Summer (Four Seasons #2) (23 page)

“Just spit it out, man,” Cole says, laughing. I can tell he’s getting excited by the way he rubs his palms slowly against his jeans.
 

“This isn’t public knowledge yet, but Fallen Saints are reforming in September to do one huge blow out concert at the Staples Center. It’ll coincide with their remastered greatest hits release—”

“They’re remastering that album?” Cole says. “They only released it, what…four years ago?”

“Sam Perry just got divorced. With the settlement he just gave to his ex wife and the copious amounts of blow he insists on shoveling up his nose every waking moment of the ever-loving day, he needs a revenue injection apparently. The reason for the release doesn’t matter, though. What matters is the fact that Howey Blumenthal, the Saints’ manager, heard Cottonmouth on the radio last week and he put it to the guys. They listened and they all agreed that they want you to open for them.”

We stand in stunned silence for what feels like forever. Pete turns one of the spare sound editor’s swivel chairs around and sits down heavily, his eyes looking like they’ve glazed over.
 

Fallen Saints. I was listening to Fallen Saints when I was a troubled teenager. I listened to them all the way through college, too. Their tracks were the first I learned to shred on an electric. They’re a cult classic band, legendary rock gods that have had a huge impact on the music industry for decades. And they want D.M.F. to open for them. It’s a little hard to process to say the least.
 

“What the actual fuck?” Paul says as he exhales. “Why the hell would they want us?”

“Because you’re young blood. Because you’re riding high on the charts right now, and D.M.F. lyrics are on the lips of half the goddamn nation,” Butler says. “It’s actually very smart on their part. Fallen Saints want to keep earning royalty checks, which means they have to make an effort to remain relevant. By partnering with D.M.F., they’re doing that and then some. There are hordes of people out there right now that are chomping at the bit to see you boys play. They’d be willing to pay an extortionate amount of money to see you live and in that kind of environment, which means the Saints are cashing in on your fan base at the same time you’re cashing in on theirs. It’s so fucking perfect, I could weep.”

“And the album? We’re on deadline. A gig like that takes some serious rehearsal. We don’t have time to do both. At least well, anyway.”

Butler waves off Paul’s concerns. “Worry about the concert. If the album’s pushed back by a couple of weeks, that’s no big deal.”

Cole’s been shaking his head while Butler’s been talking, and he doesn’t look like he’s planning on stopping any time soon. “What’s the capacity of the Staples Center again?” he asks, his voice barely audible.
 

“Oh, you know. Just a casual twenty thousand.” Butler laughs, looking around our group with a grin plastered all over his face, eyes lit up like he’s just done a few bumps of coke himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has.
 

“Thought so. Just wanted to check.” Cole explodes into activity, pacing up and down, waving his arms around in the air. He grabs hold of me by my shoulders and shakes me roughly, laughing at the top of his lungs. “Fuck, Luke. Twenty fucking thousand people! Fallen fucking Saints! Can you believe it? Are you excited?”

No matter how pissed off and likely to punch him I was a second ago, I find myself laughing along with him and everyone else in the room, too. “Yeah. Yeah, dude, I’m excited. This really is huge.”

Cole shakes me one last time and then he lays a fat kiss on my forehead, and then he’s letting me go, grabbing hold of Pete and Paul and shaking the shit out of them, too. “I knew moving out here would pay off,” he says. “Didn’t I tell you guys?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marika and Butler exchange a look that makes me feel uncomfortable, though. Something suddenly doesn’t seem quite right. Why the hell is she so damned excited? If anything, this is terrible news for her.
 

Butler notices my strange expression and his smile falters, like he knows I caught that weird non-verbal high five he just sent Marika. “Everything okay, Luke?” he asks, his voice a little too easy breezy.
 

“Yeah. I guess I’m just feeling a little sorry for Marika that this is happening next month instead of this month. I mean, we’re in the middle of August right now. My cast is off. I’m already playing guitar, strengthening my wrist. By the time we’re meant to be playing with Fallen Saints, I’ll be playing lead again. Marika will be working with another band.”

