Tracing Holland (NSB Book 2) Read online

  “Not anymore!” I hiss, and he laughs.

  “Ok, ok! Sorry! Go for it. We’ll shut up. We’re ready.”

  I turn back to the mic and draw in a deep breath. I grip my guitar pick firmly in my right hand, my left hand positioned for a B minor chord. I wrote this one in D, but I’m thinking I might need to raise it to E. It’s not exactly an essential detail at the moment, but suddenly it’s all I can think about. Maybe I should just play it in E for their first listening. The higher key will give the chorus more energy, more power. Yes, E. But shit, if I do it in E, I have to raise the bridge too. Not sure I can hit that in E. I should have practiced this more. What was I thinking exposing it so early? I haven’t played it for anyone except Casey, and that was so early he won’t even recognize it.

  My hands are sweating, heart racing. Bm, A, D. No, maybe I should go to the 4 instead. A solid G back into the 6. Dammit. I haven’t played anything original since…god, I don’t know when. Breathe. I’ve been doing this my whole life. No, not my whole life. Not at all since I became something else, someone else. What if my music was in the darkness, the filth? I have no way of knowing if I can trust what comes out now.

  I’m surprised there’s no more ribbing interrupting the silence as I hesitate. I glance back at Casey, and my chest suddenly gets heavy. He knows. I can tell by the look on his face that he understands what this moment means to me, and all the teasing is gone from his expression. He’s no longer worried about butterflies, just me.

  I suck in my breath and turn back to the audience, finally able to breathe again when my eyes rest on the lone judge seated in the center of the first row. It’s Callie. Just Callie, gazing up at me, eyes full, waiting for me to be the person she discovered.

  I wrote it in D. I have to start trusting myself at some point. As the music pours out, I can almost feel the suffocating curtain start to lift.

  “Crawl in, crawl out

  Terrified but moving now

  Claw up, slide down

  There’s no going back, can’t go back

  Break down, break out

  Break down, break out

  Brand new day feast on the dark

  Shuttered light, reluctant spark

  Growing dawn and setting sun

  Fight song of the desperate one.

  Cocoon shredding

  Past, heading straight for the wall

  No more regretting, just breathing

  Underwater

  Too late to choose, too far to fall

  Nowhere to go but on

  No more excuses, no denial

  No holding on to lost time

  Break out, I’m breaking out

  Brand new day release the dark

  A new light, the smallest spark

  Growing dawn and setting sun

  Fight song of the desperate one.

  Break it down, break it

  Breaking out, just break it, break it”

  I hadn’t even realized I’d closed my eyes until the last note lingers in the air, in the darkness behind my eyelids. I open them, and am shocked, a little shaken, when I see Holland seated next to Callie. They both are staring at me with grave expressions as I back away from the mic and face my band.

  “I mean. I’m still working on it,” I explain into the silence. “Just…”

  “It’s awesome, man,” Casey says, cutting off my instinctive apology. “I love it. We haven’t done anything that hard in a long time.”

  “Yeah, dude. That bridge is sick,” Sweeny echoes. “Can we run it again? I have a couple things I want to try.”

  “Yes! Definitely,” Casey agrees. “We’ve got plenty of time. How’s it sounding out there, Miles?” he calls to the front-of-house engineer.

  “Guitar and vocal sounded great! Love the new stuff. Would also love to get a full check now,” Miles returns into our ears.

  I swallow, unnerved by the sudden warmth spreading through me. I don’t know what to do with it, and turn back to Callie and…Holland is gone.

  ∞∞∞∞

  “Luke! Hey!”

  I stop on my way back to the bus and turn toward Tess, our road manager.

  “How’s everything? Did you get a chance to grab some food?”

  I smile and nod. “Yep. Thanks, Tess.”

  “What about the bus? Does anything need to be restocked before we roll out tonight?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe a few bottles of water. Hey, do you know if Gary is all good to take care of Tracing Holland tonight?”

  “Yes! He’s all set.”

  “Did he get in touch with Steven?”

  “Steven?”

