“But can you still sing? It hasn’t damaged your vocal cords or anything like that?”
Scott rubbed his face and wondered if he closed his eyes would Kenny would magically disappear.
“Ken, my voice is fine. Mouth’s a little sore but nothing a finger or three of whisky won’t cure,” he said, walking round the bar and sharing a look with Abby, his best bartender and mixologist. She’d been a gift from the gods when she’d walked into his bar twelve months ago and demanded a job. Now she was his best worker, most trustworthy, totally reliable employee. And she was sick of Kenny hitting on her.
Kenny nodded and gave Abby a goofy look. “I’ll go and warm up,” he said. “Why don’t you come and watch the master in action, luscious?”
Abby gave him a polite smile. “I’m on shift. And I’ll be able to hear you from down here. Enjoy.” Then she walked away, a customer needing serving.
Tuesdays were generally the quietest night and therefore the best for getting a long practice in. They were a covers band, delving into indie, folk and rock and staying well away from pop, unless it was something Scott could butcher and make it sound reasonable. He preferred to take a good song and make it their own, changing something upbeat into slow or something that was a love song into something that people could move to.
Upstairs was two large rooms, both with bars. The largest was used for performances, bands or sometimes comedians and open mic nights. The acoustics were good and Scott had kept the same décor as downstairs, a nineteen twenties temperance bar with lots of wood and an odd collection of ornamental stag heads that customers bought for him. It had become a bit of thing, to bring a stag head into the bar and have a small plaque underneath with your name and date. He liked it. It gave locals and tourists a sense of ownership and was a talking point for new customers and people on awkward dates.
His guitar was in the corner, tucked away in its case. He hadn’t had too much time to practice in the last few days; as part of Severton’s Search and Rescue Team and being a business owner who didn’t have to ask for permission to leave work to help someone out, he’d been getting called out a lot with people lost and injured on the peaks. He didn’t mind. He loved his hometown and he loved the environment where he lived, but it could be brutal to those who didn’t give it the respect it needed.
Scott connected his amp and started to strum, Kenny already on his strange warm-up routine. Drummers were generally a weird breed anyway and as bat-shit crazy as Kenny was, he was a damn good drummer and a huge, safe pair of hands on his family’s farm, which was where he spent his days.
“Evening,” Craig, their bass guitarist, appeared in the room, smelling of smoke.
“Busy day?” Scott asked. Craig was a firefighter and couldn’t always make practice if there was a call-out.
“Aye,” he said. “One of the mills over yonder went up. Kids dicking around with petrol inside. No injuries, but the whole place will need dropping when the fire’s out.”
“Is it still going?” Scott said, wondering if Jonny was there.
Craig nodded. “It will for some hours yet, but it’s under control, just about. The boys from Underwood have swapped in now so we’re stood down. But,” he set his phone up so the screen would be visible. “We’re on call if anything goes up in Underwood. What’s up with your face?”
Scott groaned. Fucking Keren Leigh. He knew her too well to think that she’d taken the tooth out just to spite him, but he was sure that she’d be enjoying the discomfort he was in right now and the undue attention.
He hated being the centre of attention, unless he was singing or playing an instrument. Then he was in his element, high on the endorphins it would produce and the adrenaline.
“Had a tooth out,” he said. “It was infected.”
Craig screwed his face in sympathy. “Hurts like a fucker. That’s why I have regular check-ups. Hopefully Keren will stop it getting to that point.” Then he laughed. “You had to go to Keren, didn’t you?”
“Fuck off,” Scott said. “I’d rather not talk about the tooth or Keren, unless someone’s going to tell me she’s moved out of Severton.”
“Keren’s alright,” Kenny said. “I asked her out once.”
Here began another tale of woe from Kenny.
“She turned me down, said she wasn’t wanting to get involved with anyone,” Kenny explained. “But she said when she did she’d give me a call to go out.”
“How long ago was that, Ken?” Craig asked.
Kenny shrugged. “Dunno. A couple of years ago. Don’t think she’s been out with anyone since. Maybe I should ask her again.” He pushed his hips up and moved into a crab position. Scott had considered using him as the warm up act before their gigs.
“I think she’d have called if she was interested, Ken,” Craig said. “Keren’s pretty good at knowing what she wants and getting it. Like Scott’s tooth.”
The two of them giggled like school girls.
Scott scowled, even though it hurt like a bitch.
“Okay, fellas?” The new lead guitarist came though, looking far too neatly dressed in what were designer jeans and a crisp white shirt.
Scott scowled again and then pressed a hand to his jaw. It hurt like a mother-fucking son of a warlord.
“We’re good,” Craig said, casting a puzzled look at Scott. “Axel Rose here has a sore mouth, but that might mean he speaks less. What shall we start with?”
