5. Interlude 1
Beverly Hills
The guys can’t sit still. They are too amped up about where we’re going.
Up to The Head, apparently. Somewhere I’ve never been.
The furthest I’ve ever gotten from The Neck is Shorefront Street, and that was only once because Dallas and I mentioned wanting to dip our toes in the ocean, so Dutch made it his mission to get us down there.
It took us all day to walk there and back, because none of us had money for the bus.
Now, the black limo we’re in is curving through the streets as they weave back and forth, higher and higher.
I don’t know how long it is until we get to where we’re going, but I’m already dreading it.
Supposedly, Viktor Vetrov, the owner of our potential record label, only signs deals in person and only from his own house.
Lou Braun, our new manager, is up front with the driver instead of back here with us, and I’m damn grateful.
The way he looked at me when he picked us up just now made my stomach turn.
So much so that, while the boys are yammering back and forth about getting a record deal and our big break, I’m sitting here silent.
I can’t stop digging my fingernails into my palms or knocking my knees together.
Something that Dutch eventually notices since I’m squished between him and Cohen.
Even though this limo is huge, we’re still a bit tight for space. Mostly thanks to Dutch, who has grown like two feet and put on loads of muscle in the last year, courtesy of his job hauling parts at Rothus Industries.
“Why so worried, Rainy?” he asks softly. So much so that neither Cohen nor Dallas hears it; they’re too busy trading guesses about the number of zeros that will be on our recording contracts. If it’s more than one, it will be more money than any of us, even Cohen, have ever seen.
I shake my head, rather than respond. I don’t want to do anything to spoil their mood.
Because Cohen’s right. This deal, even if it’s small, will be life-changing for at least three of us.
Dutch and Dallas grew up in a series of awful foster homes, until last year when Dutch aged out of the system and took his brother with him.
Grams and I barely skate by each month thanks to her pension.
Only Cohen, whose parents recently landed another construction bid with the City of Calder, has ever experienced anything close to material comfort.
And it shows. In his clean hair, new clothes, and the new Fender Starcaster that he was gifted last Christmas, while the rest of us make do with pawn-shop gear.
Our instruments aren’t with us today. Lou said we didn’t need them because whoever this Viktor Vetrov is, he’s already heard our music.
None of this seemed real before. Until I actually saw his face and the limo, I was sure Lou was full of shit.
He had commented on a bunch of our videos.
Then he sent us a private message explaining that he was a record producer and was interested in signing us.
Dallas called bullshit right away. So did I.
Only Cohen and Dutch had faith it was the real thing.
Or I guess, Cohen had faith and Dutch’s what-the-hell attitude meant he didn’t care one way or another.
Now, as the car stops in front of a huge brick mansion, I guess I can admit that they were right to reply to Lou’s message. The driver opens our door, and Cohen slides out first, blocking the driver’s efforts to assist me by reaching for my hand instead. “Come on, Rainy! We’re going to be famous!”
His bottle-green eyes shine with excitement, and my nerves vanish.
Just like they always do when Cohen Brady looks my way, because I’m too busy trying to keep my heart from exploding every time it happens.
I didn’t always have a crush on Cohen, but lately, every song I write is about him.
Every time I sing, I hope he’ll scoop me up in his arms and kiss me silly.
Dutch and Dallas follow at our backs as Lou leads us up to the house.
All four of us pause at the open door. The dark mouth of the hallway before us holds all our hopes, our dreams, our chance at a better future than the one the universe dealt us.
Cohen swings one arm over my shoulder. His other hand tugs Dallas closer to us too.
On my other side, Dutch knocks his hip against me.
We exchange looks and a collective deep breath.
It’s Cohen who breaks our silence.
“This is it, guys. This is our moment. And there’s no one I’d rather share it with.”
I blush when I realize that though his words are for all of us, his eyes are on me. Lou must have assumed we were still behind him, because the moment is broken when he hollers from somewhere out of sight, “Are you kids doing this thing or not?”
I might not be Lou’s biggest fan, but he was true to his word. Once we were inside, Vetrov handed us a contract and without a second’s hesitation, we signed.
Fifteen minutes later, we were back in the limo, headed back to The Neck.
Only we’re no longer just four friends messing around in a garden shed.
Our band name is no longer just some inside joke between us all.
We’re The Preaching Pistols, a name decided on by Vetrov himself, and together, we’re going to be famous.
End Interlude