  “Holland’s backline tech who had to leave.”

  Tess waves her hand. “Oh, right! Sorry, I can’t believe I forgot his name. I don’t know, but I’ll check.” She quiets, and I brace myself. It’s that look I’ve come to dread. The “you’re-a-fragile-little-dandelion-but-we-love-you” look.

  “How are you, Luke? How’s it been being back?”

  “I’m good,” I answer. As if I’d say anything else. “It’s an adjustment, but going ok.”

  “You sure? You’ll let me know if there’s anything you need, right?”

  I try to hold in my sigh at the familiar script. She means well. They all mean well. “Yes, of course. I’ll let you know, but I’m good,” I repeat.

  I don’t know if she believes me or not, but at least she seems to understand that’s the best she’ll get. I have this conversation memorized at this point. There are a few versions of it and I’m grateful that Tess is sensitive enough to make it the short one.

  “Ok, well, I’ll go check with Gary and Holland to make sure they’re all set. Kill it tonight, ok?” she says, swatting my arm as she passes.

  I manage to return her smile before the resigned sigh escapes. Dandelion Luke. I guess it has a certain ring to it. Beats Train-Wreck Luke anyway.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  September 15

  “Donuts! Coffee if you want it!” our tour manager Kenneth calls, waving in the promoter’s assistant whose arms are loaded with provisions. I jump up from the couch to help him set his load on the table in the lounge of the bus. Eli and Sweeny are still in their bunks, and Callie and Casey are giggling in the back behind closed doors. I can tell Kenneth is annoyed at his small audience, but that’s nothing new.

  “Where is everyone?” he asks, gripping his binder with white knuckles.

  I struggle to suppress my grin as I shrug, amused by his abhorrence of all things rocker-living. Kenneth is a fantastic tour manager, but I can’t imagine a worse career for the rigid, detail-oriented drill sergeant than dealing with a busload of entitled, Type B artists day-in and day-out.

  “I’ll fill them in, don’t worry. What’ve you got?” I assure him before his eyes burst from their sockets.

  He mutters something and shakes his head in an attempt to refocus on his thick, tabulated binder. I grab a coffee from the tray and lean back, waiting for my instructions. I can sense the young assistant’s gaze and glance over, even more amused at his obvious awe as he hovers at the top of the stairs. He knows his job is done but is reluctant to end his brief moment inside the walls of this legendary shrine. I’ve seen it a thousand times and it still makes me smile.

  “Come grab a donut,” I call over to the poor kid, half to be nice and half to watch the shocked horror cross Kenneth’s face. Breakfast with the help is most definitely not on his schedule.

  The assistant has no idea what to do with my comment and just stares at me from the top step. I smile to myself and pull one from the box as if demonstrating the process of eating for my two companions. He’s now gazing up at Kenneth who’s glaring at me. I don’t know why I find this whole thing so funny, but I’m about to egg them on further when we hear shuffling. I turn and see Eli staggering toward us, sleep still in his eyes, right hand rubbing his messy hair.

  “Oh hey, Kenny. Coffee? Fantastic,” he mumbles, grabbing another cup from the tray. He dro
ps beside me on the couch and takes a sip. Oh god. “Kenny.” Kenneth hates that!

  “What’d I miss?”

  I have to restrain a laugh at the expression on Kenneth’s face as he scans his pages with suppressed ire.

  “Nothing yet, Eli. Thanks for joining us. We were just about to begin. Now, I know we’ve had a tight schedule the last few days, and it will continue in Atlanta. We’ll have a nice break in Myrtle Beach starting tomorrow, but for now, I need you all to adhere to the plan and hang on for one more day until…”

  “Can you book us each a room here?” Eli interrupts. “I need a real shower. Like, a big-ass ginormous one. I’m sick of sharing.”

  I turn away to hide my smirk. I can’t tell if Eli is just trying to get under Kenneth’s skin or is really so oblivious. He has that dry delivery that makes it impossible to be sure. Either way, it’s hilarious watching the older man’s world crumble.

