15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Laredo
N o response.
I stare down at my phone at the three unanswered texts I’ve sent to my brother, Adam. It’s after midnight, so I’m not shocked. Adam is the responsible brother. He’s probably already onto his third dream with an alarm set for 6:00 a.m. so that he can get to the studio early and do Ariel’s bidding.
He’s missing out.
Twenty minutes ago, Ricco introduced the surprise guest artist at Driftwood. Everett Macon is an up-and-comer roc, with two top-ten hits this year. He’ll be performing this week at two showcase performances and came into town early to fine-tune his set.
Driftwood is known as the most popular local bar with a loud, loyal following that embraces musical acts of all types. But rock is their jam. Which is another reason I love this bar so much.
Even I must admit, Everett is no slouch in the looks department. Tall, with the perfect stringy, midnight-black hair that falls into his eyes every time he bends over to strum his guitar, he is catnip for this thirsty crowd. He performs his signature move, flipping his chin up to push the hair from his face and shooting a smile at a lucky lady near the front of the stage.
My blood races when I see who he’s made swoon this time. Betty.
After being greeted around the bar like a returning war hero, Betty has kept her distance from me. At first, I thought she was just catching up with Olivia, but it became clear she was carefully navigating to every area of the room except one, wherever I stood.
For the last two songs, she and Olivia have been gyrating their hips and shooting screams toward the stage as if they are teenagers who just learned their parents had left town for the evening.
Everett winks in Betty’s direction, and even from across the room, I see her lips part and that sexy-as-hell smile form on her beautiful face. I know it well because last summer, that was me on a similar stage, performing a similar move and receiving that same smile.
My death grip on my ice-cold beer does nothing to lower the heat building in my chest. I take a long sip, my gaze not leaving Betty until Everett gives his attention to the next woman.
I huff out a breath. Everett is only twenty-three years old. years younger than me, yet he’s achieved a status of fame I’ve yet to reach. I mentally run the comparison in my head. I’m a better looker. I close my eyes and focus on his guitar playing. It’s good enough to get a crowd filled with drunks to ooh and ahh, but I’ll take the respectful nod of a chart-topping rock goddess over this, Ariel’s look of awe from when I played the solo from Devil May Care fresh on my mind. Score two for me.
His vocal style is similar to Brad Arnold, the lead singer for 3 Doors Down. Even I have to admit this is his strongest skill. I’ll concede and call us even.
Loud applause prevents me from opening up a spreadsheet on my phone and adding weighted scores to my analysis.
Everett is holding his guitar out by the neck and leaning into the microphone. Sweat drips from his forehead, a performance sparkle in his eyes. “Oh my god, it feels so good to perform here at the Driftwood.” Shouts and screams mix with the roar of applause that doesn’t include mine.
I make my way through the six-deep crowd, trekking my way toward Betty. “And thank you, Ricco, so much. To be introduced by you… wow… this is insane.” As much as I’m predisposed to not like him, Everett’s sincere gratitude and excitement is infectious.
Ricco steps from the side of the stage with a proud papa look on his face and a surprise that takes my breath away.
He lifts his denim jacket high in one hand and a black Sharpie in the other, and the screams from the crowd pitch up to ear-piercing level. My feet halt, and I stand mesmerized. I’ve seen clips of moments like this on TikTok. I’ve read about it on music blogs. But I’ve never been in the room when it’s happened live.
“No way!” Everett leaps across the three-foot distance that separates them and pulls Ricco into a tight hug. “How is any of this happening?”
Ricco hands the infamous jacket to Everett, who lifts it high, parading it in front of the small stage to the crowd.
“Well, you should have known I couldn’t just introduce you and call it an evening.” Ricco’s happy voice pulls everyone’s attention to him standing at the microphone, Sharpie in his hand. Everett freaking Macon is going to get his signature on Ricco’s jacket, next to rock legends Bruce Springsteen and Mick Jagger. “But you know how it goes.”
More applause. Everyone knows what it means. Before he can sign the jacket, he must perform a Ricco classic alongside him. “Do you feel that in the air?” Ricco teases, pointing a finger out toward the ocean across the boardwalk. “Looks like a ‘Category Five.’”
The mention of his classic hit brings another round of screams from the crowd. The song is a tale about a man who meets a powerful woman who turns his world upside down. “But in order to do this song, we’ll need some help. Betty, do you mind joining us on the stage?”
