Love Will (52 page)

I still hate the idea, and shake my head to make it known. Training my replacement was never part of the deal.

“Come on,” Jon says, frustrated. “Eat your damn food so I can figure out how to make you smell better. I don’t know how I even slept with you last night.”

I sniff myself and look at him. I don’t think I smell that bad, but knowing how long it’s been since my last shower, he may be on to something. “It’s not
that
bad,” I say simply. “Oh, are you gonna help me shower?”

“Ding ding ding!” he says, signaling my right answer.

I laugh at him. “When you said ‘anything for my brothers,’ you didn’t think it would mean sponge-bathing my ass, did you?”

“Eat!” he says, hurrying me along.

On the way to the club where we’re–
they’re
–playing tonight, I try to put myself in Shea’s shoes. If she bothered to listen to the messages, she knows what happened between me and Lola. It’s a matter of her believing me or not.

If she believed me, then there wouldn’t be an issue. She would have called me by now.

That leaves me with two options. She hasn’t listened to my messages, or she thinks I’m lying.

I have no doubt in my mind which one I’m dealing with. I can’t help but be pissed off. I thought we were beyond that. I thought I’d convinced her that I wouldn’t lie to her, but I guess I’m not able to overcome the bad reputation I’ve carried with me for years and the musician persona that just comes with the job.

“You okay?” Jon asks.

“Fine.” He knows I’m not, but he also knows not to press on.

“I asked Livvy to call her. She doesn’t appear to be taking her calls, either.”

I wasn’t going to ask my brother and sister-in-law to get involved, but it’s kind that they did. “Tell her thanks for trying.”

“Sure thing.”

I can see the back of the bus parked behind the venue when we pull up. I stare at the place with contempt, not thrilled with what I’m tasked to do today. Jon offers to help me inside, but I beg him off, seeing no obstacles that should hinder my entrance. He says goodbye, opting to return to the hotel to get some work done.

The band is playing
Horizon
about twenty-percent slower than it should be played, and Bradley’s lagging a millisecond behind that. Tavo must be going
ballistic
right about now. When Damon sees me, he cuts everyone off and jumps from the stage, directing me to a plush, velvet couch with about six too many pillows on it. At present, there’s no room for me.

“I wasn’t sure how you needed to be positioned,” he says.

“Help me with my coat,” I tell him, trying to slide the jacket off my shoulders.

“Your eye looks pretty, uh… Yeah, it’s not so bad.”

“Nice, Damon.”

“You supposed to take the bandage off already?”

“What are you, a doctor or the singer of this band? Move some of these fucking pillows and bring me my Martin.”

“How are you going to play?”

“Hell if I know, but I can’t hear this music and just sit here doing nothing.”

“Alex!” Damon yells. I look around to see who Alex is. “Go get the black guitar case with the initials WSR on it. And handle it like it’s your firstborn.”

“New driver?”

“Interim manager.”

“We’re gonna have a crowded bus.”

“Maybe a little. They tell me Bradley’s sticking around for the remainder of the tour, too.”

I glare at him. “I guess I’ll just head home now.”

“All the flights are canceled, so your threat’s pretty implausible, but good try. We’re getting a bigger bus now that we have a real driver. Supposed to be top of the line.”

“I don’t give a shit about the size of the fucking bus. My replacement’s touring with us now? Where’s my place in all this, man?”

“Same place it’s always been. You’re my lead guitarist, period. Best guitarist out there, and anytime you can play, you’ll play for me. No questions asked.”

“I can play tonight.”

“You’re under doctor’s orders to take it easy this week, so no. You can’t. But once we leave Colorado, if you feel up to it, I’m not gonna argue with you.”

“Then why’s Bradley staying with us?”

“Because he has a lot to learn. A
lot
.”

“How much is a lot?”

Alex starts to take the guitar out of its case, but Damon stops him just before his fingers touch the vintage casing. “I just want to make this clear: this guitar is priceless. It should probably be in a museum and not on this tour, but it’s too incredible to not play it. But we treat this with the utmost respect.”

“Got it,” the new manager says as he wipes his hands on his khakis. When he lifts the instrument out, it’s obvious he knows how to handle a guitar. He turns it around and gives it to me, helping me with the strap. I try to hide how much it hurts, but the concerned look on Damon’s face lets me know I failed.

“Thanks, Alex. I’m Will Scott.”

He does a double-take at my introduction.

“Rosser,” he states, as if I’ve forgotten my own name.

“Maybe I’ll tell you the story sometime, but I’ve legally changed my name. I don’t want to hear the old one anymore,” I explain politely.

“Oh, yeah. Okay. Sorry about that… Listen, I’m a
huge
fan.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Hopin’ for a swift recovery so I can see you play. I can scratch something off my bucket list.” I smile at him, thinking that it’s pretty cool I made someone’s list. “Plus,” he says, leaning in, “the band needs you.”

Damon nods. “Ready to hear what we’re dealing with?”

“I’m ready to take my drugs, so yes. Let’s get on with this.”

“Let’s move on to
This City Life
,” my best friend announces to the cavernous room that will be packed with a sold-out crowd tonight. “Tavo, bring us in.” By the time he makes it back to the stage, Bradley has already missed his cue to start. “Let’s try that again from the top. Brad, man. You know where you’re at?”

“Yeah, I forgot which song this was.”

“Need your music?”

Oh, fuck, we’re dealing with sheet music?

“No, I memorized it all last night.”

