anywhere near them. She’d probably melt into a puddle of lust-filled ooze at his feet. “Uh, no. I’ll do them later. Is that your guitar?” She asked the obvious question just to change the subject.
“Yeah, I’ve been doing some writing for the past couple of days, and thought I might play some of it for you and Tonya.”
Tonya’s cough could be heard from the kitchen. “Sure, he wants to play his guitar for me,” she muttered under her breath. “Y’all don’t mind me. I’m just going back to my room to continue plotting grisly murder.”
Bryan took his guitar out of its case. “Is it all right if I play a little bit?” he asked casually.
Callie nodded. She had heard some of the band’s songs, but she’d been curious to hear Bryan sing.
As he adjusted his guitar, Bryan thought back to the conversation he’d had with B.T. the previous evening. He’d known that a tribute concert for Brodie was in the offing, but B.T. hadn’t told him that Storm Crow was expected to play. He had to get back to L.A. right away so that they could begin rehearsals for the concert. But as he’d told B.T., he wasn’t sure he wanted to do it. He’d never played without Brodie before, and didn’t know if he could. At least not right now. He also had to consider the situation with Jon and Twist. The other band members were undoubtedly pissed about the way he’d left L.A. They’d had to deal with the press and paparazzi by themselves, a position they weren’t accustomed to. He’d be lucky if they only wanted to kick him out. He supposed they probably had legal grounds to sue him. Did he even still have a band? Finding out would at the very least be emotionally if not physically painful.
He thought about Twist, his short-tempered drummer. It would be a miracle if they managed to get through the rest of the tour without an out-and-out brawl. God knows they’d come close plenty of times. Almost from the very beginning, he and Twist had had a very strange and symbiotic relationship. The age difference probably contributed to the hero-worship Twist felt for him and Brodie. Twist, using his brother’s ID, had lied about his age and joined the band when he was only fourteen. He had been big for his age, and it had been years before they discovered the deception. By the time they did, he was well past his eighteenth birthday, and there was no point in booting him out. The six-year age gap was most telling at times like this. Twist held him to an impossibly high standard and was the first to lose it if Bryan didn’t live up to his expectations. Though this was the first time he’d fouled up, he had to acknowledge he had done so in grand style. Jon, the quiet low-key bassist, would not express his feelings as openly as Twist, but Bryan had learned long ago that his emotions ran just as deeply. If nothing else, his stay in the South had taught him the hazards of stirring up a fire ant mound, and he didn’t look forward to the painful results. What would he do if they did kick him out? Where would he be without music, without his band? Would he still be that pathetic gutter rat B.T. had found years ago? Would he still be living hand to mouth, squatting wherever he could to keep a roof over his head? Would he even be alive? What would he do? No, better to put the confrontation off as long as possible. That way he could hold onto the illusion that at least part of his life was still okay.
As he had expected, when he expressed his reluctance to come home, B.T. had blown his stack and reminded him of his contractual obligation to finish the tour. Playing at the tribute concert would be an ideal way to jump-start that, as they were expected to be back on the road by January. That gave them less than two months to hire a new lead guitarist, give him time to learn their songs, and head out to begin the last half of the tour.
Of course, Bryan had known all this before B.T. reminded him. He still wanted to have a band; that had never
“Yeah, I’ve been doing some writing for the past couple of days, and thought I might play some of it for you and Tonya.”
Tonya’s cough could be heard from the kitchen. “Sure, he wants to play his guitar for me,” she muttered under her breath. “Y’all don’t mind me. I’m just going back to my room to continue plotting grisly murder.”
Bryan took his guitar out of its case. “Is it all right if I play a little bit?” he asked casually.
Callie nodded. She had heard some of the band’s songs, but she’d been curious to hear Bryan sing.
As he adjusted his guitar, Bryan thought back to the conversation he’d had with B.T. the previous evening. He’d known that a tribute concert for Brodie was in the offing, but B.T. hadn’t told him that Storm Crow was expected to play. He had to get back to L.A. right away so that they could begin rehearsals for the concert. But as he’d told B.T., he wasn’t sure he wanted to do it. He’d never played without Brodie before, and didn’t know if he could. At least not right now. He also had to consider the situation with Jon and Twist. The other band members were undoubtedly pissed about the way he’d left L.A. They’d had to deal with the press and paparazzi by themselves, a position they weren’t accustomed to. He’d be lucky if they only wanted to kick him out. He supposed they probably had legal grounds to sue him. Did he even still have a band? Finding out would at the very least be emotionally if not physically painful.
He thought about Twist, his short-tempered drummer. It would be a miracle if they managed to get through the rest of the tour without an out-and-out brawl. God knows they’d come close plenty of times. Almost from the very beginning, he and Twist had had a very strange and symbiotic relationship. The age difference probably contributed to the hero-worship Twist felt for him and Brodie. Twist, using his brother’s ID, had lied about his age and joined the band when he was only fourteen. He had been big for his age, and it had been years before they discovered the deception. By the time they did, he was well past his eighteenth birthday, and there was no point in booting him out. The six-year age gap was most telling at times like this. Twist held him to an impossibly high standard and was the first to lose it if Bryan didn’t live up to his expectations. Though this was the first time he’d fouled up, he had to acknowledge he had done so in grand style. Jon, the quiet low-key bassist, would not express his feelings as openly as Twist, but Bryan had learned long ago that his emotions ran just as deeply. If nothing else, his stay in the South had taught him the hazards of stirring up a fire ant mound, and he didn’t look forward to the painful results. What would he do if they did kick him out? Where would he be without music, without his band? Would he still be that pathetic gutter rat B.T. had found years ago? Would he still be living hand to mouth, squatting wherever he could to keep a roof over his head? Would he even be alive? What would he do? No, better to put the confrontation off as long as possible. That way he could hold onto the illusion that at least part of his life was still okay.
As he had expected, when he expressed his reluctance to come home, B.T. had blown his stack and reminded him of his contractual obligation to finish the tour. Playing at the tribute concert would be an ideal way to jump-start that, as they were expected to be back on the road by January. That gave them less than two months to hire a new lead guitarist, give him time to learn their songs, and head out to begin the last half of the tour.
Of course, Bryan had known all this before B.T. reminded him. He still wanted to have a band; that had never
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