Chapter 18
PIECE BY PIECE
JESSE
Good Enough by L?Spirit
“Holy shit,” Stella breathes as we hit the final chord. “The harmony in the second chorus, Jesse. Pure genius.”
“The way you modulated down for the bridge,” Luke adds, already making notes on his tablet. “It shouldn’t work, but it’s perfect. Creates tension right before the final chorus release.”
I lean against the amp, listening to them dissect the song, satisfaction spreading through my chest. These three people understand the music the way I do, speak the language I’ve been trying to articulate my entire life.
Stella’s fingers work out an adjustment on her bass. “We should tighten the transition between verse two and the bridge. If I come in a beat early, it’ll pull everything forward.”
“Let’s do it again,” she says, motioning with the whip of her wrist.
“If you spread those legs for me, Sugar Tits, ‘do it again’ is what you’ll be saying all day,” Tommy says with a wicked grin, spinning his sticks.
Stella doesn’t miss a beat. “The only thing I’ll be saying is, ‘is it in yet?’”
“Ouch.” Tommy clutches his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”
“Good.” She adjusts her bass strap. “If you spent less time thinking with your dick and more time working on your fills, you’d actually be worth my time.”
Tommy opens his mouth for a comeback, but nothing lands. He points a drumstick at her instead. “I’m going to remember that the next time you need someone to carry your amp.”
Luke doesn’t look up from his tablet. “Are you two finished?”
I shake my head, unable to suppress a grin. “Can we run the song before she actually kills him?”
“At least the music doesn’t disappoint,” Stella says, shooting Tommy a withering glance.
We run through it twice more, each version tighter. The song transforms under our hands—cleaner, more powerful, exactly what it was supposed to be. The rhythm section locks in behind me, and Luke’s atmospheric touches fill the spaces between heartbeats.
When we finish, the silence rings with possibility.
Tommy spins a stick between his fingers, grinning like he discovered fire. “We’re getting scary good.”
“Define scary,” Stella says, though she’s smiling now, the kind that reaches her eyes.
“The kind where people actually start paying attention,” Luke answers, saving his notes. “The music speaks for itself now. We don’t need anonymity as a crutch.”
Tommy jumps on it before the words finish landing.
“Exactly. That’s what I keep saying. We’re sitting on something massive and nobody even knows our names.
” He stands, tapping his sticks against his thigh in a restless rhythm.
“You know how many drummers would kill for what we’ve got?
And we’re what—hiding it in a warehouse in Van Nuys? ”
Luke opens his mouth to respond, but Tommy’s already rolling.
“I’m not saying blow it wide open. I’m saying we’re ready for bigger rooms. Better sound. An audience that didn’t stumble in off the street because they thought it was a rave.”
“Not this again.” I roll my eyes, gripping the guitar tighter.
The rehearsal space door creaks open before I can respond.
Dylan steps in carrying enough pizza boxes to feed a small army, his expression carefully neutral in a way that means trouble. He shifts the stack from one arm to the other, grease already darkening the bottom box.
“Food delivery,” he announces.
“Since when do you bring food to rehearsal?” Suspicion flares.
“Sometimes I want to make sure my favorite band is properly fed.” Dylan sets the boxes on the amp case serving as our table, wiping his hands on his jeans despite not touching any grease.
Tommy’s already diving into the first box. “I don’t care why he brought it. Free food is free food.” He emerges with a slice hanging from his mouth. “Especially when it’s not whatever mystery meat they’re serving at the taco truck.”
“The mystery meat has character,” Stella argues, though she reaches for her own slice.
“Character is a generous word for food poisoning,” Luke mutters.
I remain standing, arms crossed, watching Dylan fidget with his phone. “Out with it, Dylan.”
“Can’t we eat first? I got the garlic bread you like—”
“Dylan.”
“It’s good news. Really good news.” He fidgets with his phone, not meeting my eyes. “The kind that requires proper fuel.”
“Spit it out.”
Dylan draws a deep breath. “I booked you guys a slot at the Fonda Theatre.”
“You what?”
“Friday night. Three weeks from now.” Dylan’s voice takes on the careful tone he uses when he’s about to get his head ripped off. “It’s not the Palladium, but it has a fifteen hundred capacity. It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“But you booked us without asking?” Heat spreads through my chest as I set my guitar down, the body connecting with the amp with a sharp thunk.
Tommy pauses mid-bite, cheese hanging from his mouth. “Wait, what? The Fonda Theatre? That’s huge.”
“Exactly,” Dylan says quickly, seizing the opening. “This is what we’ve been working toward. Silent Revenant is ready for the next level.”
“We said we’d talk about this first.” I pace to the window, then return, nervous energy demanding movement. I drum against my thigh.
“We’ve talked it to death. There’s no more heartbeat. It’s in flatline territory. Someone sign the death certificate,” Tommy says.
“We get it, Tommy.” I glare at him.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a slot at the Fonda? Someone cancelled last minute, and I had thirty minutes to give them an answer.”
I know he didn’t do it maliciously, but he knows how I feel and why. “And it didn’t occur to you to pick up the phone?”