Marika, glowing only two seconds ago, looks like I’ve just thrown a bucket of ice cold water all over her. She opens her mouth, closes it again, and then looks at Butler, clearly waiting for him to say something. Cole’s the first to speak, though; he clears his throat. “Actually, Luke, that’s something Butler mentioned last week. He thought...since everything went so well with the music video and everyone seems to be loving Marika, that maybe…well, that maybe she could stay on with us. Indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely?”

Cole doesn’t do anything. He’s stopped prancing around the room like a lunatic and now he’s standing very, very still, hands clasped together, shoulders tense with his lips pursed, obviously holding his breath.
 

That’s obviously a yes.
 

“Right. So I’m…what? The guy that stands at the front of the stage with no instrument like an asshole?”

“Dude! You’re the
lead singer.
The face of D.M.F. And you’re also the fucking songwriter as well. That’s pretty much the most important job in the band.”

“I’m not a lead singer, Cole. I’m a
guitarist
. I love music because I love playing guitar. It’s that simple. If you don’t want me to play, then that’s just fine. You can sing as well as I can. And I’m sure MVP can hire someone to write songs for you if you need them to. You don’t need me anymore.”

Marika steps forward, holding her hands out, urging me to calm down with the simple motion. “They absolutely need you.
We
do. People are responding to the band as a whole, and that includes me. I’m a part of D.M.F. now. You can’t deny that I’m an excellent guitar player. And the ratings are in, Luke. The public wants to see more of me and you together. They love the idea that we might be a couple. It gives the band a story, and a romantic one at that. You can’t buy that kind of publicity.” Cocking her head to one side, she steps closer still, closing the gap between us. She places her hand on my chest, over my heart—the tender touch of a lover. “Can’t you see that we’re great together?” she whispers.
 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cole’s reaction to what she’s just done. He knows what’s coming next. “Oh shit,” he hisses under his breath.
 

Calmly, I take hold of Marika’s hand at the wrist and I remove it from my chest. For a brief split second in time, hope flashes across her face. That is, until I drop hold of her arm and step back. “Enough,” I grind out.

“Enough? I don’t see how you can argue with the polls, Luke. I mean, I—”

“ENOUGH!” I have something in my hand, my phone, and then suddenly it’s not in my hand anymore. It’s flying through the air and smashing against the wall behind Butler’s head. The guy flinches, as though he expected me to hit him with it, arms drawn up close around his head.
 

“Jesus, Reid! What the hell are you playing at? This is smart business. Anyone in their right minds can see that!”

I ignore him, turning my attention solely on Cole. “You brought me here to play. You told me you couldn’t be D.M.F. without me playing lead and singing. If you want Marika in the band, that is totally fine with me, but let me go. Let me go back to New York so I can get on with my life. I won’t be a part of this if I’m not playing. There’s just no way.”

The muscle jumps in Cole’s jaw. He knows I’m not being a diva. He knows I’m not overreacting to this, and he knows that every word coming out of my mouth right now is the truth. Playing for Fallen Saints was a dream of mine when I was seventeen, and living out here, living the LA rock god lifestyle is all well and good, but it’s not my dream
right
now
. My dream is a five-foot-eight blonde majoring in journalism, but I can’t have that dream and so this…this is a compromise. This is something I won’t mind giving up, because it means so much less to me than it does to him. Cole studies me with dark eyes, taking long breaths of air in and out of his nose.
 

After a very long, painful thirty seconds where everyone in the mixing suite is waiting, frozen, to see what will happen next, Cole sighs, his head rolling back. He smiles and then he pulls me into a hug. “All right, man. This is nuts, Marika’s a great addition to the team, but she’s not you. She can’t replace you, and I wasn’t lying in New York. We wouldn’t be the same without you.”
 

I guess, in a weird, deflated way, I was hoping he’d tell me that it was okay, that I wouldn’t be massively letting them all down if I just went home. That’s probably very selfish of me, very ungrateful, but his decision does give weight to what he’s been saying all along. He fucking adores Marika. He thinks the sun shines out of her perfectly formed, admittedly very nice ass, and he thinks she’s key to pushing the band forward, but he values me over all of that. He cringes as he faces Butler and the woman in question. Marika looks like she’s about to have a fit; her eyes are narrowed and her hands are already firmly planted on her hips.
 

