She took the cherry-vanilla latte I’d brought for her, her favorite coffee, and smacked a kiss on my cheek. I didn’t bring her a coffee every morning, butclose.
I followed her into the sunroom, her little home studio, where she was setting up to paint. She showed me the final art for the cover of the new Dirty album—To Hell & Back, their tenth anniversary album, which they were just finishingrecording.
“Love it, darlin’,” I toldher.
I lovedher. Whatever sweetness I had in me? My best friend’s wife brought itout.
While I waited for Jesse to haul his ass downstairs and Katie chatted me up about the painting she was working on—a portrait of her niece—Deliatexted.
Are you comingtonight?
I answered her right away, because when the wife of your MC’s President texted you, you answered right away, if possible. And you did itpolitely.
Yes. What can Ibring?
She wouldn’t answer. She never did. She didn’t expect me to bring anything, would probably give me royal shit if I lifted a finger to bring a thing. The wives and girlfriends took care of the food at a Kings family barbecue. Prospects took care of the booze. End ofstory.
I deleted theconversation.
8:27am.
We headed out for a jog, just Jesse and me. Up Point Grey Road, where he lived, and out along the beach. He talked about the album, worked out his thoughts about the last couple of songs Dirty would be recording this coming week. Ilistened.
Jesse Mayes was a textbook extravert, worked shit out while he talked, got off on vibing with people. As long as it wasn’t emotional shit. When it came to emotional shit, he shut rightdown.
I was theopposite.
I was always thinking things through in my head before I opened my mouth. But when it came to emotional shit, I cut right to thechase.
We understood eachother.
It had always been likethis.
We were a duo, symbiotic. Leaned on each other’s strengths. Lifted each other up. Bounced shit off one another. Made decisions together. Not all decisions, but most. I’d looked out for Jesse ever since we became friends at thirteen. He’d looked out forme.
He’d never been more pissed at me than when he’d found out, just a few months ago, that I’d failed to fill him in on the extent of things between his little sister, Jessa, and Seth, Dirty’s other guitarist, when we were allteenagers.
Back then, it was all sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll—but not for Jesse’s littlesister.
He was trying to protect her from thatshit.
I was trying to protect Jesse from MC shit. I always would. Jesse Anderson Mayes, rock star, just didn’t belong in thatworld.
My otherworld.
Even Jesse didn’t know what was going on right now, the extent of things, the shit that was on the table. The proposal my brother had made me, the decisions to bemade.
The pressure of the clock ticking in myhead.
9:38am.
Breakfast with Jesse and Katie; Katie made pancakes and I ate one, for her. Jesse would be home with her today, wouldn’t need me. If he did and I couldn’t come, if I was busy with Kings shit, I always had other guys I could sendin.
Jesse brought up the New Year’s Eve show. “Zane’s been griping aboutit.”
I assured him, “Brody will come up withsomething.”
I checked mymessages.
