GRIT (The Silver Nitrate Series Book 2) (6 page)

“Heeeey.” She smiled, squeezing him. “You play really great, you know that?”

“Thanks.” He gently pushed her hands away. She stepped to his side, and then another woman joined her, this one with long blond hair and light gray eyes.

“This is my friend, Tori.” The dark-haired one hitched her thumb in her friend’s direction.

Two for one deal… Well, goddamn…

“Nice to meet you, Tori. Hey, let me get a Bloody Mary, man.” He raised his hand in the air and waved two fingers in the bartender’s direction. The man nodded and turned away, taking another order.

“My name is Heidi. We wanted to know if you uh, do private lessons?” They both smiled mischievously at one another and giggled.

“Nah, sorry… I don’t.” He didn’t miss the look of surprise on the groupies’ faces.

“What?” was all dark-haired Heidi seemed to muster.

“Ladies, as flattering as this is…” He placed his hand happily over his heart, his gaze unflinching on them. “And trust me, it is truly flattering… you’ve just offered a dream come true after all, but I gotta lady, okay? And I’m faithful…and I don’t believe that me giving you two
anything
other than an autograph would sit right with her, alright? I’m sure you understand.” He turned away and drew closer to the bar, a smirk on his face as he took the Bloody Mary from the bartender’s hand and handed the man a ten-dollar bill. “Get these lovely ladies a drink, too, okay? It’s on me!” He pointed in their direction, turned, and winked at them, then stepped away. “You two have a good night, alright?”

“What tha fuck?!” one of them uttered, but he kept on his path. As he made his way back towards the stage, he could hear the faint sound of footsteps behind him. The noisiness of the place seemed to echo, so he shrugged it off and kept on his way. Before he could manage to step upon the platform, a hand reached for his arm, tugging him around.

Not this shit again…

“Come on, I told you I gotta girlfriend.” He swung in the opposite direction, almost spilling his drink only to be met by surprise. A man stood there, dressed in a perfectly smooth and tailored black suit. It looked expensive, and so did his damn shoes that he could clearly see his reflection in. The man looked out of place.

He set his beverage down on top of a speaker and just kept staring at the guy. He was tall and thin, skin the color of unbaked, raw clay. The slight ashy grayness reminded him of deathly pallor, though his eyes were warm, inviting. A gleam sparked in his irises, dancing between colors of warm medium brown to light amber.

“Been a busy night, huh?” the man joked, his speech slightly hoarse with smoker’s voice. He leaned back and crossed his arms, looking confident, sounding in the know.

“Yeah.” Zenith chuckled. “Sorry about that. What’s up? What can I do for you?” He turned away from the man and assessed his drums.

This will take at least twenty minutes to pack up tonight…

“Your name is Zenith Taylor, correct?”

Zenith tilted his head in curiosity and turned back towards the guy, who’d sounded awfully formal.

“Yeah…”

They shook hands. Zenith tucked his hands under his arms and leaned to one side, waiting for the rest of the fellow’s spiel.

“I’ve seen Pure Grit play at least twelve times, closer to probably fifteen, actually. You guys are really good.”

“Well, thank you. I hope you enjoyed the show tonight, too.” He grabbed his drink and climbed up the steps of the platform to continue the aggravating process of disassembling his kit.

“Oh yes, I did.” The man rocked back on his heels. “And so did some other people as well.”

Zenith took a sip of his bloody Mary and set it down. He gripped a handful of thick, black speaker cables in one hand and an invisible ball of smack down in the other. He had no time for this shit. Every now and again, some guy or group of people would approach him and offer everything from premium cocaine to orgy parties at some local hotel. He was tired and not in the mood to entertain such things.

The man was simply acting too secretive, as if he were trying to feel him out, and the shit was damn creepy. Swiping at a layer of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, he simply stood there, trying to gauge this fucker’s angle. Strange things happened every day, but he didn’t want this to be one of those days. Perhaps it wasn’t an odd situation at all; it may have been run of the mill bullshit, like gearing him up to create an elaborate lie to get him to play at his rundown club in Milwaukee for free. Whatever it was, he wasn’t in the mood for the shit.