Butler’s wearing a nervous
holy-shit’s-about-to-hit-the-fan
expression on his face. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a solution to this hiccup. Cole, please…talk some sense into your friend. He’s being highly unreasonable right now.”

Thankfully Cole knows better than to even try. “Sorry, dude. Once his mind’s made up, it’s made up. Marika, I’m so sorry. It pains me to say this but you won’t be with us next month for the Fallen Saints gig.”

“Ahh…well, it’s not all as simple as that,” Butler says. “Marika has to play, or you boys don’t play.”

Pete frowns, shoving his hands into his pockets. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, dear boy, that Marika’s uncle is Harvey Bruce Sung. I’m assuming you know who that is?”

Pete’s face warps with disgust. “I’m a drummer, man. Of course I know who Harvey Bruce Sung is. He’s the drummer for Fallen Saints.”

“Correct. My apologies. No offence meant. Yes, Harvey is Marika’s uncle. She was crucial in getting you guys this gig.”

“You just said their agent heard the song and liked us,” Pete counters.
 

“Yes, yes, I know, that’s true, but when Harvey put two and two together and realized that Marika was playing with you guys, it was a done deal.”

“As far as I see it,” Marika says, “if you want to play with the Saints, I’m your golden ticket. If you want to pass on what could be an amazing way to kick off an even more amazing career, then by all means kick me out of the band.”

“We’re not kicking you out,” Cole says. “We’re just not keeping you on. That’s different.”

Marika pops her hip out, glaring at me with unbridled anger in her eyes. This isn’t how she planned this whole thing would go down by the looks of it. “It won’t be in Uncle Harvey’s eyes,” she says.
 

Under his breath, Cole curses—something colorful and very unrepeatable.
 

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
 

TWENTY-TWO

LUKE
 

“Fuck. And then what happened?” My sister can’t keep the scandalized note out of her voice. A strange creaking sound rattles down the line—Ave smashed my mother’s phone on the ground the last time she was in my childhood home, and regardless of the fact that Mom glued and taped the thing back together, it still groans and complains when you hold the receiver too tightly. Emma must have a death grip on the Bakelite right now for it to be making this kind of noise.
 

“Nothing. I walked out. Cole followed me. He didn’t really know what to say and neither did I so I just came home.”

“Damn. So…are you going to consider just singing in the band and letting her play? This woman sounds like a crazy bitch, Luke. I saw the video on TV last night. It was gross. No woman wants to see her big brother getting face-raped across all fifty-two inches of their flat screen. It looked like she was trying to eat you, for crying out loud. And why the hell were you shirtless? Tiffany nearly fell off the sofa when she saw you.”

I’ve known Tiffany, Em’s best friend, since long before she could walk. The thought that she was appreciating my near nakedness on television is disturbing to say the least. I tell my sister so.
 

“You’re telling me! And, god. Oh, god…”

“What?”

“Mom came in and saw it, for fuck’s sake. That was more than awkward, Luke.”

For some reason, I haven’t once thought about the fact that my family is on the sidelines, watching all the stupid interviews that we’re coerced into giving online. And I definitely haven’t thought about them seeing the music video for Cottonmouth and how badly it would weird them out.
 

“Ah shit. Is she massively disappointed in me?” She cried so hard the day I graduated from the police academy. She was so damn proud. Said I looked handsome and distinguished in my dress uniform. And now I’m prancing around like a goddamn male stripper, letting girls slobber all over me while I’m told to ‘make love’ to the fucking camera.

“If only.” Emma laughs. “She made me look the link up on YouTube so she could forward the video to all of her friends. She thinks it’s the best thing ever.”

“Oh boy. I don’t know if that’s better than her being pissed at me, or way, way worse.”

“Look at it this way. I wouldn’t be planning on talking to your old Home Ec. teacher anytime soon. She won’t be able to look you in the eye.”

“Mrs. Woodward?”

“She and Mom have been going to cribbage nights together at the school for the past couple of years. They’re best friends now.”