Last Song (Chasing Cross Book Five) (A Brothers of Rock Novel) (rockstar contemporary romance) by Karolyn James Page B
Authors: Karolyn James
Ads: Link
switching from drums to guitar right around one in the
morning, Rick used his cell phone to order a full recording system. All the
gear would be coming within the next day or so and then could really play.
Hell, maybe he’d record the next big hit and hand out free samples of it at a
Chasing Cross show. Maybe he’d call himself Chasing Rick.
Rick laughed as he opened
the heavy front door. The door squeaked and on the porch stood a few guys that
Rick hadn’t seen since a Chasing Cross tour that picked them up three years ago
for one of the legs up and down the west coast.
“Holy shit,” Rick said.
“Holy shit? Weren’t you
expecting us?”
Rick licked his lips and
ran a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know. I was
supposed to have...”
“He doesn’t remember.”
Rick looked at Timmy as
he held a bass in his hands. They used to call him Big Tim because he had
weighed a lot more than he did right then. Next to Timmy was Jackie Spade, a
choppy guitarist with long black hair and a devil smile. Next to Jackie was
Andy, another guitarist. He had more skills, a lead guitarist, but mostly he
played over Jackie’s choppy notes and made them whole. Of course, standing at
the door, with the same perfectly trimmed facial hair, blackest of black eyes,
and pissed off demeanor was Nick.
“You wanted us here
bright and early,” Nick said. “Band practice, right man?”
Rick laughed. The pieces
of the night before slowly started to come back.
Playing alone could only
go so far. Sure, Rick could write the music. He could record the tracks one at
a time, but to play a show, to jam, he needed other people. He needed reliable
people at that.
Now he had it.
“You look like death,”
Jackie Spade said.
“Like the rest of you?”
Rick asked.
“It’s eleven in the
morning,” Jackie said. “I haven’t seen this early since the day my son was
born.”
“You have a kid?” Rick
asked.
“Yup. Little boy. He’s
two now. Lives in San Diego with his mother. I stop down every week or so to
say hello.”
“Wow,” Rick whispered.
“Okay. Guys. Come on in.”
“Get the coffee on,”
Timmy said.
“Get the whiskey out,”
Andy added.
Nick clamped a big hand
on Rick’s shoulder and squeezed. “You want us, we’re here. Make it count.”
Rick laughed and heard
the murmur of voices echoing through the house. He felt alive. Not whole. Not
happy. But certainly alive. He knew these guys would understand everything that
had happened. They had been beat up and battered on the road. They had been
drunk, high, close to death (Nick had a famous story of how he literally died
for about thirty seconds), they had been signed, recorded a few albums with a
slew of other bands, they made money, they spent money, and yet they somehow
survived to see the light of day again.
That’s what Rick wanted. He
stepped back and started to close the door when something caught his attention.
A woman running.
Rick paused and watched
her ponytail dancing behind her head, left to right, left to right. He checked
out her black shirt with hot pink sides, black pants to match, and her pair of
hot pink shoes. She wore headphones and seemed focused on the road. She was on Rick’s
side of the road and when she looked up and saw Rick standing in the open
doorway she quickly turned and crossed the street.
She continued to run by
and Rick could just sense her trying to strain her eyes to see if he was
staring at her.
Which he was.
Rick finally shut his
eyes for a second. What
are you doing?
All he needed was to drag
some woman into the hell he had created for himself. Even still, he couldn’t
stop. He couldn’t shut the door until the woman was completely out of view.
When he shut the door, he
heard something shatter in the kitchen, followed by deep laughter and a long
string of cursing.
Rick smiled.
Yup, the rockstars were
here...
An hour later, they all
had eaten, filled up on coffee and whiskey, and were already playing. The
morning, Rick used his cell phone to order a full recording system. All the
gear would be coming within the next day or so and then could really play.
Hell, maybe he’d record the next big hit and hand out free samples of it at a
Chasing Cross show. Maybe he’d call himself Chasing Rick.
Rick laughed as he opened
the heavy front door. The door squeaked and on the porch stood a few guys that
Rick hadn’t seen since a Chasing Cross tour that picked them up three years ago
for one of the legs up and down the west coast.
“Holy shit,” Rick said.
“Holy shit? Weren’t you
expecting us?”
Rick licked his lips and
ran a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know. I was
supposed to have...”
“He doesn’t remember.”
Rick looked at Timmy as
he held a bass in his hands. They used to call him Big Tim because he had
weighed a lot more than he did right then. Next to Timmy was Jackie Spade, a
choppy guitarist with long black hair and a devil smile. Next to Jackie was
Andy, another guitarist. He had more skills, a lead guitarist, but mostly he
played over Jackie’s choppy notes and made them whole. Of course, standing at
the door, with the same perfectly trimmed facial hair, blackest of black eyes,
and pissed off demeanor was Nick.
“You wanted us here
bright and early,” Nick said. “Band practice, right man?”
Rick laughed. The pieces
of the night before slowly started to come back.
Playing alone could only
go so far. Sure, Rick could write the music. He could record the tracks one at
a time, but to play a show, to jam, he needed other people. He needed reliable
people at that.
Now he had it.
“You look like death,”
Jackie Spade said.
“Like the rest of you?”
Rick asked.
“It’s eleven in the
morning,” Jackie said. “I haven’t seen this early since the day my son was
born.”
“You have a kid?” Rick
asked.
“Yup. Little boy. He’s
two now. Lives in San Diego with his mother. I stop down every week or so to
say hello.”
“Wow,” Rick whispered.
“Okay. Guys. Come on in.”
“Get the coffee on,”
Timmy said.
“Get the whiskey out,”
Andy added.
Nick clamped a big hand
on Rick’s shoulder and squeezed. “You want us, we’re here. Make it count.”
Rick laughed and heard
the murmur of voices echoing through the house. He felt alive. Not whole. Not
happy. But certainly alive. He knew these guys would understand everything that
had happened. They had been beat up and battered on the road. They had been
drunk, high, close to death (Nick had a famous story of how he literally died
for about thirty seconds), they had been signed, recorded a few albums with a
slew of other bands, they made money, they spent money, and yet they somehow
survived to see the light of day again.
That’s what Rick wanted. He
stepped back and started to close the door when something caught his attention.
A woman running.
Rick paused and watched
her ponytail dancing behind her head, left to right, left to right. He checked
out her black shirt with hot pink sides, black pants to match, and her pair of
hot pink shoes. She wore headphones and seemed focused on the road. She was on Rick’s
side of the road and when she looked up and saw Rick standing in the open
doorway she quickly turned and crossed the street.
She continued to run by
and Rick could just sense her trying to strain her eyes to see if he was
staring at her.
Which he was.
Rick finally shut his
eyes for a second. What
are you doing?
All he needed was to drag
some woman into the hell he had created for himself. Even still, he couldn’t
stop. He couldn’t shut the door until the woman was completely out of view.
When he shut the door, he
heard something shatter in the kitchen, followed by deep laughter and a long
string of cursing.
Rick smiled.
Yup, the rockstars were
here...
An hour later, they all
had eaten, filled up on coffee and whiskey, and were already playing. The
Similar Books
