2. You think I have ambulance money?
You think I have ambulance money?
Colby finished his set to a decent applause. Probably the biggest round of applause of the night, and so he couldn’t complain. That made it worth the gas to get all the way out to the Valley for this musical open mic night at a bar he’d never heard of until he saw an ad online.
As he walked to the table where his best friend waited, the MC said. “Thank you, Colby Keaton, for closing out our live music night.” And then continued to thank the other musicians who had been on the stage tonight.
“That new song kicks serious ass,” Briar informed him as he slid into the booth beside her. She patted his head like he was an adorable puppy before handing him a whiskey sour. “My treat.”
He smiled gratefully and put the straw to his lips. “Did you like the bridge? I wasn’t sure about the bridge.”
“It’s perfect. No notes,” Briar assured him and stared right into his eyes. When she did this, he knew she wasn’t bullshitting.
She sighed and tapped her phone screen, checking the time. He watched her. “When is your call time tomorrow?”
“Seven-forty,” she groaned, then looked guilty. “It’s steady pay. I need to be grateful.”
Colby nodded—and waited—because whether she should be grateful or not, he knew Briar would still gripe at least a little bit.
“It’s just the show is SOOO bad! Like so bad.
I don’t know how it hasn’t gotten canceled yet.
Like, fuck. Humanity really is devolving if they’re watching that garbage and liking it. ”
Briar worked on a half-hour sitcom that really wasn’t funny.
Colby agreed he had no idea how it got renewed for a second season, but Briar was the head makeup artist, and it was a steady gig in Hollywood (well, technically Burbank), so she really shouldn’t complain.
Colby knew thousands of people who would kill for a steady job in this town.
Like that hot, spaced-out guy in the restroom today.
He said he was an actor, so he would probably kill for a job on Briar’s shitty sitcom.
“Where were you when the earthquake hit?” he asked as he pushed around the ice cubes in his drink with his straw.
“We worked until four in the morning the night before, so I was sleeping,” she explains, twisting one of her braids around her finger. “I mean, I felt a shake but just thought it was my roommate banging another rando.”
Colby laughed and tried not to make it sound awkward.
He had been one of those randos—when the weather dipped really low a few months ago, and the heater was broken in his van.
Briar had invited him to sleep on the couch, and that roommate came home drunk and horny.
It had been fine. He hadn’t finished, but he had made sure she had.
If anything, the encounter had made it clear to Colby that he didn’t need casual sex.
It felt like work. He usually couldn’t keep it hard long enough in those situations, even though he always went into them thinking he wanted it.
He was beginning to think he was broken.
Especially when there were people he had a connection with, but he didn’t want to get sexual with them.
Like Briar. He would go to war for her, and he knew that she would help him bury a body, no questions asked.
Briar would probably enjoy it. But they’d never hooked up, and the idea made him feel almost queasy.
Briar finished her drink and rested a hand on Colby’s forearm on top of the table. “You good for tonight?”
“Yeah. Fine.” Colby nodded. She was always concerned about his living situation, which was nice. No one else was ever concerned. “Gonna go back to WeHo and find a nice curb by work. Have an early shift restocking all the shelves that got fucked in the quake.”
“Hey! Extra cash. Guess earthquakes are good for something.” She slipped out of the booth, then leaned over the table and cupped Colby’s angular chin in her hand like an overbearing mother. “Be safe. Be strong. Wear a condom.”
Colby laughed. “Be safe. Be strong. Fuck the haters.”
“With a condom!” she called back.
He watched Briar strut out of the club and wished he were attracted to her. God, how simple would life be if he wanted to fuck Briar, and she wanted to fuck him? They could move in together, support each other, maybe marry, have babies, and his family loved her—and would love him again. Probably.
“Excuse me.” Colby looked up and saw a guy in a rumpled dress shirt and leather jacket standing across the table. He looked like he hadn’t slept much or had maybe just gotten off a bender.
“Hey,” Colby said with a friendly but distant smile. There could be some grade A weirdos at these things. One guy once offered Colby forty bucks to play guitar, live, in the background of an adult film. Naked. He said no, of course… because his van hadn’t needed a heater in that moment.