“When you should have been sleeping. Right. I forgot,” Damon says sarcastically as he glances at me sideways. The new guitarist is better on the second try, but Peron wasn’t ready, so they have to go once more. It was a better start for everyone, but Bradley’s tempo still drags just enough to bother me and he misses more notes than I’m comfortable with.

At the end of the song, everyone looks at me.

“Well?” Peron shouts to me.

“Tavo, what’d you think?”
He
needs to speak up.

“It felt like he was lagging.”

“Ya think? It didn’t just feel like it. He was lagging through the whole damn song.” I make eye contact with the guitarist who could have benefitted from a nagging brother who pushed him into a shower this morning. He wears the fact that he got no sleep in the bags under his eyes. He’s frowning at me as he chews on the inside of his bottom lip. “Bradley, what song are you most comfortable with?”

“
Harness
.” It’s an older song I wrote, but one of my favorites.

Damon’s got perfect pitch, and starts singing the a cappella intro right on key. Peron’s entrance into the song is spot on, but Bradley’s is timid and weak. I straighten my posture and attempt to play with them, hearing every mistake he makes with his amplified electric. It doesn’t sound horrible, and would actually probably be passable to the average listener, but to our more enthusiastic fans, they’re not going to be thrilled.

They’re probably going to be disappointed I’m not playing in the first place, truth be known.

“Bradley,” I say at the end of the song. “Listen, man. I don’t want to freak you out, but there’s a pretty high standard here. No one’s expecting you to meet that standard, but you have to at least do the bare minimum. Keep the tempo. Play the right chords. Pick the right fucking strings.”

“I’m just nervous. Playing in front of you is pretty fucking crazy, I’m not gonna lie. I didn’t think I’d have to play in front of you.”

“I think it was everyone’s hope that you wouldn’t have to. I’m trying to help you, though.”

“No, it’s an honor. Truly. I’m sorry I’m fucking this up. I’ll do better on the next one.”

“What else do you know well?”

Peron looks at him. “You played
End of the Sidewalk
well yesterday. Let’s do that one again.”

Bradley starts off the song, and I let them play for a minute before I stand up with my guitar slung over my shoulder and feebly approach the stage. I’m shaking my head in frustration. Damon finally joins me and cuts the song short.

“What was wrong with that?” I ask Bradley.

“Ummm,” he says, unsure.

“
C’mon
, man!”

“It just doesn’t have your sound,” he complains.

“Of
course
it doesn’t have my sound! Have you seen what I play? It’s a modified ‘58 Telecaster. You won’t get my sound with that piece of shit, Bradley. What is that, a Yamaha?”

“Will…” Peron says.

“Someone not feeling very
fresh
today?”

“Fuck you, Tavo!” I yell, my patience worn thin and my pain level rising.

“Then stop being so douchey. The guy’s trying.”

“Fine, all right?” I start tugging at my hair with my left hand, trying to calm myself. I ascend the stairs to the stage. “It has very little to do with the equipment, Bradley. You want to know what it is?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“It’s your confidence. You have none. You have to
nail
those entrances. Attack on one, man. You’re skittish. It’s like you’re scared to play. Who gives a shit that I’m in the room here? I’m a guy, just like you. You can’t be nervous around me, and you can’t be fucking scared tonight. You’re the rock god who’s playing for Damon Littlefield… so act the fuck like it, okay?”

“But I–”

I inhale to yell at him, but grip my side in pain and take shallow breaths to recover. Everyone gives me a second to continue. “I don’t give a shit what your excuse is. You’re not gonna make us look bad, do you understand? Say it right now: I am the rock god who’s playing for Damon Littlefield.”

“I’m the rock–”

“Believe it!” I manage to say in an elevated tone. “I am the rock god!”

“I am the rock god who’s playing for Damon Littlefield!”

“Now play the lead-in to
In Front of the Setback!
” I direct him. “There are multiple arpeggios–and don’t be timid–then into A minor, and go
hard
. I don’t want to hear Tavo over your chords, you understand?”

“But he plays loud!”

“You play this
louder
! You know these songs, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“Show me!”

He cuts me off with his fingerpicking. The guy’s angry now–there’s no mistaking it–but he’s focused on what he’s doing, and he’s hitting every single note perfectly and on the beat. Damon smiles at me and nods at the couch. Alex is waiting at the edge of the stage to help me down the stairs and back to the comfortable seat.

I lightly strum the chords with him, but that’s really all I can do. There’s no way I could play with the force that’s required tonight, so I know I need to start being encouraging to my stand-in to build his confidence. That’s what’ll get him through the week.

Before each song, I ask him about parts that are most troublesome to him, and he plays those a few times, letting me coach him through the rough spots before the band performs each one to the end. He takes direction well, and the tension that I’d walked in on has completely dissipated by mid-afternoon. It’s great that everyone’s in good spirits, but I can’t even sit up anymore, and if I have to go much longer without pain killers, I may punch someone in the gut and grab out his intestines with my own two hands. Then maybe someone can experience at least a fraction of the pain I feel.

“Early dinner,” Damon says. “You in?”

“If early dinner means popping seven Percocets while lying in my hotel room, then yeah.”

“Come on… we need to celebrate!”

“Please, Will?” Bradley says. “I need to buy you a pitcher.”

“He doesn’t drink,” Peron, Damon and Tavo all say together.

“Oh.”

“Do you see how I’m not moving?”

“We’ll carry you…”

“You touch me, I’ll make sure all your faces look exactly like mine. I’m not kidding, guys. I need a pain killer like Damon needs a honey.”