September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series (29 page)

Avery grinned, vacating the driver’s
seat. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me.”

“Via your mother,” I
assumed.

“I kind of stole her grocery money.”
She laughed at my shocked expression and turned towards the
office.

In less time than I expected, Avery
was back in the driver’s seat handing me a single, silver key with
an orange tear-drop key ring. “Room number,
one-six-six.”

“It’s around back.”

We scanned the lot for the tell-tale
white van, but it was nowhere to be found.

The second we romped into our single
star room with en suite bath, a fifteen-by-twelve palace, perfectly
suited for trailer-park royalty like me, it was a race to get into
our bathing suits. I snatched a few towels and we were headed for
the pool in less than five minutes. Not to swim. At least I wasn’t
planning on swimming. I wanted to bake in the hot sun for a while;
catch a little color.

While Avery familiarized herself with
the spring of the diving board, I spread out my towel and commenced
with sunning my back. The dry desert air swept across my skin,
soaking me with warmth. Before long, every cell in my body opened
wide, keenly craving the radioactive burn—minus tan lines. I
reached back and untied the string of my top, flopping the black
laces down around my sides.

It was so peaceful.

+++

My eyes flew open at the first scent
of a vomit inducing stench. A rank wind kicked up while I napped. I
smoothed my hair behind me and spotted a dark shape. The sudden
closeness kick started my heart and I flinched before the shape
registered—I was beside a trash can.

Avery was lying at the edge of the
pool, beside the cool blue water. Her long body looked still like
the sparkling surface she aligned herself against. With one hand
extended over the concrete ridge, her fingers traced the surface of
the water.

Just passed the edge of the
nasty trash can, I found the shape of magnificence: a
white van in the parking lot, a passenger model
of American make, dirty inside and out with a dented back bumper,
and way too many bumper stickers. Only three spaces away. It was
parked sideways because there was a small trailer hitched behind
it.

My stomach flipped.

Being with Jake was like being with
two people. My Jake was quiet, panther smooth when he stalked me,
super-sexy, and unintentionally brutal in his honesty. Also a
little awkward in the way he’d get excited sometimes and talk with
his hands. He was so completely talented, it blew my mind. When I
was with him, I was me. But when I glimpsed Jake, the lead vocalist
for the up and coming band Analog Controller that I loved longer
than I’d known him; he was loud, raucous, and his performances
exuded enough energy to power a small city. It turned me giddy.
Every time I saw the front-man I devolved into the mumbling
fan-girl he met in a dark hallway with his face plastered on her
t-shirt.

From behind the van, carrying a long
duffle bag, a pouch of drumsticks and a guitar case was the very
mischievous Max Sims—the tall, brown-haired cutie.

“What are they doing at a shit-bag
motel like this?” Avery snickered.

“It’s no five-star Inn, but they offer
free continental breakfast before eleven.”

We were wrapped in towels and moving
towards our room, keeping to the shadows like stalkers until we
reached our door.

“Do you think they’re all staying
together?” Avery asked and I knew who she was referring to: the
auditioning guitarist.

I shrugged. Avery shrugged back,
stretching around the doorframe to see what she could
see.

Her declaration came in a hoarse
whisper. “Angel, they’re all here.” She jerked my arm forward and
simultaneously fell out of my way so I could see.

Out from behind the van appeared the
lanky form of Andrew Greene. He was wearing his favorite Sex
Pistols t-shirt and faded jeans, carrying a backpack, and just
behind him, a beautiful, talented dream. My Jake. His head was
covered with a black skull cap. Just below the edge, on the sides
and back, the milky skin of his head was visible under newly shorn
hair.

I was drawn, like a magnet, into the
open corridor. Jake was looking down, adjusting the straps of the
bags he was hauling. Just as my lips began to form the first sounds
of his name, Avery’s hand reached from inside the room, yanking me
back.

“Angel,” The corner of the towel that
was around my waist was now in her hands. “It’s supposed to be a
surprise!”

My hands rushed to my cheeks. “I don’t
know if I have the patience to wait until tonight.”

“Think of it as letting Jake
concentrate on the interviews. Besides, I like playing stalkery
fan-girl and I want to have my friend to myself a little longer.
Will you let me? Once he knows you’re here, this tour is going to
be all about you two and I’ll be back to third-wheel.”

Looking at her pouty face, I totally
caved.

Avery rewarded my loyalty with the
first shower. Probably so she didn’t have to witness my meltdown
when I looked through the bags she packed for me. Nothing cute or
sexy; only black jeans and t-shirts. To her credit, she did pack a
lot of silk underthings and my favorite lacey bra that I stole from
her.

“That’s my bag.” Avery wrapped herself
in the last dry towel. “Yours is on the other side of the bed, on
the floor.” She plucked a short round bottle from the counter and
began moisturizing.

I was already frustrated and sweating.
“What if they leave?” The contents of my duffle bag flopped onto
the bed. I was sifting through the assortment of denim. Blue,
black, acid washed cut-offs . . . “Yes!” My favorite pair of faded
Levis; men’s, with a button-fly. They were tight, but there was
still room for my butt. They hung low on my hips. I slipped into
them, feeling the soft material mold itself to me.

“Wear this, too.” Avery extended a
finger, on which rested a long black tank top. It had the bands
initials stenciled on the front in red puffy paint. I liked it
because the curve of the letters made my boobs look
bigger.

“Thanks.” I grabbed and tossed it on
and got busy on hair and makeup.

Avery watched and critiqued, humming
to Soundgarden blasting from the local rock station. The fact that
it came in so clearly made me question the usability of the radio
in the car since we were short of music nearly the whole way. We
listened with hope at hearing the deejay announce anything to do
with Analog Controller.

