I wasn’t raised here, but after many nights spent with Harper and learning what growing up in Bridgeport was like, I understand it used to be a lot worse. She told me stories about always having to get the bus home from school instead of walking half a mile because the city was riddled with crime. She told me a story about how an addict grabbed her coming out of a candy store after school and threatened her for her lunch money. Her fucking lunch money. It seemed like a crater of shit.
It’s better here now, but there are still opportunists who will prey on vulnerability. That’s one of the reasons why I love my body most days. It’ll take one hell of a strong man to drag me kicking and screaming anywhere. I’m not worth the exertion.
Dilapidated buildings decorated with graffiti and boarded-up windows line the sidewalk. I have to skip a step to avoid a deep crack in the concrete. The progress made downtown doesn’t stretch as far as here, though.
I allow myself to dream, just for a moment. If we get this residency, that means a solid, consistent income for Tether. No more gigging four nights a week and then nothing for weeks. We could actually save some cash. None of us have great jobs. Harper and I work at the coffee shop, and she gives vocal lessons on some weekends. Luca works as a waiter in a fancy Italian restaurant downtown—though his boss doesn’t believe in tipping. Ryland runs his own business giving drum lessons. ‘Business’ is a very loose term since I’m pretty sure it’s been six months since his last client. This kind of money could completely make us. We could hire one of those fancy recording studios downtown.
Or even one that doesn’t need an Olympic medal in fucking high jumping to access,I think to myself as I maneuver around a torn-up leather couch that’s been blocking the sidewalk for weeks.
The studio we have now isn’t bad by any means. We call it a studio, but it’s really an old man’s garage. After we were in there for a couple of weeks, he let us soundproof the place, which is weird, considering he’s mostly deaf. It was our idea, though. There’s been so many instances where we’ve walked out of the studio to angry-looking neighbors twitching behind their curtains. Not that the old man has ever mentioned it—I think he’s just happy the place is getting some use. Even if it is “trash, bang rock music,” as he likes to call it.
The streetlight above flickers as I approach the door to the garage, and I hesitate for a moment, fingers still cold from the walk. I flex them a couple of times to encourage some blood back into them before I punch in my code and open the door.
Warm air from the small heater in the corner seeps into my bones, and I barely suppress a moan as I shake off my jacket and drape it over the couch. The air still has a faint smell of motor oil from its past life, as if it’s been baked into the concrete floor. The couch creaks as I sit, the rough threads poking into my skin through my jeans.
It may not be much, but at least it’s somewhat ours. Mismatched knock-off Persian rugs overlay each other on the stained concrete floor—partially for the sound, but mostly a shitty attempt to keep the small amount of heat in this room. We haven’t played many gigs worthy of a poster, but the few that we have are sticky-taped onto the grey walls, although our name is small enough that it just looks like promotions for other bands.
Ryland glances up at me from behind his drum kit where he’s adjusting his cymbals. He’s the big brother of the band—all sharp edges on the outside, but putty on the inside. Six foot something of muscle and mischief with thick, black tattoos snaking down both arms. People see his size first, his tattoos second, and then the hair. Some are intimidated, others fucking idolize him. But I’ve seen him cry over a stray dog we found behind the studio once. He pretends he didn’t, but we all saw it. He’s the reckless one, the perpetual flirt, but he’s also the one who drives everyone home after late gigs making sure we all get home okay. Unless, of course, he’s talking to a girl. Then we’re left shoving all of our gear into the cheapest Uber we can find and making our own way home.
“Nice of you to join us, K,” he chides, flicking his long, blonde hair over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have control over public transport, Ryland,” I reply, sticking my tongue out and giving him the middle finger.
He chuckles and turns back to his kit.
I find Luca perched on the oversized armchair in the corner, tapping out something on his phone. He glances up, his deep brown eyes lighting when he sees me.
Luca always looks like he belongs somewhere brighter than here in this dingy garage. He’s got this effortless aura about him: shoulder length, dark curls that hang loosely around his face, rings on every finger, and boots that may or may not be considered an antique. He notices everything. That’s Luca’s genuine talent. Not the bass, although he’s stupidly good at that. But people. He knows when someone is feeling down before they do, and he’s right there with a glass of wine and a box of tissues. It doesn’t matter if I had never met Harper. I know inmy soul that Luca and I were destined to meet in this lifetime. The instant we met, it was one of those moments where I felt as though I’d known him forever
“Kaaat!” he exclaims as he rises from the chair. “How are you, babe?”
I pull him into an embrace as we exchange pleasantries.
“I hate to break up this adorable moment,” Ryland interrupts. “But we need to figure out songs for tomorrow.” He sets his drumsticks on the snare. His words are serious, but I know they aren’t intended to be.
“Calm down, cowboy. Harper isn’t even here yet,” Luca replies, grinning.
“Yeah, surely this should be a group decision,” I agree, and Luca throws me a sly smile.
Ryland shakes his head, throwing his hands in the air. “You’re impossible, K. I swear. I thought we were friends?”
“And yet, you love me anyway.” I laugh as I get up from the couch, the backs of my legs becoming impossibly itchy from the old fabric. I refuse to think about the last time it was really cleaned.
I walk over to the corner of the room and grab my guitar. My Schecter Omen, my pride and joy. I throw the strap over my shoulder, the familiar weight of the jet-black basswood body resting against my pelvis. I worked fucking hard for this guitar; it was one of the first things I bought for myself with the tip money from The Ground. When it arrived, it stayed in the corner of my apartment for two weeks before I worked up the nerve to play it—I was too afraid to break it. Now, it’s basically an extension of my arms. I’ve committed every groove of the rosewood neckto memory, and I could probably recognize it blindfolded if the need ever arose.
“We need to decide what to do. I think we should play our heaviest songs. It’s fuckingHeadstone,” Ryland says, emphasizing the last word with his hands.
“What about covers? It’ll show our versatility?” Luca responds.
“Don’t be stupid, Luca. It’s fuckingHeadstone.” Ryland lets out an unimpressed huff.
“I know it’s fucking Headstone,”Luca replies, mimicking Ryland’s tone.
“You want us to be a fucking cover band?”
Usually, I let their little bickering matches play out, but my nerves are too on edge for it tonight.
“For fuck’s sakes, boys. We’re allowed three songs. Two originals and a cover. That’s the plan,” I crack, twisting the black chrome machine heads gently to the right pitch.