“You were good,” he said and jerked his head toward the stage. “Best one tonight.”
“Thank you.” Colby’s smile got softer.
The guy scrubbed his uneven beard with his hand. “I’ve seen you before. Once at Laurel Hardware.”
“Oh yeah?” Colby nodded. “I love playing that room.”
He loved it because the crowd was engaged.
Laurel Hardware was a popular West Hollywood cocktail bar that advertised its live music nights well, and people actually came to hear music.
Places like this, sometimes the audience was startled when people started getting up on stage, like they had no idea why people were singing while they ate mozzarella sticks and drank cheap beer.
“You've always been a solo act?” he asked.
“Mostly. I mean, in high school I was in a couple of bands.” Colby shrugged, and the guy stared, studying Colby for some reason.
“Would you consider it? Again?”
“Joining a band? Why?”
“I have these two guys…” The man stopped when Colby’s face dropped into a mask of disinterest. “I should start by saying my name is Maxwell Ford, but everyone calls me Ford.”
He leaned over the table to drop a business card in front of Colby.
Colby stared at it. Who even has business cards in this day and age?
It was ridged black card stock with silver print.
It said Range in a big retro-style font.
The other side had his name, a phone number, and an email address.
Colby’s first thought was that it could be fake.
But would a serial killer go through this much trouble?
For him? Probably not. And he had heard of Range.
Anyone trying to make music in this city had heard of it.
It was a live music venue that was incredibly popular and ridiculously hard to book.
People called it the modern-day Troubadour, which was a club where bands like the Eagles and acts like Joni Mitchell and Jackson Browne had started out back in the day.
“I manage the Range and have final say on all the acts that perform. It’s on Fountain in West Hollywood. We do a New Talent Night every week. I hand-select six artists, and you get thirty minutes each,” he explained. “And we pay.”
Colby nodded calmly, but inside he was buzzing.
New Talent Night at Range was too big a dream to even be on his radar at the moment.
You couldn’t audition for it. You had to be selected, but no one knew who did the selecting.
Apparently, Maxwell Ford did. And now Colby knew.
“Are you inviting me to play there, Ford?”
“Yeah. If you wanna play in the band I’m putting together.
Play and sing, of course. We need a vocalist. The other two guys play drums and bass, and they’re good.
Really. They can harmonize, too, but not quite lead-singer material.
You are though,” the guy said with a smile and then extended his meaty hand.
“That’s why I sing. By myself.”
“Well, Colby Keaton, you can definitely keep doing that. Here. At Laurel Hardware, when they remember to book you,” Ford said easily.
“Or you can entertain my offer. Meet these guys. Jam a little, see if there’s a vibe.
And if there is, you can do New Talent Night at the Range. Every week. With pay.”
Wow. Okay. He was hard-selling this.
“And if I don’t vibe with them, or don’t go meet them, I’m what? Blacklisted?” Colby asked bluntly. He had been shooting his shot in Los Angeles since he was eighteen years old. Now at twenty-five, he’d learned cutting to the chase was best.
Ford exhaled slowly and rubbed his jaw pensively. “I’m not saying that. I don’t blackball people unless you’re some kind of homophobic dick bag or like a rapist or drug addict.”
“I’m none of those things.”
“Yeah, I get that vibe, or I wouldn’t have bothered approaching.” Ford nodded. “So maybe eventually you’d get a shot solo. Probably. But I can guarantee you one in the next thirty days if you give the band thing a try.”
“I’m confused. This isn’t just booking talent,” Colby said and flipped the business card between his fingers nervously, like he sometimes did a guitar pick as he waited to take a stage. “Do you always try to create talent?”
“I’m branching out,” Ford replied. “I’ve been running the club for seven years and booking the talent for five.
I know what people like, and I’m not quite seeing it out there.
Not the way I envision it. A new hot young group like what Kings of Leon used to be or like Arcade Fire, without the problematic lead singer- that’s what there’s a lack of right now.
That’s what I’m looking to make happen.”
“And the songs? What’s the sound?” Colby asked, and Ford nodded, a smile almost pulling his lips up. Almost.