Time to pull rank. “She’s in. As of this moment I consider her a part of the band.” Killy disconnected the call. Now to pick a drummer.
* * *
A quick internet search located a man Gus hadn’t suggested. Strange. But of course he’d shy away from someone who’d earned the reputation of being a hard drinker, who’d broken up a few hotel rooms in his day. Killy probably helped him a time or two when their paths crossed on the road.
The same Internet also had articles showing Killy’s first choice for a drummer changed his ways a few years back.
“He hadn’t wanted to wind up like the Desmonds,” one article said.
Yeah, Killy fully understood. He’d become a cautionary tale.
Go him.
Whatever the cause, one hell of a drummer left L.A. to live in obscurity. Alone in the mountains. Killy could relate. How many times had he threatened to do the same?
The man they’d driven half a day to see sat on the front porch when Killy and Mike pulled up in the Bronco. The security company knew their business, but the Bronco provided additional protection against curiosity seekers, with its tinted windows and “nothing special to see here, folks” ambiance. Yes, they could’ve called or emailed, but nothing beat face to face.
Made it harder for the man to say no.
The musician they’d driven all this way to see threw up a hand and waved. “Well, fuck me! I heard tell you’d done come back from the dead. Thought they’d smoked some bad weed, man. How the hell are you?”
Jacobi Carter hadn’t changed much in three years. He’d been prematurely grizzled then and prematurely grizzled now, though his dreadlocks now fell down his back. No matter what the circumstances or time of day, he always sported five o’clock shadow, and not an artfully trimmed beard, and looked like he’d rolled out of bed five minutes ago.
More ink covered his arms than Killian remembered—arms that bulged with muscles from even the simplest movements.
He also climbed behind a drum kit and played like a man possessed. If only Killy had met Jake before Rob. He’d played with a few R&B bands in the past, though at heart he’d always be a rocker.
“Hey, man.” Jake grinned. “Glad you ain’t dead.”
Killy took Mike’s hand in his and strolled toward the porch. Better to let their prospective band member know up front what was what. If he wanted no part of a band with a gay lead singer, best to find out now and save everyone grief.
Killy had experienced enough grief to last him a lifetime. He let go of Mike’s hand long enough to offer it to Jake.
Jake shoved his hand into Killy’s and nearly shook his arm off. Oh yeah, Jake lifted a lot of weights.
“Nah. I’m too mean to kill.” Killy used to say the words jokingly. Now he wasn’t so sure they weren’t true. “Got snakebit once. The snake died.”
Jake didn’t comment on the band’s demise, though he’d been friendly with Killy, and more so with Ace. The two rode motorcycles together from time to time. Tried to drink each other under the tables.
Times long gone. Just let ‘em go, Killy.Sentences started going through his head, a song forming around those words. He’d have to save songwriting for later.
“Jake, this is Mike Rose, best damned bassist on the planet.” He’d sworn the same about Elliot once.
Damn! After three years, he still had to fight not to disappear into the past.
Jake gave Mike one of his bear paw handshakes.
Killy winced. He should’ve warned Mike about Jake’s overly-firm handshakes. “Watch it there, Jake. He needs that hand to play with.”
Jake threw back his head and laughed. “What? He ain’t getting enough from you?” He regarded Killy, then Mike, and waggled his brows.
Okay. First hurdle passed. “I heard a rumor you’re between bands,” Killy ventured.
Jake scratched his scraggly chin. “You heard right. I’ve been doing some fill in and studio work. Keeping busy.”
The band should’ve called in Jake the nights Rob showed up too damned stoned to play. “You used to say you’d give your left nut to play with Trickster. You still mean that?”
Jake eyed Killy a few moments. “You’re not really gonna ask for my left nut, are you?”
