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He sits forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. Looking up at me, he says, “I never needed a whole lot, you know. And the road to get where I am was not straight; I still have a long way to go. Fuck, it’s not easy to walk the line.” He nudges me in the arm. “Fucked up the only good thing I had in my life in one night. Guess I’m still doing now what I did back then.” He clears his throat, guilt sliding across his face.
“What’s that?” I whisper, my throat tightening.
“Chasing it, babe,” he says, his voice deep.
“See? You’re still a poet.”
He shakes his head, sitting back. Pushing his hair out of his face, he admits, “Half of the time I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m writing about, and if I still mean it.”
“Tell the truth,” I say, tipping my chin at him.
He gives me a look. “I hear Jack talking when you say something like that.”
I moan. “Don’t remind him. Dad loves to spread his hippie wisdom,” I say, wincing.
He laughs.
“What’s the plan after this?” I ask, trying to change to subject to something safer.
He takes a deep breath. “Well, I don’t know. First, finish the album. Then radio, and tour the record. And opening for your brother, from what I gather from our manager.”
“You’re going to tour with Axl?”
He nods. “Why not? We’re all lifers. We’re in this for the long haul. And when you do what you love, it’s not that steep of an uphill climb.”
“True, and what about more interviews?” I press, waggling my eyebrows.
He groans, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs. He doesn’t know how much my heart starts to race. “Selling myself in an interview is not my cup of tea.”
“It isn’t?” I ask, feeling my palms sweat as I look at his broad chest straining against his shirt, making my panties damp. He groans, covering his eyes with his arms, giving me a chance to gawk at him without him noticing.
“We’ve been rolling with it. But I don’t like doing interviews while our publicists insist on ‘spreading the word,’” he says, making air quotes. “It’s about presenting the right impression, or how much money they can stuff in their own pockets. I like to keep some sort of distance. Some sort of normality. Sterling is amazing though. He’s the one who can converse with everyone. Most of the time, I let him do the talking. You know how long it takes for me to find the right words.”
I nod, looking at Dad who is sitting on the ground in the live room trying out which guitar pedal he wants to use for Sterling’s solo. Paulie is leaning over his kit, tapping his foot against the kick drum.
“Sterling has always been there for me. Still cracks me up with his lame jokes,” Rone says.
I giggle, watching George play some tune on the piano, while Dad gives him pointers here and there. I quickly push record; you never know what you can use later on. Denver tunes his bass guitar. He laughs when Sterling plays the first chords of Deep Purple’s “Smoke On The Water.” Sterling is the total opposite of Rone: funny and laid-back. I mean Rone can be funny, but he’s always had a dark intensity to him. Sitting next to him now gives me goose bumps as I stare into those dark eyes.
“How’s Tristan’s Machine Records been treating you?” The moment the question leaves my mouth I want to evaporate into thin air.
He frowns. “How do you know about Tristan?”
I stumble over my words. “He told me he signed you. I mean, he is my godfather.” I’m not going to tell him I was part of the reason he got his record deal when he thinks he did it all on his own.
I mean, he did. He’s the one singing and writing the songs with the guys. But I may have asked Tristan to go and check the boys out with Dad when they had a showcase at The Basement two and a half years ago.
“Yeah.” He furrows his brow, searching my eyes. “He’s great. Doesn’t take shit, like us. And we got to keep our publishing rights. We fought hard for those.”
Before I can shut my big mouth, I blurt out, “Has he already had the talk about, ‘do not take yourself that seriously, stay in the present, and don’t look that far back or ahead,’” I say, mimicking Tristan’s voice.
He cocks his head. “Yeah, he did. How did you—”
I thank the Lord when an incoming message beeps on my phone. Hiding behind my screen, I watch Rone shake his head and slicking his hair back with the palm of his hand from the corner of my eye. I lay my phone back on the console when he is busy focusing on the guys in the studio, who are going over the last part of the song with Dad.
He turns to me, staring at me like I’m full of shit and my cheeks flame.
“You did it, Rone,” I say, changing the subject.
