Rock Me Deep (35 page)

I wanted the truth.

Craning my neck, I gazed at the swirling clouds. Their tranquility didn't fit my mood.
There is someone who can tell me the truth.
In my palm, my phone felt like a weapon.
How does Sean know anything personal about Drez?

Looking at my fingers, I studied the hard calluses I'd formed over the years of playing.
Drezden was better at guitar than he thought. Or better than he wanted to claim, anyway.
The man I knew had only ever sung for his band. This whole time, as talented on guitar as he was, why had it never come up?

I don't know anything about his life before Four and a Half Headstones.

Lifting my phone, I started to dial.

If Drez wouldn't tell me himself...

There was only one way for me to find out.

****

I
was still sitting on the pavement when Sean arrived.

Leaning over, he blocked out most of the late-day sun. “Got your call,” he said softly.

“Yeah.” I rested my chin on my knees.

As if I might run, Sean settled across from me in slow motion. There was none of the strange righteousness in his eyes that I'd seen on that rainy morning. Now he just looked sad, maybe even empathetic. “How you doing?”

I pulled my ponytail across my cheek, holding it tight. “Pretty shitty.”

When we were younger, there were times when I would hide away from my parents, especially after a rough day at school. Sean would always find me and, without speaking, offer comfort with just his presence.

Reaching out, I grasped his hand and linked my fingers. “You said you could give me answers.”

His palm was oddly clammy. “Only if you really want them.”

My mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Drezden refused to talk to me. I feel like I need to know, even if he won't be the one telling me.”

Sean guided me to stand, my muscles aching from sitting so long. “I figured that would happen. Come on, then.” He pulled his phone out, thumb crushing buttons rapidly.

“Where are we going?” I asked, following my brother across the parking lot.

Sean looked at me briefly, then closed his phone. “We're going where the answers are.”

“I thought you knew, that you'd just tell me?” This was getting strange.

“I think,” he said, opening the door of the equipment van for his band, “That it would be better if you heard everything from the source.”

Standing outside the familiar, beaten up vehicle, I sensed my intuition buzzing. Something about this didn't feel right. “Who's the source, Sean?”

Sighing, he climbed into the van, clipping his seat belt down and turning the ignition. The van beeped incessantly, demanding I get in and close the door. “Lola, trust me. Do you, or do you not, want answers?”

Lifting my chin, my gaze shifted from Sean's serious eyes, to the tour bus in the distance. The big, black behemoth reminded me of Drezden. It warned me that if I didn't go now, I was giving up a solid chance at the information I craved.

And if I wanted to stay with Drez... not just as a guitarist, but as so much more...

I needed to know the truth.

Without giving my anxiety any more credit, I slid into the van and shut the door.

****

T
he drive was brief.

Sean steered us from the highway and into a small plaza full of tiny shops. At his suggestion, we slid on sunglasses, and I pulled my sleeves down to hide my tattoo. I'd had enough drama with the public. I wasn't keen to repeat it.

I could tell this was a very run down section of Seattle. The overhangs sported faded paint and grime, most of them missing letters. There were massage parlors, tattoo shops, drug dens masquerading as pharmacies, and a lone coffee shop in the far plaza corner. Sean led the way towards it.

“Are you going to tell me who we're meeting here?” I whispered. The whole ride I'd run through the possibilities. Would it be Drez's parents, a relative of some kind? Maybe an old music teacher?

The cafe appeared empty, I was surprised the door even opened—I'd thought it must be closed. It was cluttered with tiny, circular tables that had a sticky sheen to them. The floor was covered in the same gunk.

Grunting, I bent over to tug my heel off the tiles. Busy with removing the awful mystery goo, I didn't see him at first. But when Sean nudged me, pointing at a table in the corner... my heart stopped.

Those eyes, hard and cold as green ice, lit up when they saw me. This was a face I recognized most recently from a grainy television news feed.

Johnny Muse.

I crushed Sean's wrist and dug in my heels. My brother made a small noise, trying to pull away. “Sean.” To my own ears, my voice was a mere shadow. “Why is he here? What's going on?”

