Chasing Death Metal Dreams (13 page)

“Why not before?”

“I’ll be busy trying to keep Foster away from his druggie friends.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Nate wanted to say something all memorable and deep and worth staying around for, but a yawn cracked his face wide, and Carlos clearly had one foot out the door anyway. “See you, then. Don’t let the cat out.”

“Mm.” For a moment Carlos hovered, as if he might add something more, but then he slipped out.

Nate heard the front door open, then shut firmly. The handle-latch would’ve caught, so it was safe enough, but he probably should get up and throw the deadbolt lock. Later. He turned out the light and splayed himself out from corner to corner across his empty bed. It was more comfortable that way, for sure. It was just fine.

****

Chapter 6

Carlos was pretty proud of himself, by the time KnifeSwitch made it onto the makeshift outdoor stage Saturday evening. The venue was located in the Washington countryside, near enough to Vancouver and Portland to draw a good crowd. The nice weather had prompted them to set up for open air music on the field behind the house— a larger space, which meant the mosh pit crowd was less likely to knock the speakers over, but which had made keeping track of Foster a nightmare. People came and went, inside the house and back out. The crowd was surprisingly big and enthusiastic, and there was plenty of alcohol and weed in evidence. So the fact he’d only turned around once to find Foster had vanished was an achievement. He’d found him again before he got more than half-baked, too, so Carlos was calling the operation a success.

He tuned his B string up a hair, squinting at the tuner display on his pedalboard, and hoped he’d stretched it out enough to hold the tuning. It sounded okay. He glanced at Mia, already head-bobbing in anticipation, and she raised a stick. Beside him, Foster gave him a hell-for-leather grin that made him abruptly see the Foster he’d first auditioned, all raw talent and wild enthusiasm. An answering grin stretched his face. He reached out to pull his stand mike closer. “Hey, you fuckers having a good time out there?”

A roar of mixed approval and catcalls came back at him.

“Ready to hear some
real
music?”

Mia said into her own mike, “Fuck yeah. But we have to listen to you.”

Carlos gave her the finger, and snarled to the crowd, “We’re KnifeSwitch. Hold onto your ears.” He nodded to Mia, and they dove into the opening for “Cut the Noise.”

They played like one person. For the first time in weeks, Carlos felt that exquisite high, as words, music, sounds, flew from all of them in one seamless mass, slamming through the crowd, lifting them. The mosh pit was a roiling mass of bodies, and the whole audience was moving, shoving, dancing, waving. When the song ended he didn’t even stop for breath, just dove into “Cap Stop.”

Today they had one voice, one soul. Foster anchored the harmonies, solid as a rock, Mia’s beats were crisp and perfect, and his voice for once screamed and roared without cracking. The crowd got bigger and louder, and they topped them all. They took
his
songs,
his
words, and shoved them into everyone’s minds and guts and hearts. He even heard the crowd taking up the chorus of his brand new song, belting back the lyrics by the third time around.

If it burns you when you touch it

Freezes fingers to the bone

If you’d give your life to own it

That’s the thing that takes you down.

He lost track of time and space, and anything except the music until he came out the other side of their planned set, voice gone, wringing wet, clinging to the mike stand for support. The crowd roared and pounded their approval. Foster was grinning like a loon, blond hair dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his hands still jittering on the strings, letting a little dissonant hum fill the empty space where the music had been.

They even got to play an encore, and he went old-school with early Exodus, “And Then There Were None.” Playing the familiar cover let him down enough to yell an insult at the audience when they wrapped it, swing the strap of his guitar off his neck, and walk offstage.

He’d made the two steps down when he almost fell, as Mia leaped on his back, hugging him. He caught at her arms with his free hand, pulling them down from his throat, and rasped, “Don’t choke me. I still need to sing next week.”

She dropped to her feet, laughing. “That was awesome! God! Like it used to be.” She turned to Foster, who’d followed them. “You were great, Fos. Fuck, we still have it, don’t we?”

“Hell yeah.” Foster grinned back. “Hey, gonna put my guitar into your van, all right?”

“Sure. Let me open it up.” They all headed for the parked van. As Mia opened it, she said, “You guys want to go out somewhere when we’re done?”

