So I did.
The “pink throne” was some tall antique chair with ornately carved arms and legs and a pink velvet seat. It was in one of the two libraries. I sat in it and made Dylan take a pic of me in it, which got him curious, since it wasn’t exactly like me to pose for pics in pink chairs.
“It’s for a friend,” I told him vaguely as I added the pic to the Pinterest board. “She’s into furniture and stuff.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, and smirked at me.
After we’d been shown around and served several rounds of cocktails, Brody managed to corral a few of us musicians into one of the “drawing rooms,” where we honored our gracious hosts as best we could by jamming on a few songs for them, at their request. Just acoustic, with me and Matt on guitar, and both of us singing along with Zane.
We couldn’t even find Dylan or Jesse at that point.
We took requests, so we played Dirty’s “Road Back Home,” The Eagles’ “Hotel California,” The Rolling Stones’ “Angie,” and Tom Petty’s “Mary Jane’s Last Dance,” which I butchered because I didn’t know it well enough and, by then, I was drunk.
No one cared.
Everyone was having too good a time.
Soon after we finished our little jam, Led Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll” started playing through some central sound system, which Brody said Summer was responsible for, but fuck if I knew where she was. I hadn’t seen her since we’d arrived. The party had gradually spread out through many different rooms, and people were hanging out in small clusters around fires and pool tables and bars.
Summer and I had planned to talk to Matt sometime after tonight’s show. Pull him aside, put the feeler out, gauge how interested he might be in working with us.
But the show had ended hours ago, and the first time I was semi-alone with Matt, he seemed about as drunk as I was.
I joined him and Jesse where they were sitting in front of a giant fireplace in whatever drawing room—sitting room? Living room? There were about a hundred of them. We were all drinking scotch, some single malt that cost like three thousand dollars a glass or something. Matt was smoking a cigar, which was the only thing we were allowed to smoke inside the castle—rum flavored, by the sweet smell of it.
Summer’s music wasn’t playing in this room, so Jesse and I had our acoustic guitars out. We played Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine,” and Matt sang. Jesse didn’t sing, maybe because Matt had started first, and I didn’t sing because I wanted to listen to Matt’s voice. I’d never heard him sing alone and raw like this.
Turned out he was a pretty great vocalist. Had a warm, kinda rough voice, very fucking sexy.
Just another point in his favor.
“You’ve got a great voice, man,” I told him when the song ended. I laid my hand over my guitar strings and lounged back in my chair. My head needed a break.
“Thanks, Ash,” he said, his voice low and kinda quiet.
When I glanced over at him, he was watching me. Our eyes met… and he definitely did that thing.
That thing where he looked at me just a little too long.
Jesse was twiddling on his guitar. I didn’t think he’d noticed.
But I noticed.
And all I could think in my tired, somewhat burnt-out and drunk head was…Ah, shit.
I’d noticed it earlier tonight, too. Maybe half an hour ago, while we were jamming with Zane.
Noticed him watching me.
Sure, everyone was watching me. Watchingus. Listening as we played.
But this was different.
And tonight wasn’t the first time I’d noticed him doing it, either.
The first time I’d ever met Matt Brohmer was a couple of years ago, in L.A.. It was the day before I joined Zane’s supergroup side project band, Wet Blanket, onstage for the first time, at some charity event they were playing. Zane had invited me to join them on a cover of “Live and Let Die.” I’d dropped by their rehearsal, and that day, Matt had definitely looked at me.
And thewayhe looked at me? Trouble if I ever saw it.