“Well, that’s good to know,” Zenith uttered after a few seconds of deliberation. “I’m a little busy so if you don’t mind—”

“I think you’ll need to
make
time for this, Mr. Taylor.”

“Time for
what
? What do you want, man? You see me trying to get out of here. Just say it so we can both be on our way.” Zenith tossed the cables down, tired of the strange song and dance when the damn show was long over.

“I know you’re tired and, in hindsight, you played your ass off—that takes a lot of energy. I probably should’ve gotten a hold of you before you came on stage and winded yourself out for a discussion such as this. Here is the situation: I was sent here tonight for a reason. Are you familiar with the band, ‘Pop Evil’?”

“Of course. Who hasn’t heard of them? Their drummer is Joshua Murunde. He’s damn good.”

“Yes, he is, and with their success and new plans, they’ve taken an interest in
you
. I’m one of their managers, Steve Herschel. I work closely with David Stellar on their behalf.” The man extended his hand but Zenith became stiff with shock and feared he may stutter, say gibberish, or worse yet, talk about something crazy like freeing snakes from a cage or boobs from bras—like Paw.

Then, the damn light bulb came on.

Oh shit… I think I’ve seen him before, like on television for one of the band’s interviews. He might be telling the damn truth!

Quickly snapping out of his daze, he shook the guy’s hand once again.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Joshua has a solo project coming up.”

“Yeah, I heard he’s going to do his own thing for a while. So that’s true, huh?”

“Yes. They’ve known about it for months. They need another drummer and have been trying to make time for private auditions, but as you know, that is difficult because—”

“They’re on tour.”

“Right. So, when they get back in two weeks, they’ll return to Michigan for a few days. They want you to come to their studio. We’ll take care of your flight arrangements, your accommodations, everything. They just want to meet you and see you play in person… just as I have. They’ve heard you, thanks to me. Their interest is high.”

“Oh shit, you’re kidding me, right? Hey!” Zenith shouted, his smile practically splitting his face open as he dropped the cables from his hand. “Wait until I tell the guys we’re goin’ to audition for Pop Evil! Hey!” he called out. “Guess what, there—”

“No… no,” Mr. Herschel stated calmly, grabbing his shoulder and turning him around to face him. He placed his finger up to his lips to hush him. “You didn’t hear me right…you’ve misunderstood. They want
you
, and only
you
, Mr. Taylor.”

Zenith’s elation melted and disappeared down some invisible drain like melting ice-cream from a sugar cone. It filled some stinking sewer, for the sweet smell of sudden success was fleeting and overpowered by the stench of loss. He looked around him, suddenly falling into the throes of a strange daze, unnamed emotions grappling at his very soul. A few yards away, Flip was talking to Javier at the bar. The guys were laughing and carrying on, oblivious to what the hell was transpiring. He felt as if he’d let them down, turned coat, and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

He looked around the stage, and the other band members were busy putting away their equipment and talking to scantily clad hos, not even seeming to notice that a man, dressed like some fucker from ‘Men in Black’, was on the damn stage, hamming it up with him and offering a piece of golden pie on a platinum platter.

“Just, you…” the man repeated, driving the point home.

“Oh…”

“Is that a problem?”

“Uh, I just thought, I mean, we sound good together. I sound different apart from them.”

“I beg to differ. You’re a talent all on your own. Again, is there a problem, Mr. Taylor? They’re very interested in you. I can’t stress that enough.”

“I guess… not. I just thought you were interested in all of us.” Zenith shrugged. “I mean, we work as a team. This is just… a bit surprising I suppose.”

“I believe all of you are talented, Mr. Taylor, but you…” He shook his finger in his direction. “You are a phenomenon. Pop Evil only needs a drummer and honestly, if you want my unbiased opinion, you’re the glue to this band. You keep their sound pure and rolling. ‘Pure’ is the perfect name for this crew as long as you’re in it. Usually, it’s the head vocalist, or the guitarist, but not in this case. Do you realize how many people talk about you—and by you, I mean
you
specifically? Do you understand what is being said about you online?”