  “Not in Atlanta, no. I’ve booked one for you to share for your cleanup today as usual, but that’s it. You will have a few rooms in Myrtle Beach. Perhaps you can hold out until tomorrow? I will do my best at finding ‘big-ass’ amenities on such short notice.”

  I almost die. It’s everything I can do to hold it all inside. Eli just sighs and closes his eyes. It actually looks like he’s gone back to sleep, and I jab him in the ribs. He jumps and glares at me.

  “Kenneth is giving us the schedule,” I explain, and we have to look away from each other so we don’t burst out laughing. Yep, Eli is totally playing him. Shit, I’m about to lose it and Kenneth’s fuse is already lit.

  “Thank you, Luke,” Kenneth continues, thankfully missing my gentle sarcasm. “As I was saying, lunch will be available in catering from 11:30 to 2:30. Please do not ask them to hold it again like in New Orleans. Three hours should be plenty of time and…”

  “Hey, that was Sweeny!” Eli defends, and I kick him under the table. “Ow! What? It was!” he cries, and I roll my eyes, before turning back to Kenneth.

  “You know what? Here,” our tour manager grumbles. “Why don’t I just leave this with you, and you all can read it at your leisure.” He pops open the rings of the binder and yanks out the schedule. You know he’s had it when he parts with any sliver of that binder.

  “Thanks, Kenneth. We’ll review it. Promise.”

  “Great. Just don’t be late for lunch,” he mutters.

  “Got it,” I assure him, and have to cough to cover my laugh when he spins and collides with the kid still standing on the steps.

  “Wha…off!” Kenneth almost screams, pointing toward the exit.

  Eli doesn’t even try to hide his amusement and snorts so hard, the table shakes. “God, he hates us!” he cries after we’re alone, stilling laughing.

  I grin. “You’re finding us a new tour manager when he quits. You know that, right?”

  He shrugs and wipes his eyes. “I can’t help it! It’s so easy!”

  I laugh and grab another donut.

  ∞∞∞

  The others have gone to lunch, so I’m startled at the sound of footsteps on the stairs of the bus. Even more so when Holland pokes her head into the lounge and tosses me a warm smile. I can’t say I’m entirely displeased to see her, just surprised.

  “Callie told me I could find you here.”

  “Should I be worried that you’re trying to hunt me down again?”

  “Only if you were lying about that ’43 J45.”

  I laugh and push myself up from the couch. “I wasn’t. Hang on.”

  I retrieve the case from the back lounge and place it on the table in the main space. She’s already exploding with excitement, and I love that she practically forgets about me the second it comes into view. Her eyes are glued to the case like I’ve just returned with the crown jewels.

  I open it and step back so she can access the treasure inside, and she approaches with a solemn reverence. Her eyes are huge as she touches the dark wood, running her fingers along the smooth surface, gently as if it might disintegrate if she’s not careful. I love everything about this moment, and am filled with a strange pride that she’s able to appreciate the magnificence of the gem before her as much as I do.

  “May I?” she asks, gazing at me with almost childlike awe.

  I grin and nod. “Of course. I promised.”

  “It’s nearly flawless!” she whispers, lifting it from its case. “Almost perfect condition.”

  I smile. “Yeah, I paid for that, believe me. Everything is original. Bridge, frets, pick guard, even the case. It’s the Banner model with the maple.”

  She shakes her head, still staring at it in wonder. “Um, ok. Can we just get married now so I can adopt her?”

  I laugh. “I guess I’ve had worse offers over the years. Wouldn’t that conflict with your rule though?”

  She meets my gaze with a quick grin before focusing back on the guitar. “Ugh. Damn rules. Alright, enough stalling. I have to play this thing.”

  She drops to a seat and balances the guitar on her lap, her arms wrapping around it with a casual grace. She passes a few tentative strums, and I can almost sense her shiver. I know what she’s experiencing. I remember the first time I held it and introduced our present to this beautiful piece of history.

  “It needs to be tuned, but I’m afraid to touch the pegs!” she cries, glancing at me again.