Carlos was about to agree when Foster said, “Nope. I got a, um, date.” He grinned again, white teeth flashing beneath watchful eyes, set his guitar into the rack on the van wall, and headed off fast.

Mia and Carlos watched him go, five strides and disappearing into the crowd. “We can hope it’s with a woman,” Carlos said under his breath.

“At this point, a man would be fine too,” Mia muttered. “Any bets?”

“Nope.” Carlos turned to stow his own instrument, his ecstatic mood souring fast.

Mia nudged his arm. “Stay here and watch the gear? I’m going to go help the volunteers tear down.”

“Sure.” She liked to keep unskilled and drunk hands off her drums. He’d usually help, but leaving the van open with people wandering past wasn’t an option. They needed someone standing guard. “Fuckin’ Foster.”

“Well, if he can still play like that, I’ll cut him more slack.” Mia patted Carlos on the head. “Good sheep herding, boss.”

He knocked her hand away from his hair. “Moron herding. But yeah, if he plays like that at Sparkfest next weekend, we might have a shot.” He shouldn’t let himself hope. The chance to win was theoretically open to every group on the schedule, but KnifeSwitch was nowhere near the top. The prize money would be great, the possibility of a production contract was supposedly on the line and up for grabs, but he’d been determined not to even imagine winning. Till now, coming off the performance high. “We might have a shot,” he repeated.

“I’ll help you watch him at Spark. God, wouldn’t that be amazing?” Mia hurried back toward the stage, where the roadies were manhandling her double bass.

Carlos hitched himself up to sit inside the open back doors. They were far enough away that only the occasional person wandered, or staggered, in the spaces between the parked cars. A recording of Meshuggah
came over the PA, above the hubbub of the crowd. The sky was getting darker, and the smell of pot and sweat hung in the air. Carlos breathed deep, letting it seep into his bones. This was where he belonged. All the work, all the effort, from years spent losing his accent to building his body to taking money from his maybe-surgery fund to pay for a new pick-up for his cello— it was all worth it. He leaned back on his elbows and closed his eyes.

“You were amazing.” Nate’s voice floated to him, like an extension of the dream. It took hearing Eli’s deeper tones saying, “Yeah. Great set,” to jolt him upright.

He blinked at them. Nate stood there, slender and ethereal in his usual black, a fine mesh shirt fluttering around his arms. Eli towered over him, dressed for the stage, his gray jeans tucked in buckle boots, a sleeveless blue and silver tank emphasizing the width of his chest and the size of his guns. Carlos cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re twins?”

It was a feeble comeback, but Nate laughed. “I kept saying he was a changeling and they should take him back to the cabbage patch.”

Eli said, “Can we talk for a second?”

“Coming through!” Mia’s shout came close behind Eli. “Move or get the rack up your ass.”

Carlos hopped out of the van, and they all reached to help her and the locals get the amps and drums safely stowed and locked down. It was a tight fit, but everything had its place. If the van ever broke down… Carlos rapped with his knuckles on his skull to drive the thought out.

Mia locked up tight and glanced at him, her eyes skimming over Eli, and then Nate. “I’m going to go listen to Cthulhu’s Arms
and keep an eye on the merch. You coming, Carlos?”

“In a minute. Thanks, really.” She’d been doing her share and more to keep the band going. He’d have to find a way to show he knew it.

“No problem.” She headed back toward the crowd, with only one look over her shoulder.

“Now she is
fine
,” Eli said.

“Poach my drummer and I’ll break your leg. Date her and I’ll break both of them.” Carlos grinned with a lot of teeth to show he meant it.

Eli laughed. “I bet she could do that on her own just fine. God, drummers get great arms.”

Nate said, “She was awesome onstage.”

Carlos nodded. “So what’s up?”

Eli pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “Here. I wrote up a contract to sell us that song that you did.”

Carlos took it. “Okay… I mean, I’ve helped other bands out, and never needed this.”

Eli ran a hand through his artfully tangled hair. “Well, I’m hoping my band will go places, and I really like the song. I’d hate to have a mess about the rights. I looked up a basic rights sale contract online. There’s two copies.”

Carlos glanced over it. It seemed simple. He gave up all rights, in exchange for… “The money part is blank.”

“Because you never said. How much do you want?”

