LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 2

      Jet

      This stupid dance I was doing around Ayden was getting old and tired pretty damn fast. When I first moved into their place, I thought having Cora and her big mouth there would make it easier. When that didn’t happen, I thought having a revolving door in my bedroom might do the trick, but nothing seemed to be working.

      She was on my mind all the time—in my head when I was trying to work, under my skin when I was with another girl—and I swear that soft, Southern drawl was designed to turn me inside-out every time she spoke to me. I hated that I didn’t know what to do with it. Girls always came easy to me, but that girl was anything but.

      A year ago, I had a shot to do everything to her I dreamed about at night. In fact, I think I had fallen a little bit in love with her the first time I saw her at the Goal Line in her sexy uniform, wearing heels up to the sky. She had a “take no shit” attitude wrapped up in superlong legs and whiskey-colored eyes that did way more than Jameson when it came to going to my head fast and hard. I wanted her, wanted her like an addict wanted a fix, but she was so far out of my league, and played on such a different field than me, it was a wonder we even managed to maintain a loose form of friendship.

      Rule had warned me in no uncertain terms that if I upset Ayden, and if that, in turn, upset Shaw, there would a reckoning like Denver hadn’t seen in years.

      I could hold my own in most cases and spent a fair amount of time trying not to get my ass kicked in mosh pits across the country, but Rule was someone I knew firsthand not to mess with. He was even scarier now that he was all caveman-protective over Shaw.

      So I had done the right thing, the decent thing, and told her no when all I wanted to do was tell her yes. Now I was stuck in this awful place where we were friends, but not, and where I had endless dreams about that voice and those legs while she slept soundly across the hall. It sucked to epic proportions, and I didn’t know what to do about it besides either moving out or quit talking to her altogether—options which were neither practical nor enjoyable. I liked living with the girls. Cora was a riot and Ayden was hardly there as it was, but when we all got together it was fun and easy. I didn’t have to worry about all my shit ending up on the curb with the garbage because I pissed one of them off while I was on tour.

      My studio was in an old warehouse off California downtown. The acoustics were great and after the band’s last tour, I had enough money to really trick it out.

      I knew everyone, and I mean everyone, in this town who had anything to do with music. Granted, Denver isn’t L.A. or New York, but it is right in the center of the country. It has such a huge and diverse population that it really is a destination for bands, some more famous than others, to come and record.

      My band was really popular locally, and after going on tour with Artifice for Metalfest last year, we were getting better known nationally. What paid the bills was the studio and putting together tracks for other people. I didn’t care—as long as I got to make music and got to write songs, I was a happy guy. Music was what made me get up in the morning and what followed me to bed at night. Sure, I sang in a heavy-metal band, but when I was younger it had been all about punk rock and the indie scene. The reality was I just liked good music. I didn’t care what color or creed it came in, even if I gave Ayden endless shit about her addiction to Top 40 Country. The truth was, I liked to get her riled up just to see those amber eyes of hers shoot sparks.

      Today I was planning on losing myself in work. The band that was booked was good and we had already put together a solid track layout for their new album. What I hadn’t planned on was pulling into my spot by the door to find my old man waiting for me. I couldn’t help the frown that automatically pulled across my face, and it took a conscious effort to uncurl each and every finger from around the steering wheel in order to get out of the car to confront him.

      He had on aviator shades and jeans that were too baggy for a guy his age, but that was my pops, refusing to let go of his youth and all the good times, no matter who it hurt along the way.

      I sighed and pushed open the door, watching him warily as he came around the hood of the car. “What are you doing here, Pops? I have work to do. I can’t stand around and shoot the shit.”

      Sometimes it was better to just cut him off before he got started, but today apparently that wasn’t going to work.

      “You got back from tour three months ago and didn’t think to give your old man a call? I’ve been dying to hear about Metalfest. Did you boys get signed by a big label yet?”

      It would have seemed like a typical question for a parent to ask his child, if it was any other parent than mine. Dave Keller had lived his life as a professional roadie and had gone on tour with everyone from Metallica to Neurosis and whatever band he could find in between. And now, all he wanted was for his one-and-only son to hit it big. Not so I could take care of him or buy him a mansion in the Malibu hills, but so he could go back on tour and live the wild days of illicit sex and drugs, as if he were still in his twenties. It drove him crazy that I was happy staying local, that I made plenty of money recording

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