Dylan’s jaw sets in a stubborn line. “This is my job, Jesse. I run a label, not a democracy.”
Tommy sets down his slice. “Jesse, this is incredible news. Do you have any idea what this means? The kind of exposure?”
“Finally, someone with sense,” Dylan says. “Even if it’s Tommy.”
Tommy grumbles.
“Don’t encourage him,” I snap, but the fight drains out of me as quickly as it came. Dylan’s right—I would have found a dozen reasons why we weren’t ready, why it was too soon, or too risky.
I have three sets of expectant eyes on me who are dying for the chance to play a venue that has an actual working bathroom and a green room that doesn’t double as a supply cabinet. “Fine.” I run a hand through my hair. “But you should have run it by me first.” I point at him.
“You’re right.” Dylan’s expression softens.
Tommy grabs Stella around the waist, spinning her in a circle while she laughs and smacks his shoulder.
“Put me down, you caveman,” she protests, but she’s grinning.
Tommy sets her down only to drop dramatically to one knee, arms spread wide. “This calls for a proper celebration. Stella, marry me.”
“Ask me again when you can afford a ring,” she shoots him down, stepping sideways to avoid his grabbing hands.
“I can afford a ring pop,” he counters, scrambling to his feet.
Stella pretends to consider this, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Tempting, but I’ll pass.”
Luke shakes his head but doesn’t hide his amusement at Tommy’s antics. Meanwhile, Dylan looks like he won the lottery, and I am going to be sick.
Despite the celebration erupting around me, the walls of the rehearsal space press closer. The laughter and excitement should lift my mood, but instead they amplify the pressure building behind my ribs, a slow compression I can’t outrun.
“I’ll be right back.”
I push through the warehouse door, metal scraping against the frame as I shove it harder than necessary.
Outside, the late afternoon heat hits like a wall, but it’s better than the suffocating weight of the rehearsal space.
Exhaust and sun-baked asphalt hang thick in the air.
I lean against the hood of my car, tipping my head back, letting the heat soak through my shirt and into the tension between my shoulder blades.
“Needed some space?” Dylan’s voice doesn’t surprise me. I heard his footsteps on the gravel behind me.
“Getting some air,” I correct, not opening my eyes.
“You’re not actually pissed about the venue, are you?” He leans against the car next to me. “I’ve seen you when you’re really angry. This isn’t it.”
The observation hits closer to the bone than I want to admit. I push off the hood, pacing in front of my BMW, scanning the warehouse wall. Twelve windows across the second floor. “I don’t like being steamrolled.”
“Fair enough. I overstepped.” Dylan pauses. “But there’s something else. What’s really eating at you?”
The gravel crunches under my boots as I walk from the car to the chain-link fence and return again. How do I explain this gnawing certainty about everything good in my life balancing on a knife’s edge? Success terrifies me more than failure because it means having something to lose.
“Things are going too well,” I admit finally.
Dylan blinks. “And that’s a problem because?”
“The band’s clicking, the music’s there, people are responding.” Joey’s face flashes through my mind—the way she looks at me like I’m something worth believing in, and fuck, my chest can’t take it. “When things go this well, they don’t stay that way.”
“Jesus, Jesse.” Dylan shakes his head. “You’re sabotaging yourself before anything’s even gone wrong.”
“I’m being realistic.” The tension builds in my shoulders. “How many musicians make it without losing everything important?”
“This is a different time, and you’re not your father.”
I grab the back of my neck, squeezing until the pressure grounds me. “I know I’m not my father. My father didn’t have this—” I tap the side of my head, the gesture sharp, involuntary.
“So your plan is to what, keep playing warehouses forever? Keep everyone at arm’s length?”
The question hangs in the air. Because yes, the plan was to keep the band small enough to control. Keep Joey close enough to love but distant enough to protect. Keep everything manageable, contained, safe.
“I don’t think this is just about the band,” Dylan says quietly. “This is about Joey.”
Of course it’s about Joey.
“Things are good with her,” I say carefully. “Really good.”
“And that terrifies you.”
I count the cracks in the asphalt. One, two, three, four.
“Why don’t you just tell her?”
I turn toward him quickly. “No.”
“Jesse—”
“I’m not ready yet. I need more time,” I say with agitation.
“What if instead of waiting for the other shoe to drop, you enjoy the fact that you’re wearing shoes?”
“That’s very fucking enlightened of you.” A laugh escapes despite everything.
A motorcycle roars past on the street, the sound thinning as it fades into the distance. Somewhere inside the rehearsal space, Tommy’s drums carry through the walls—a restless fill, like he can’t keep still.
Dylan laughs and shrugs. “Sometimes running a record label is a lot like being a therapist.”
I stare at the chain-link fence where the afternoon sun throws diamond shadows across the gravel. Everything good in my life exists on borrowed time. The band, the music, Joey—pieces of a world too precious, too fragile to trust.
Maybe Dylan’s right. The terror of losing everything is exactly why I have to fight for it—because the alternative is losing it anyway, piece by piece, to my own cowardice.