The mixing board with its panel of dials and buttons was pro grade. News clippings, awards, and photos lined walls with proof of Fyre’s accomplishments. Two computers sat on the office desk, twin high-tech soldiers tasked with editing tracks.
Amidst the reminders of his band, his art, his career and dearest friends, he got a grip.
Sequestered in the glass of the sound-proof booth, Jonas sang, practicing his vocal range as he swayed with hands over headphones.
Brian grooved in time. His drummer wasn’t half bad. Higher octave, equally melodious but a bit less romantic than Brian. Reminiscent of Robert Plant.
One of the few Black men in contemporary rock, Fyre’s drummer had carved out a niche for himself as one of their main songwriters and the band member most talented at arranging lyrics, riffs and melodies into whole songs.
In addition to keeping egos in check and fights over women and money to a minimum, finding and accepting defined roles proved crucial for the band to remain intact and successful for multiple decades. The four of them were a team down to their marrow. A brotherhood.
“You look pensive. Something on your mind, mate?” Jonnie, sunk into a tan leather couch and strumming a yellow Fender, chanced Brian a knowing, brown-eyed glance.
He accepted the other guitarist’s gentle call-out with a grumble. “Yes. Something by the name of Order of the Priory of Knife and Phoenix.”
“’Scuse me?” Jonnie’s long fingers bent over his fretboard as he turned out an upbeat rock and roll riff.
“That’s the name of the cult that’s cutting people, the one with ties to Joe. Kris was here earlier, and she named them.” Acting brainwashed, a whole other matter.
“I take it this development links up with the bird who’s staying with you now, the woman you met in Minneapolis and brought to Denver?”
“Yeah.” It sickened him to admit the tie. “You met her when you came round for practice, I take it?”
Jonnie tucked hair behind his ears. “Uh-huh. Ran into her on my way in today. She’d been out to the farmer’s market and was bringing in grocery bags. Look, I don’t want to make any waves, but I want you to know that I hear the uncertainty in your voice, and I think it’s valid.”
His stomach closed around the liquid he’d drank. “Why do you say that?”
“I mean, like I said, mate, I don’t want to make any waves. You deserve to be happy, and if you like Helen and want to date her, then I like her too. And I support your choice.”
Please. If Jonnie meant that, he wouldn’t have spoken in the careful tone of a diplomat or hostage negotiator.
Brian finished his beer, though now it tasted skunky. “But?”
With an apologetic shrug, Jonnie fiddled with the knobs on his guitar neck. “If it were me, I’d steer clear from anyone even tangentially connected to Joe or cults or magic.”
Doubt shrank Brian’s world into suspicion. Cautious cowardice, he told himself, was smart and necessary. “Well, as we both know you’re even more apprehensive about relationships than I am.”
Jonnie groaned. “What’s my love life got to do with yours? Look, if you like her, keep seeing her. I never advised you not to. All I’m pointing out is that I register and agree with your tacit, unstated acknowledgment that something is very strange here.”
“You think I’m making a mistake with her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“That’s what you meant.”
“I’d proceed with caution and be mindful of how much emotional investment might or might not be clouding your judgment. That’s all I’ll say.”
Brian peeled off his bottle label in one satisfying sheet. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Jonnie. Permission to surrender his misgivings and fall in love with Helen, or confirmation that it didn’t make him an arsehole to retreat from her. Her internal struggles, the insecurities and such that made bonding with her a challenge, also caused concerns.
At the end of the day, she dragged frightening baggage. Black magic. A clone. Occult sacrifices, secret societies. Helen wasn’t innocent. A heavy feeling weighed on Brian. His horizons contracted.
Thom burst in, two equipment cases in tow, sunglasses and cowboy hat shielding his face. “Awful quiet in here. Is this a world famous rock band’s studio or a retirement home?”
The bassist unfolded a metal chair and sat at a card table. He snapped open a plastic rectangle and popped a luxurious, bronze-hued Rickenbacker from its foam protector.
Methodical, Thom unpacked an amp, hooked it up, and chorded.
“You’re late.” Brian caught whiffs of feminine perfume blended with a far more personal tang, and thus didn’t bother to ask about the reason for Thom’s tardiness. Everyone knew what the confirmed bachelor got up to when not making music.
“Sure am.” Satisfied smirk on his weathered face, Thom worked through his warmup. “Porn stars never cease to amaze me. We’re talking genius talent when it comes to stimulating the male pleasure centers.”
Brian ignored the suggestive bit and focused on Thom’s music, easing his worried mind as he left interpersonal mode and ventured into his musician headspace. Thom, who took the strongest affinity to the blues aspect of Fyre’s sound, plucked out a rich number. He tapped a cowboy boot-clad foot to the beat.
Thom slid a brass tube over his pinky and moved it up and down the strings, creating a loopy, warbling effect. Despite Thom’s amorality and predilection for debauchery, the man wielded commendable skill. He was a true artist, his emotional connection to harmony the most profound of the quartet. Thom channeled intangible and ethereal mysteries when he played.
Brian grabbed Lady S by the neck and joined the bassist at the square table. She tuned up right and proper this time. He layered in his own riffs. Their sounds mingled, danced, merged in the hypnotic way unique to English blues-rock. He
