The amp was small enough to fit in the front trunk of the Porsche, and I slid the guitar into the backseat. We cruised to the warehouse district and pulled into the parking lot of the practice studio.
The rumble of a band playing inside filtered into the parking area.
We hopped out of the car, and I grabbed the bass guitar. JD clicked the alarm, and the lights flashed.
I left the practice amp in the trunk. Nobody knew it was in there, and I didn't think much of leaving it. I slung the soft case over my shoulder and headed toward the main entrance.
The usual band of miscreants hung outside, smoking cigarettes and wasting time. There were plenty of pasty faces, dyed jet black hair, eyeliner, and studded bracelets. Somehow, despite living in the sunshine capital of the world, these kids managed to see less daylight than your average vampire.
"Yo, what's up, Thrash," one of them said, lifting his hand to high-five.
Thrash was JD’s stage name.
JD smacked his palm, returning the gesture. “Rock 'n' roll!"
“Alright, alright!”
We pushed inside the warehouse and ambled down the dim hallway. As usual, the lingering smell of illicit herbal substances filled the air.
The band was tuning up as we pushed into the practice space. Styxx was behind his candy-apple red drum set, adjusting the toms. Dizzy was on guitar, his fingers racing up and down the fretboard. Faye thumped out a groove on her bass. The sultry little vixen had one more show with the band. Crash would be getting his cast off any day now. We’d cut it off once before when we got in a bind, but he’d been warned not to remove the second one prematurely.
I glanced around and noticed that he was conspicuously absent. There were two groupies on the couch.
"Where's Crash?" I asked.
Dizzy shrugged.
My eyes flicked to Styxx, and he repeated the gesture. "I don't know. Why don’t you ask Faye?"
There was more than a hint of disdain in his voice.
"Don't look at me,” Faye replied. “I’m not his keeper."
Despite the rules JD had put down, the two had a little something going on. JD didn’t have any room to talk, having broken the rules himself.
Crash was head over heels.
And what guy in Crash’s position wouldn’t be?
I got the impression that Faye didn't respond to Crash with quite the same enthusiasm.
Faye was an alluring little platinum blonde with a short pixie cut and pigtails. She wore a tight tank top cut up to accentuate her assets, and her short miniskirt sparked naughty desires. She wore tall Dr. Martens and was an alternative rock princess. She was quite captivating in a dangerous, life on the edge, rock 'n' roll kind of way.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and called Crash’s cell number. After a few rings, it went to voicemail. "Hey, where are you? We're about to start practice. Call me back."
Despite having the cast on his arm for the last six weeks, Crash never missed practice. He was always there, cheering on the band—even when he had to sit on the sidelines for their biggest show.
Wild Fury was his life.
My suspicious eyes turned to Faye. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
"Like what?" she asked innocently.
"Is there some specific reason that Crash would be avoiding practice and my phone calls?"
She looked at her fretboard and continued to noodle, shifting uncomfortably. "I don't know what you want me to say, man. I don't know where he is."
"When was the last time you talked to him?"
She shrugged. "A couple days ago."
"I thought you two were close."
"Excuse me, what business is it of yours?" she snapped.
"I get concerned when a member of the band doesn't show up," I said.
"Look, did we come here to jam or not?"
"Let's do it," JD said.
"We worked up a new groove," Dizzy said. "Styxx has got lyrics ready to go and everything. Let's try it out."
Styxx handed JD a crumpled piece of paper with lyrics scribbled all over it. JD studied the incomprehensible mess and somehow made sense of it.
I wondered how Crash would feel about the guys writing a song without him.
Styxx clicked off the beat, and Faye and Dizzy thundered in, laying down a heavy groove. JD bobbed his head, listening to the music, getting a feel for it. They played the verse and the chorus, and when they circled back around to the verse again, JD belted out the lyrics in a high-pitched howl.
I grinned.
It had potential from the first bar—these guys had something special, there was no doubt about it. They ran through the song a couple times, working out the bugs. JD played with the phrasing here and there. By the fourth or fifth time, it sounded polished.
Curious onlookers filtered into the room, looking for a free show. The band ran through their setlist and wrapped up 45 minutes later.
By the time it was over, the place was packed. The band was lauded with raucous applause and cheers. There was that vibe in the air, and everyone around knew they were witnessing something special—on the ground floor as Wild Fury built a name for themselves. As the opening act for Chloe-C in New York, they had cemented their reputation on a national stage as a hard-hitting party rock band that could put on a hell of a live show.
I just hoped things weren’t about to implode.
8
Band practice was never just practice. There was always an after-party. As usual, we ended up at Tide Pool with JD buying the drinks. Harper, at the outdoor bar, kept the drinks flowing, and JD handed them out. He raised his glass to toast, "Good times and good friends!"
We all clinked glasses and sipped our beverages.
I tried calling Crash again, but it went to voicemail. I checked my