My ears perk up at the mention of Betty’s name. I tip on my toes to see around a mountain of a man in front of me. Betty’s hand is pressed to her mouth in disbelief. Olivia gives her a final push to reach the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen of Driftwood, I think you might know Betty, the kindest, most caring person in all of Seaside.”
“Betty. Betty.” A rhythmic chant springs up across the bar. Mountain man twists his neck and leans down to make a comment to his friend. I prepare for an inappropriate remark, my fists clenching by my side. “I didn’t realize Betty was here tonight. It’s good to see her back. She’s the freaking best.”
“Yeah, I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s stopped me from making a fool of myself,” his friend returns, and I feel the warmth of pride fill my chest.
“Betty. Betty.” They join the chant, and I notice the look of pure astonishment on her face. How could she ever leave this place?
“Hold on to this for me, will you?” Ricco hands the Sharpie to her, and she performs the most adorable curtsy I’ve ever witnessed in my life.
She spins and nearly crashes into an approaching Everett. His left hand shoots out and lands on her hip. “Excuse me, ma’am.” Their eyes lock, and I hold my breath, counting. One, two, three, four. Four long heartbeats it takes before his hand exits the precious territory where it never belonged. “Do you mind holding this for me until we finish the song?” Everett’s gaze has yet to move from hers. I don’t fault him, not even a little.
Whenever we are that close, I find it equally impossible to look away. The question I have is why she hasn’t lowered hers. Her hand fists the denim jacket, yet they remain statue-still.
“Everett,” Ricco beckons from the mic, breaking their spell. Ricco slips the strap of the electric guitar over his head and faces the crowd. “What you guys don’t know is that I once jammed with Everett’s mom, Diana.” Ricco strums a chord, catching the beam in Everett’s eyes, which thankfully has finally moved on from my Betty.
“I’m not sure if she ever told you the story, Everett. She was a vocalist a lifetime ago. A bunch of us were hanging out at a tent at some desert concert. It was a hundred degrees in the shade, so we all congregated around the one high-powered fan in the tent. Bored senseless, we did what musicians since the dawn of time have done—we jammed.”
Ricco points to the center stage mic, waving for Everett to take the lead position. “It must’ve been eight or nine of us, each peacocking, trying to show off our chops and claim bragging rights. I was young, brash, and full of piss and vinegar, as my pops used to say. So, I pushed the envelope, raising the tempo of the song. Slowly, people that couldn’t hang dropped out, one by one.”
“By the five-minute mark, only two of us remained. Me and your mother.” Ricco pauses, the slow guitar melody hinting at what’s coming. “She shifted her vocals to match my tempo. Her style was reminiscent of a young Ella Fitzgerald, scatting out notes until I could no longer keep up. I thought I was leading her, but I was mistaken.” Ricco’s brilliant smile lights up the room. “But enough about my old memories. Let’s form some new ones for these wonderful people out past my bedtime.”
Everett gives a respectful nod and lifts his hand high like a student seeking permission to speak. “Don’t we need a bass player? I can do it.”
Ricco chuckles. “Nah, it’s your night. I got it.” Ricco lifts his hand to his brow, blocking out the stage light, in search of something. “Laredo Williams. Come join us.”
He calls my name, and my heart leaps. Ricco is calling me to the stage. To play alongside him. This is it. My moment to shine.
This is why I accepted Ariel’s invitation to the music festival. I knew someone would recognize my greatness and place me back in the spotlight where I belong. Throughout Everett’s entire performance, I’ve noticed people snapping pictures from their phones, videos being streamed. A steady arrival of people continues to stream through the doors as word spreads. All I need is for one video to go viral, and the record labels will be back. A bidding war is sure to follow.
“Out of my way.” I push past Mountain man, eager to claim my rightful place on the stage.
“Laredo’s band, Bluer Collar, rocked Seaside last summer at the festival.” Ricco educates the crowd with information I didn’t realize he knew. “He’s a talented guitarist, and I pray he knows ‘Category Five.’ I guess I should’ve asked first.”
Laughter floats in the warm air, and I nod, releasing any concerns Ricco may have. Every guitarist performing today knows “Category Five.” I shake Everett’s hand and catch Betty’s gaze. She’s standing next to where the bass guitar is resting on the stand.