  I shake my head with a grin. “Want me to do it?”

  She laughs. “No, I got it.” When she finishes, she glances back at me with a sincere expression. “Luke, I’m serious. This is amazing. Thank you.”

  “You haven’t even played it yet.”

  “I know, but…”

  “Here.” I reach in my pocket and pull out a pick. “It’s a 1mm. Hope that’s ok. I think I have other gauges in the case.”

  “This is fine,” she assures me. “Seriously, I’d play with a soda can tab right now.”

  “Um, not on my baby you won’t.”

  She giggles, then seems to forget about me again. I’m fine with that, loving every second of watching their connection.

  When she starts to play, I almost catch my breath.

  “Flying high as you watch me fall.

  Twisting in your beautiful lies, bravo.

  Hats off to your elegant show.

  Take a bow, my acrobat.

  You’ve won the crowd, it’s yours now, sweet acrobat.”

  I’m captivated by her voice, her fingers on the strings. The effortless flow of her music. I love that even though she’s playing my guitar, it belongs solely to her in this moment. When she finishes, I have to fight the urge to just tell her to keep the damn thing. It clearly belongs to her. I take a deep breath and force a smile, not at all sure what to do with the sudden storm raging inside me. She’s in love with that hollowed-out piece of wood, that much is clear, and it’s turned her face into a masterpiece.

  “One day,” she whispers, staring down at the instrument, tracing her fingers along the smooth surface. She glances back up at me, as if remembering my presence for the first time and gives me an electrifying grin. “She’s gorgeous, Luke. Seriously. Just stunning.”

  I swallow, managing only a quick nod. She is.

  “You’re turn,” she chirps suddenly. “You play something now.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. “Huh?”

  “Um, yeah. All you, rock star.”

  She jumps to her feet and hands me the guitar. I instinctively take it, but can’t imagine doing something as intimate as play a song for another soul a couple feet away. I can play a live broadcast in front of millions without breaking a sweat, but this…

  “Maybe another time,” I say, oddly embarrassed.

  “What? No! Please? Just something quick! Doesn’t have to be fancy. I have to hear this girl the way she’s supposed to be played!”

  “You just did! You’re a fantastic guitar player.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. I’m fine, but everyone knows very few can touch you on that thing. Pl
ease, Luke! When will I ever have a chance to watch Luke Craven play a 1943 Gibson J45 two feet away? Don’t make me beg, because I will, then hate you for it!”

  I can’t stop the shy smile and shake my head. “Ok, ok! Fine! Geez.”

  She actually does look relieved when we switch spots so I can sit this time. I’m still hesitant, but am starting to feel more comfortable now that I have a guitar in my hands. As I search my head for what to play, I can suddenly think of only one song. I haven’t played it in ages, but it was one of the first I’d mastered. I’d learned it as a child, then embellished on it over the years, almost turning it into a different piece. My father used to play it all the time, and to this day, I don’t know if he wrote it, or it was just a lesser-known favorite in his repertoire. Either way, it always held a special place in my heart.

  I start picking out the elaborate intro, almost classical in its styling, and let my fingers and instinct takeover. Nothing else matters when I play, and I forget all about the awkwardness of the close quarters, even the beautiful woman staring at me in awe a few feet away. It’s just the music and I, my father, memories of the few brief moments of happiness sprinkled throughout my painful life. I wonder if my face looks like Holland’s had a few minutes ago. I don’t dare to look at her to find out.

  I sing a few verses of the song, adding to the turns like I always do, playing with each chord, each note, like it might be possible to discover a new one this time. I never do, but I’ve combined enough existing ones in unique ways to at least create new experiences, new progressions that still give me chills when I find that perfect combination. This is my home, these moments, and the only time I feel safe, like I’m actually ok.

  The shyness returns as the song comes to an end, and I clear my throat with an awkward smile. I realize I’d gotten wrapped up in the moment, and wonder what she must think of me. I rise from the bench without a word and return the guitar to its case so I don’t have to look at her and confront her reaction.