Zenith looked at him curiously, dumbfounded. “Honestly, Mr. Herschel, I don’t pay attention to all of that stuff that much. I’m not really into Twitter, Snapchat, Instagram, and FaceBook. I mean, I have an account and I check it out every now and again. I have to. Plus, I like to check out my favorite bands on there but I’m so busy with work and some other stuff I got going on that I just don’t have much time to be online. Besides, we have someone that takes care of our marketing for us.”

…It’s Javier. I guess he’s doing a decent enough job.

“I see.” The man seemed slightly disappointed in his lack of know. “Mr. Taylor, I have a homework assignment for you. I highly suggest you Google yourself as soon as you get home. I also recommend you give yourself way more credit than you have been. With all due respect, you’re clueless. There are people that are talking about you, noticing that you’re a goldmine of aptitude. You’re one of the best drummers I’ve seen in the last ten years, and I’ve seen my share. You are by far in the top five. You can handle complex compositions and are able to mimic just about any sound and technique of the classics. It’s almost like watching ventriloquism, but for drums… it’s amazing.

Shit. That’s what I say about Javier all the time…

“I also noticed you have your own unique style when you showcase your talent, and it is just as incredible.”

“Wow… thank you.”

“I’m only speaking the truth. I’m not trying to butter you up or kiss your ass; these are just the facts and you need to know them. Look, Pop Evil wants you. Period. Here’s my card.” He handed him a laminated black and white business card with his name, contact details, and the Pop Evil website written in small letters at the bottom. “I’m going to contact you tomorrow afternoon, let you sleep off your hangover a bit.” He smiled sympathetically for what was surely to come. “When I call you, be prepared to speak to Leigh Kakaty.”

“What?! Are you serious?” He let out a short, incredulous laugh.

“Of course I am. The lead singer wants to talk to you as soon as possible. I’ll get you on three-way.” The man pulled out his phone. “What’s the best number to reach you at?”

“My cell… it’s 315-455-3231.”

“Got it, great…” The man stared down at his phone, checking the information, then slid the thing back into his pocket.

“Look, uh, I know you said you only needed a drummer, but you gotta check out Javier again, man! Heeeey!” He called out for Javier, trying to get his attention.

“Mr. Taylor, no, no, no. They don’t need another singer, okay? Now, I’ll be in touch.” He extended his hand once more. “You have a good one.”

Zenith stood there, his heart beating fast and his concerns growing leaps and bounds as the man walked away. He looked over at Javier and Flip, who appeared none the wiser. Taking a deep breath, he resumed his clean up, this time, his thoughts drifting around like dark clouds toying with the notion of leaving and making room for a sunnier day. He stopped working and pulled out his phone from his pocket.

“Silver, baby… sorry to wake you up; I know it’s late but my God… you are not going to
believe
what just happened!”

Silver sat outside
and watched a brown, crunchy leaf that resembled a ball of dusty shit swirl around in the cool air. Shoving her hand into her pockets, she was simply at a loss for words. She stood outside her home with Clara beside her, and things were going from bad to worse.

“And you pushed him right into it.”

“What was I supposed to say, Clara? This is his dream! It’s the chance of a lifetime.” She waved her hands in the woman’s face—tried to make her wake up and think straight.

“If he joins that band, it’s over for you two; you know that, right? There is no way he’ll be faithful.”

“Oh bull! You’re basing that off stereotypes.”

“Uh, have you seen your boyfriend, Silver? One, he’s fucking gorgeous; two, he’s got this whole exotic look thing going on; three, he is talented as hell; four, he’s an asshole, and women looooove assholes; five, he has no kids; six, he’s not broke; seven, he has a decent house; eight, you told me he is hung like a goddamn horse and can fuck the white off snow; eight—”