“I’m free.”
“Ahh.” Cline makes a noise after another sip from the bottle and puts his feet up on the table in front of him. His old, grey Converse shoes clunking against it. “So, Lynda, tell us about yourself.”
“Well, I live in Auburn Hills. Work at Auburn Dental. My whole life, I’ve written songs—”
“You write songs?” Lucie asks. I nod and she smiles, pulling her shiny black hair up into a ponytail, revealing a black and white tattoo of a flower just behind her ear. “Nice.”
I open my bag, grab two notebooks, and hold them up.
“How long have you been writing?” she asks.
“Since I’ve known her,” Stokes says. “Since we were… thirteen? Twelve?”
I nod, still holding the books up awkwardly since she hasn’t asked to see them, and I extend them farther toward her.
“Do you play any instruments?” Cline’s eyes light up as he stares at me.
“Just the guitar a bit—”
“Her dad used to work at Rosalie’s, the music store. Remember?” Stokes shoots a serious stare at Cline before turning to me. He’s asking him to remember everything he’s told them about my dad. About his murder. To what? Make them be nicer to me? “You can play a little bit of everything, if memory serves me right.”
My cheeks get hot as I shake my head with a smile, about to protest.
“How long have you been singing? Ever had any paid gigs? Much experience?” Cline shoots off the questions and takes another swig of beer, any genuine curiosity gone from his face.
Is this an informal job interview, an audition, or an interrogation?
“All my life, and no, it’s just been a hobby for me.”
“Same with your writing, I guess,” he says and takes another sip, releasing a popping echo as his lips leave the bottle.
I can’t help but raise my brow as he stares at me blankly and I turn my attention to Lucie.
“Did you want to see these?” I shake the notebooks and she nods. I set them on the table in front of the couch, as far from Cline’s shoes as possible, by a stack of books. I take a large step back, staring at Stokes.
I know I’ll have to sing for them, and this pre-amble just gives my nerves time to amplify. “Wanna get this over with?” I sigh after letting them know as much as I might bore them, they don’t do much for me either.
“Let’s,” Royal says right away.
Stokes presses his lips together, shooting a cold stare at all three band members, and seems to run his tongue over his teeth inside his cheek before turning back to look down at me with a bit of a smile and what’s left of his patience. “I thought we’d sing together since that’s how we do most of our songs. Duets. I don’t know if you know any of our current songs?”
I shake my head. A bit of a lie. I have all their albums, including their latest, but I’ve only listened to it once front to back, and my jealousy of their lead singer Pascha coloured the experience.
“Maybe we could sing one of our old songs?” he asks in his higher pitch with a bit of a laugh. “Just something we both know the words to.”
It melts some of my tension away as I realize we’ll be singing together for the first time in almost two decades.
“She’ll have to know all the words to Pascha’s parts,” Cline says, taking his feet off the table, and leaning forward on the couch, scratching his scruffy chin. “If she joins us.” I can’t help but stare at his sleeve of tattoos that peek from beneath his black T-shirt sleeve and end at his gold wristwatch.
“Yeah, man. She will,” Stokes says, and he grabs his acoustic guitar from the corner as I take off my jacket, letting some air at my skin.
“Did he tell you if Pascha comes back, she’s in and you’re out?” Cline asks.
“She’s gone.” Stokes stops and stares down at him. “That’s why we’re doing this. Just three shows. Come on, guys.”
Cline leans back against the couch and stares up at Stokes with a lazy demeanor. “Can we just get this over with—like she said?” He nods toward me but doesn’t look my way.
“Yeah, chill, man.” Stokes laughs and turns to me, but I can barely muster a smile as I steal a glance at Royal staring off into nowhere land, and Lucie, admiring her own black nail polish. She still hasn’t picked up a notebook yet.
They don’t care about me or my music. If I go through with this, I just have to do the job without any other expectations, except…
“Do you remember ‘Red Roads to the West?’” Stokes asks and I nod, hoping the first verse and chorus will be enough to jog my memory.
We performed the song at one of our vocal teacher’s concerts, and it’s one of those that sticks with you despite time and space.
I glance around the room, and they’re all watching as Stokes picks at the guitar strings, playing the intro as if he’d played the song just yesterday. My dad always said he had a natural talent for the guitar. He’d never said the same about me.
Stokes starts singing his part, and I take deep breaths and focus on the notes from the chords. Focus on the music, I hear my dad whisper, and how it makes you feel. What it means to you. Feel that.
This song means a chance at living out a life goal I’ve always dreamt of, but more specifically, it feels familiar and innocent; full of hope and I need that more than ever.
“She took an old sack and she filled it with her dreams,” Stokes sings in a low, deep whisper, raspier than I remember, but warm