“There.” I tucked a strand of hair
back into the knot that was Avery’s sloppy bun. We each stared into
the mirror, examining one another with approval.

“You’re flawless, but natural.” Avery
added, “Like you’re not expecting to run into anyone. But he’ll be
happy when you do.”

We both smiled.

The local radio station was still
playing. I turned it up all the way after they mentioned Anemic
Psycho’s show at The Mystic Muse. It was the first time I heard the
tour mentioned on the radio. Then again, Tempe had a bigger scene.
I wanted to bust into Analog’s room and find my man to tell him,
but I promised my friend I’d wait.

“We drove nearly three-hundred miles
to see this band.” Avery mused with a wry look. “Better be worth
it.”

“Only a little while longer,” I was
practically hopping with anticipation. “I want Jake to sleep with
us, in our room. Is that cool?”

“Since when have I turned down a
chance at having a hot guy in my room?”

Avery waggled her eyebrows and I
laughed.

3
3

—
Angel

By sunset, the movie I’d been watching
was rolling credits and I was out of patience. I shot up and off
the bed, dusting the popcorn crumbs from my shirt. Avery was in the
bathroom, changing or primping—I’m not sure which. Instead of
fighting with her for the one sink, I went to the window and peeked
out at the parking lot.

The van was gone.

“They left!”

Avery’s head poked out from the
bathroom doorway. She was simultaneously raking one brush through
her hair and another over her teeth. “They . . . for . . . club.
Has . . .”

I moved closer. “They went to the
club?”

She spit foamy white into the motel
sink. “Doors open in two hours and they have sound
checks.”

The thought got me even more pumped.
“Sound check!” I checked my hair, brushed my teeth, and combed my
top for lint. “Let’s jet.”

I was almost regretting the stop we
made to get burgers when Avery pointed to the long, curving line on
the front sidewalk. “It’s getting so long.”

I didn’t want to wait in it, but it
was a great sign!

The Narc passed, slowing into the back
parking lot where there were still a few open spaces. As we pulled
into the back lot, I spied the tail end of a trailer hitched to a
beat up white van.

The back of the alley was lined with
dumpsters, but in the far corner of the brick building, there was
an area cordoned off. Smoke billowed in the night air. Around the
half-fenced, circular space, a few patio chairs and a large ashtray
had been tossed together to form a smokers patio. Inside, were
three guys; two of medium height and build. I’d never seen them
before, but the tallest one was gorgeous, lean but muscular, with a
short, neat haircut and come hither eyes, even when he rolled them
like someone just made a lame joke.

Avery cut the engine. “Damn. Even
being on the guest list, we still have to get in line. We’d better
hit it, before it gets any longer.”

I was already moving: gathering all
the trash that had accumulated in the car. Her mom would want us to
keep it in decent condition. “Here,” I tossed Avery an empty
plastic bag.

“What’s this for?”

“We’re going to toss this stuff in the
dumpster.”

Avery smiled wickedly, like she could
read my mind. “Because the car will smell like stale fries if we
don’t get this trash out.”

By the time we reached the line of
trash containers in the alley, Jake was gone and the other guys
he’d stood with were filing into an open doorway. So no one was
watching as we flung our garbage into one of the dumpsters and
ducked across the alleyway to hop the short fence of the smokers’
patio, undeterred.

The inside hall was black. I paused
and closed my eyes, waiting for them to adjust.

“Dude, it’s nasty in here.” Avery
complained.

Our shoes crunched over
unseen filth as we made our way up the hall. The Mystic Muse looked
exactly the same and somehow not at all like I remembered. Outside,
it was the normal, dingy looking spot, but as Avery and me made our
way around the sticky corridor, we could see where new construction
had taken place. The hall was still narrow, only now there was a
long, windowed wall where several rooms used to be. The room where
Jake invited me to surrender myself to him was now a glass-walled
enclosure. Clearly the band hang-out room had been remodeled. The
closed door was labeled with a sign that read:
‘We’re already disturbed. Leave us the fuck alone.’
Musicians were draped over sleek, modern
furnishings, though none of them were members of Analog Controller.
It looked as though the club had taken over an adjoining shop,
too—the extra space extending the bar and VIP lounge.

When Avery and I were outside, we’d
heard the signs of a sound check. It wasn’t Analog, we could tell,
so we weren’t missing anything. Most bands, at least the ones I’d
seen, would do this lame, sort of do-I-really-have-to routine as
they went through their checklist. It was all dead voices
check-check-checking the levels on the monitors, single blasts to
individual drumheads. But when Analog did it, they’d always
surprise you.

As Avery and I made our way through
the winding hall, scoping out each room, we heard the deep bluesy
riff from a bass ripping into Sweet Home Alabama. We came upon the
backstage area just as the drums kicked in.

They were all there: Max, tapping his
symbols over jumping knees that smashed the kick drums—Andrew,
thumping the thick strings of his bass, rocking his head, moving
his feet. They loved this; they lived and breathed for it. Jake was
making a beeline from the back of the club with a mic in one hand
and a plastic cup in the other. He leapt onto the stage in one
swift move, set his drink on top of someone’s stack and plugged in
his microphone.

Then his voice was booming. His smoky,
sweet voice rang, pitch perfect. “The skies are so blue . . .
Up—monitor one.”

Avery and I stayed hidden, watching as
he navigated the stage. He looked nervous to me, but I could tell
he was working through it the way he always did, swerving around
the bodies, members of other bands who were still setting up their
equipment, neatly navigating the many cords. Jake stopped
periodically, pointing to monitors and giving hand signals to the
sound techs in back as he sang and strummed. It looked like chaos
to the untrained eye, but it was more like a complex orchestral
arrangement. If everyone did to their job, the music would take
care of itself.