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Dylan moved his eyes over his mother, Gerri, and Gibson. He thought they were nuts for what they were suggesting. Setting him up with an attractive woman wasn't going to magically erase the crushing guilt he felt daily.
But he knew, once again, that he would risk losing his main supporters if he refused. So he blew out a breath, then rolled his eyes.
“Fine,” he huffed. “Give me the information, and I’ll try it out. But no promises.”
His mother clapped and embraced him while Gerri held her hands delicately together. There was something else in her that Dylan couldn’t quite put his finger on, but somehow, it calmed the beast within, even hinting at a glimmer of hope buried deep inside his withering soul.
TWO
ROSE
Rose Hauser was having quite the day working at the prestigious Prescott Academy. It hadn’t been her goal in life to teach mostly privileged kids how to play various instruments, but she couldn’t lie to herself either. She adored getting up in the morning and putting on one of her signature bright pencil skirts with a matching silky blouse that sat on her frame like a cloud.
Rose came from a privileged family herself and was spoiled with music lessons from a very young age. Half of her was thankful for it, while the other half knew how many kids were out there with creative dreams but didn’t have the finances to follow them. She did everything she could to use her privilege for good, like a superpower that she mostly kept to herself.
On that particular day, Rose had a meeting with the department head to discuss cutting a few designated “weaker” musicians from the program she ran. She was a fierce defender of her students, having gathered a reputation for standing up for what they needed. The parents and their children adored her, and she always made it a point to maintain that image.
She sat in her silk blouse, her breasts propped up in a comfortable push-up bra. Buttons were done up, so the department didn’t misinterpret things as sexism was a constant weight to consider in the music industry.
Rose waited for the department heads, two men decked out in 90’s-style suits that were at least two sizes too big for them, to enter. Rose liked clothing tailored to her shape, embracing it, even within the halls of Prescott Academy.
Dean and Andrew ... two very plain, unremarkable men ... sat and looked her up and down, an action that she had grown used to as a shapely woman.
“Did you receive our list?” Dean asked.
Rose tapped the sheet of paper sitting before her with her pencil. “I did,” she said confidently. “The concept ofthe listis what I’d like to discuss.”
Andrew cleared his throat loudly, echoing in the tiny room. “What is there to discuss?” he asked.
Rose began to lay out the sheets of paper side by side in front of her on the table. When she was finished, she placed her hands neatly in front and then raised a sly eyebrow. “This is the list of students you want to cut?”
Dean and Andrew gazed at each other lazily, then nodded at Rose. She gave them a broad smile, her red lipstick enhancing her naturally plump lips. "There are over fifty students here,” she said, still smiling. “You can’t expect me to get rid of even half of these musicians.”
Dean was the department head that always appeared more invested in the ongoings of the academy. He was obsessed with winning competitions, which Rose considered an extra accomplishment rather than the highlight of a creative person’s career. He leaned forward on the table and then narrowed his eyes. “That is your job, isn’t it?” he asked, his tone growing increasingly condescending.
Rose closed her eyes, shaking her head slightly. When she opened them, she hoped that they were blazing embers, relaying the fire of her convictions.
“As I’ve mentioned to you before, Dean and Andrew,” her eyes slid between both of the department heads, “I don’t run my program based on merely winning competitions. Many of these students rely heavily on their talent. Winning competitions will not advance their lives in the way you think it will.”
Dean blinked heavily, then sighed as he leaned back in the chair. They had their differences and had discussed the concept on many occasions. Rose almost always won because she had the backing of the parents and the rest of the board.
Andrew and Dean proceeded to stand from their seats, barely meeting her eye. “We will discuss this matter in a few months,” Dean said.
The men left the room, filling Rose with pride and dignity. She knew they didn’t like her, which wasn’t a good thing. Her job hung in the balance because of their seniority over her, but that never seemed to stop her from speaking her mind.
The rest of the day went smoothly, with a few students who were on the list to be eliminated from the program hitting a personal milestone. Rose was ecstatic, praising them as always, with her bubbly and sweet way that made both men and women drawn to her aura.
But it was at night when her shadow self came to life. Rose removes her sweet, pleasing personality when she dons a neon-pink wig, heavy black eyeliner, fishnet stockings, tattered gloves, and denim cut-off short shorts. Her generous plumage was held together by an expensive leather bra, unabashedly pushing up her tasty cleavage.
During the day, she taught students both the art of classical and jazz strummers, but at night, she was Tish Black, lead singer of the punk rock band Churlish Slither.
Rose didn’t initially play small dive bars to keep her true identity hushed. It came into being once the band became locally popular, and the fact that Prescott was run by an ultra-conservative board of directors. She loved and adored both her positions, but she knew that slamming that heavy metal guitar at night in bars that smelled of cigarettes and alcohol wasn’t going to pay the bills.
So she booked venues on the edge of town with her bandmates, most of whom were skilled musicians working as servers or in degrading retail positions. She shared very little with them about her day job out of fear of the information traveling through the grapevine to a student’s parent. It sounded a little paranoid, but Rose needed the cover of darkness, and she had embraced the conflicts created by her interests.
It was kind of sexy when she thought about it, being able to take on another life beyond the one she was born into.
Rose and her bandmates played a short set that night around ten, slamming guitar solos and thick grunge drum beats. Toward the end of their performance, she spotted a woman who stood out from the crowd and who was a member of her daytime life.