“Relax, Lola.” Untangling my grip, Sean motioned with his chin at Johnny. The former guitarist was eyeing us, not moving from his chair or the paper cup he was nursing. “You don't have to worry, he's not dangerous or something. He knows Drezden better than anyone.”

There was no way that was true.
Porter. Colt. They both know Drezden, too. Why would I bother with Johnny?
The answer weighed heavy in my guts.
Because neither of them is going to tell me anything. Just like Drezden.

It was an awful, cold truth... but one that gave me strength. If Johnny had my answers, then fine. Plus, why was I so scared? I darted a look around the shop.
This is a public place. Between Sean and the guy behind the counter, what could Johnny even do?

Balling my fists at my hips, I walked around my brother. Johnny didn't stand when I reached him. His only movement was a tiny, crooked smile. “So,” he said, voice rigid and sandy, “You're her. Lola Cooper, in the flesh.”

I stood as tall as I could. “That's right. And you're Johnny Muse.”

“Guilty,” he said.

That word was a little too appropriate. I'd seen the video of him getting arrested in the supermarket. “My brother says you can tell me about Drezden.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Johnny looked around me at Sean. “Yeah. I called him a week ago. I wanted to get in touch with
you
, but finding your number was much harder.”

Nervously, I touched my phone in my pocket. The idea of Johnny reaching out to me was too weird.
Did Sean sit on this information for a whole week?

My brother was dutifully avoiding looking at anything but the floor. Finally, he grabbed two chairs and set them at the tiny table. “Let's park our asses.” He took the one closest to Johnny, situating himself between us. That subtle protection didn't slip past me.

Under the table, I was acutely aware of how near my knees were to the former Headstone's guitarist. “Can we just get down to business?” I asked.

“Business, she says,” Johnny chuckled. A dirty fingernail scratched the rim of his coffee cup. “Sure thing, we can get right down to it.” I didn't like how he kept smiling. “What would you like to know about our dear friend, Drezden Halifax?”

This was it. This was what I had been waiting for.

So why did I feel so ashamed suddenly?

Glancing at Sean, I tried to gauge what he was thinking. His expression was neutral, lips bloodless as if he were trying not to make a sound.

He wasn't going to interrupt this moment. Whatever Johnny was going to say, Sean wanted me to hear it. Badly.

In my lap, I clenched my hands in a knot. My answer was brisk.

"Tell me everything."

Drezden

I
t had been years since I'd been back to upstate New York.

Home again, home again,
I thought with little fondness. Sliding my sunglasses down, I pulled the shiny, pearl colored Corvette out onto the open road. I knew where I was going, even if I'd never been there in person.

The wind fluttered against my scalp, doing its best to clear the fog from my head. I was tempted to take the back roads, to roll down past my old school, my old home.
There'll be time for pleasant memories later.

I had to finish what I'd set out to do—as spontaneous as it was. If I didn't, there could never be a future for Lola and me. Inhaling the crisp air, I filled myself with that realization.

For Lola.

The building loomed like a squat dragon, its mouth ready to swallow me up. The parking lot was dotted with police vehicles. One of them had an officer sitting in the front seat, the door cracked, his foot out on the cement while he sipped a paper cup of coffee.

He glanced at me when I parked nearby. I hid my chin in the thick top of my navy hoodie, giving the man a quick nod—he tipped his drink my way, going back to playing on his phone.

Go. Don't think.

With one foot in front of the other, I entered the prison.

My steps sounded loud on the concrete, announcing me to the thick, glass-covered front desk. The process of signing my name, of explaining who I was and why I was there, was surreal. It turned out that the warden on patrol was a huge fan of my band. I put on a plastic grin and signed a CD for him—did he carry it with him everywhere? —before taking the visitor pass.

The warden guided me into the halls, pointing out where I wanted to go.

Where I
needed
to go.

Turning the corner, I stared at the grim rods of iron that held the prisoners at bay. My hands were clammy when I reached the one I was looking for. It was stone-colored, featureless as all the others.

