email?” I ask, the question’s been bothering me since the beginning. “If you weren’t trying to use the connection—”
“Because I thought it was something we might have in common,” he says with quiet intensity.
“Seeing you at the club that night was as much a shock to me as it was to you, but I thought, this is my shot to talk to you. You never answered my email. I didn’t know you were a record executive until I tried to find you.
I didn’t care. I just wanted to meet you. ”
The simple answer hits me harder than any accusation could have. I’d assumed the worst, when all he’d wanted was a connection.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. “I should have given you a chance to explain.”
He holds my gaze, silence stretching as his expression shifts—something raw flickering there before he finally speaks. “You have no idea what it took for me to send that email in the first place.”
“Then tell me.”
He takes a breath. “I didn’t know my mom gave a baby up for adoption. That was a hard conversation. But I wanted to know you, Dylan.”