Carlos glanced at Nate, who was watching them both. What was fair? Eli couldn’t have much money. “Fifty bucks?”

“I was ready to go a hundred,” Eli said, reaching for his wallet.

“Then go a hundred,” Nate said acidly. “Don’t be a cheap dickhead.”

Carlos frowned at him. “I said fifty.”

Eli took the contract and wrote in
$100
. “I’m going to spend big and take it as an omen that this song will make us money. Okay?”

It was hard to argue with that. “As long as you let me polish it up for you. The bridge needs work, and I think the fifth line of the chorus is too long.”

Nate laughed. “Isn’t this backward? You’re supposed to be saying ‘
Pay me the big bucks, bitch
,’ and Eli is supposed to be saying, ‘
Not until you fix the crappy fifth line
.’”

“I like our version better.” Eli signed the contract, passed it back to Carlos, and then took a countersigned copy in exchange for five twenties. “Done. Thanks. So now, I want to ask, can you write us one more? Like, now? Yesterday?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I know you’re going to Sparkfest, and we’re kind of in competition, but maybe you have a song idea that’s never going to work for KnifeSwitch that we can use?”

Carlos considered it. “Well, if they’re looking for your kind of glam metal we’re not gonna win anyway.”

“Fuck you,” Eli said cheerfully. “We’re not glam just because we didn’t record our EP with a fucking toaster.”

They gave each other fake glares. Carlos said, “When are you up today?”

Eli checked his phone. “In about two hours.”

“I’ll listen when you play, see what I can come up with.”

“Thanks.” Eli gave him a nod, then smacked Nate between the shoulder blades hard enough to knock him forward a step. “You did good, brother. He’s useful.”

Nate grunted and twisted enough to stick out a foot and trip Eli as he turned away. Eli laughed and headed off into the crowd.

Carlos glanced around fast, his heart pounding. He wasn’t sure if it was getting paid for a song or that casual crack of Eli’s, having someone on the scene know he was gay, that had his mouth dry and his vision blurring. He just knew he had to get away for a while. “Hey, Nate, you have a car here?”

“Yeah.”

“Parked where you can actually get to it?”

“Probably.”

“You want to get out of here until your brother’s up?”

“Sure. RoRo’s girlfriend is hawking the T-shirts. They don’t need me.” Nate gestured with his chin. “Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”

They walked to Nate’s car in silence, and Nate managed to back-and-forth it gradually out from where it was parked in by a van and an old Plymouth. Carlos folded and unfolded the contract between his fingers, until he made himself put it in his pocket before it fell apart. “Sorry about last night.”

“Huh?”

“Ditching you. I don’t, um, snuggle. Never have.” Plus he didn’t like to sleep wearing his dick, but didn’t want to be in Nate’s bed without it. “It makes me twitchy.”

Nate shrugged easily, but he was turned toward the side mirror, changing lanes, and Carlos couldn’t see his face.

Carlos added, “I’m flush, right? I’ll pay for the beer.” He patted his pocket.

“Sure. After all, I got you the extra fifty. You owe me. And listen, you should charge him two hundred for the next one. He’ll go for it. The band was psyched about the first one.”

“Does Eli know you’re keeping him poor?”

“It’s my brotherly duty. Besides, you’re spending the money on me.”

“I’m not buying fifty bucks worth of beer.”

“It’s the principle.” Nate turned in at a little pub. “How much beer are you good for?”

“Depends on who’s driving.”

“I saw you the other night. You’re not touching my car.”

They parked, and Carlos followed Nate inside. They found a table near the window and ordered beer and nachos. Nate pulled out a little sketchbook and began doodling. After watching him quizzically for five minutes, Carlos said, “Don’t mind me.”

Nate glanced up and colored. “Oh, sorry. Habit. I think of something and I want to draw it.”

“I’m like that with songs. Can I see?”

Nate hesitated, then handed the notebook over. The top page was a cartoon of KnifeSwitch at full blast. Carlos was drawn with four arms, playing guitar while also grabbing the mike, his fourth hand clenched in the top of his own hair. His head was arched back, his neck a bowed curve, his mouth open. Mia’s arms were a blur of muscles and sticks, her dreads flying. Foster had— Carlos peered closer— “Are those horns on Foster?”

Nate colored. “Yeah. He seems like a schmuck.”