On the bunk, a figure in orange shifted around. His haggard features moved to me, green eyes wide in true shock. Of course he wouldn't expect to see me. I'd never even bothered to send a letter.

My voice was a dry husk. “Hey there, Dad.”

****

Nine Years Ago

––––––––

“W
ow!” My face ached from grinning, but I didn't mind. Eagerly running my fingers down the length of the guitar neck, I spoke without looking away from the beautiful instrument. “Did you really make this for me, Dad? Holy shit, you didn't need to do that!”

“Watch your mouth,” my mother said, struggling to sound upset over her own glee. My parents were crushed together on the couch, hovering above me where I sat with my new gift; a guitar my dad had carved for me.

I caught him rolling his eyes. “Come on, honey. If he's going to be a famous rock star someday, swearing is just going to happen.”

“Well, when he becomes whatever, he can swear all he wants.” Pushing off the couch, she gathered up the shreds of wrapping paper. “Under this roof, he watches his mouth.” Moving my way, her scowl broke, lips puckering to press a quick kiss to my forehead. There was only joy in her eyes when she stood straight. “Happy birthday, Anthony.”

My dad hit me in the back of the head with a ball of wrapping paper. “Yeah, happy birthday, kid.”

Scratching at the back of my neck, I turned the guitar around. My father had always been a great guitarist, but he excelled at woodworking—a fact that I knew bothered him, even if he never flat out said it.

He cleared his throat. “Go on, strum a bit.”

“Ah, you know I'm not that good still.” My neck was hot at his coaxing. Singing was my passion, but I'd never turned away my dad's attempts at teaching me to play. It had to increase my chances at getting into a big band someday if I could do both, didn't it?

His eyes warmed. “Just a bit, for me. I worked hard on that.”

Smiling sideways, I set the instrument in my lap. It smelled of sawdust and polish, fresh enough to make me dizzy. Tweaking the pegs, my fingers were shaking. I wanted to impress him so badly.
I'm already thirteen, I should be better than I am.
All the hours of practice, of classes my parents scrimped to save for...

I should be better.

Moving my fingers like a wave, I began to play. My eyes were stuck on my movements, working so hard to make everything perfect. Each mistake screamed at me, gnawing into my teeth like cavities.

Better. I need to get better.

It was all I ever wanted.

Looking up, I spotted the sad smile on my father's face. Then it was gone, and I knew what he was going to ask before his lips started to move. “What's the most important thing you need to be a good guitarist?”

As I'd done a hundred times before, I shook my head.

His answer was always the same. “If you ever figure it out, let me in on the secret.”

I will,
I thought determinedly.
When I find out, I promise I'll tell you first.

****

Eight Years Ago

––––––––

“W
hy doesn't he want to come?” Colton asked, twirling a drumstick lazily. He dropped it twice before I bothered to try speaking.

Looking up, I shrugged into my ears. “Mom says Dad's just really tired. I don't know, you'd think he'd want to see my first show.” It had taken Colton and myself weeks of work to feel ready to perform on our high school's stage.

Picking at his ear, the lanky kid studied me. “So, it doesn't bother you?”

“Of course, it bothers me.” I fidgeted with my guitar case. “But what the hell can I do about it? It's his life, not mine.”
He used to be so involved. What changed?
The days where my dad would practice with me ‘til we were drained, would talk to me about music, discuss his own grand wishes and plans and dreams... those had faded soon after my thirteenth birthday.

In the wake of that time, my mother had started to pick up his slack. She took me to every practice, drove me to the music store, endured my chatter about what band was up to what.

It wasn't the same, but her support kept me motivated.

I still wish we could have convinced Porter to play with us,
I thought grimly. Colton had done his best to talk our friend into it, but he'd dodged the attempts every time. I didn't understand, but I also didn't pry.

Colton said nothing for a while, just poked his nose with his drumstick. We were virtually alone in the hallway; the auditorium was starting to buzz with the growing crowd. Hearing it made my senses flare.

“Well,” he coughed, staring at the far wall. “My whole family is going to be in there. They'll cheer hard enough for us both. Okay?”