“Look at us back where we belong. Me onstage, and you taking away the breath of every red-blooded man in a thirty-mile radius.” I scoop up the guitar and adjust the strap but can’t resist adding one last comment. “Too bad none of them stand a chance with you. Not while I’m here.” I give her my deadliest of winks, hoping to elicit her magnetic smile.
Instead, her brow furrows, and she takes a giant step away from me. Before I can say anything else, Ricco strums the opening note, and Everett steps to the microphone as the crowd roars.
I lay down the bass track. It’s a rhythmic, head-bopping melody, which is the perfect complement to the vocals. Everett glances over his shoulder from the front of the stage at me and gives me a quick nod and smile, feeling the beat. Before he turns to face the audience, he shoots a wink at the woman of my dreams next to me, Betty.
She pulls the jacket to her chest and rewards him with the smile that should be mine. I shake off the heat in my chest and remind myself of where I am. What this moment could mean to me and my career.
By the time we hit the chorus, the entire bar is hopping. Close to a hundred voices sing along to the point I doubt they even need my guitar accompaniment. I could stop playing, and no one would notice.
I lighten the tension in my fingers, the volume of the beat fading into the background. Not one head turns in my direction. In fact, not one person is looking in my direction. At some point, Ricco migrated next to Everett at the front of the stage, shoulders pressed back-to-back as if they’re a duo that has been performing together for years. Every phone is pointed in their direction.
I am just a prop.
A background cutout on the stage that gets barely noticed. This is what Ariel did to me this afternoon. It’s as if the world got together behind my back and decided that they no longer see me as a lead. Well, I never got the memo.
My fingers squeeze the neck of the guitar and shift the chords up an octave. Ricco’s head whips in my direction. Of course he’d notice. After all, he wrote every single note of this song.
I ignore his that’s not right glare, hoping he’ll understand what I’m about to do. After all, he provided the inspiration. I increase the pace, my fingers blurring as Ricco is forced to match my tempo. His brows arch, and Everett’s vocals fade away.
I’m not sure what I expected from Everett. He’s young and hasn’t toured much. But he rolls with it. He spins away from the microphone, his feet stomping to my new melody, his hands clapping, leading the crowd.
My head shakes in frustration. The crowd should be focused on me, but they aren’t, Everett’s impromptu dance pulling away the shine I’ve earned.
Fine. I’ve been playing guitar nearly my entire life. Me and my siblings performing for our neighbors every weekend on the lawn back in our small town in Indiana. By the time I was twelve, we began touring, and I’ve never stopped. I know my way around a stage, and I know how to work a crowd.
I lift the neck of the guitar and whirlwind my arms. It’s a Peter Townshend imitation, which I hope becomes an internet sensation. Neck craned, fingers flying across the struts, I push the pace to an impossible-to-dance level. I don’t look up but sense the awe from the crowd. Next to fade away is the sound of Ricco’s lead guitar.
Which just leaves just me. And my solo.
All eyes are on me.
Finally.
This is it.
My moment to shine.
I shift the tune, blend it with thirty seconds of the solo track my label said was too long. The one market research claimed people didn’t want to hear. I can’t wait for Jonah to see the video of the bar filled with knowledgeable rockers bopping to my track.
I bite my lower lip and concentrate. I love this solo. The chord progression, the way it forces me to jump octaves. Future historians will study the brilliance of this track. It’ll probably be taught in colleges across the country. I relax into the groove and listen for the applause.
I’ve never known silence to be so deafening.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and expect to find them bowing in my presence.
I spot Everett standing at the front edge of the stage, back straight, staring at me. I can’t tell if he’s impressed or if he’s taking notes.
Ricco has his elbows resting on the top of his guitar. His body language conveys calm and peace, which sets off every alarm in my head. His is the posture of a professional that is unhappy with what he sees but won’t tip off the audience to his annoyance.
His blue-gray eyes bore through me like a disappointed father. I realize too late what I’ve done. The cardinal sin for an artist at a concert. When there is an invited guest, your job is to make them look good. I had one job: keep the melody with the bass and let Everett shine.
Ricco gives me the same look Jonah gave me back in Chicago. The you’ve wasted a golden opportunity look that I’ve seen way too often in my career.
I lower my head and hide my shame in the melody. My fingers are moving on autopilot, not sure how to stop.
I’ve screwed up.
Again.