AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“By all means, fire me.” I stand and grab my guitar, needing to put space between myself and Carleeta.
One
Bordeaux
Erlebnisse (n.) the experiences, positive
or negative, that we feel most deeply; and through
which we truly live.
___________
“Isla Robles,” I say, her name rolling off my tongue. “What kind of a name is Isla?”
I know what my manager would say if I were to tell her we got a new applicant the day after I came back to the city to help at my grandmother’s record shop. Carleeta would screw her nose up in the air and say she’s only applying to be near me. I can hear her now. “Bordeaux, don’t you know you’re a platinum-selling rockstar? You can’t let anyone in. Protect yourself. No one wants you to succeed like I do.”
It’s not like Carleeta actually has good intentions for me. She’s just riding the coattails of instant stardom like everyone else at Hellfire Records.
Kennedy, one of the employees at the shop, stands in front of me, his brown dreads resting on his shoulders, hands on his hips, giving me a look like, wow, Bordeaux, you’re an asshole.
“Bordeaux, number one... you’re an asshole.” Damn, I know him well. “And number two... your name is Bordeaux. I feel like you don’t exactly have room to talk about anyone’s name.” He shoves the resume at me and goes back to the alternative section to inventory the vinyl records.
I glance down again at the white printer paper in my hands. Bold, black lettering spells out Isla Robles and goes on to tell me that she has exactly zero experience in record sales, but did work at a Bath & Body Works in the West Loop. I sigh, shaking my head. Why would I even call someone with no experience in record sales?
“I know what you’re thinking over there, B.” Kennedy fingers through countless records, not looking at me. “You’re thinking... why should I call Isla Robles?” Turns out he knows me pretty damn well, too. He’s worked at The Vinyl Kitty, my grandmother’s infamous record shop nestled in the heart of Chicago, for the better part of five years, and I’m here whenever my band isn’t touring. “Because we have no other applicants, man. That’s why.”
He’s right, but I don’t tell him that.
Shuffling through the stack of invoices on the counter, I try to divert my attention to something else, even if it’s the fact that we lost money for the first time in three years last month. My grandmother—who likes everyone to call her Frankie, not Grandma because it makes her feel old—was left scrambling last week when the store manager, Heath, up and quit, leaving her high and dry. Luckily, my band is on break from touring, and I can help her clean up the mess he left. I’m used to it. That’s what I’ve always done, just usually for my father, not for her. Carleeta may have different plans in mind for me during my time off, but I meant what I said when I walked out of the meeting. I’m not budging. Declan, the guys, and I deserve time off.
Grandma Frankie is the only one who has ever shown me even a bit of love in my life, albeit tough love. Bordeaux, don’t disappoint me. Make good decisions. Use your brain, you fuckwit. She’s in her seventies, maintains an electric pink mohawk, and has more tattoos and piercings than I could ever dream of having.
“You know, we really could use a woman around here. Maybe drown out some of this toxic masculinity.” Kennedy motions to himself and walks over to me, snatching up Isla’s resume again. “I could use some eye candy, too. Frankie isn’t getting any younger.” He’s laughing, but I’m rolling my eyes so far that I see black.
“You’re fucked up, man.”
* * *
Drool pools at the corner of his mouth, an empty whiskey bottle nestled into the crook of his arm, like he’s afraid to set it on the table in fear it might disappear if he doesn’t feel it against his skin. His Chicago White Sox hat rests over his face, shielding his eyes from the harsh living room light. Too drunk to get up and turn it off, but not drunk enough to pass out with it on. This tells me it’ll be semi-easy to get him into his room tonight.
I stomp around the 800-square foot box he calls home, not caring to be quiet, hoping he starts to stir. Empty cardboard freezer meal boxes litter the countertop, along with Pepsi cans, whiskey bottles, and half a dozen dirty forks that somehow made it onto the counter but not into the sink. Fucking riddle me that.
I toss all the garbage into the garbage can—a foreign concept to Clarke Daniels—and flip the light switches. “Dad.” I don’t bother saying it softly because I know he won’t hear me. “Dad! Let’s go. Third night this week, you’re doing real well for yourself,” I scoff. I don’t remind him that it’s only Tuesday, and I’ve only been in town for three nights—it’s no use. “Dad, fucking hell, please. Let’s get up. I’m tired.” I shake him by the arm, gradually increasing the intensity as the seconds roll by with no movement.
I knew I should have just booked a hotel. My penthouse is being renovated, and it was supposed to be done last week, but the contractor is behind schedule. He won’t be finished until tomorrow or the next day. I thought I’d need to clean up his mess, and I was clearly right. As much as my disdain for my father runs deep, I can’t willingly let him live in a place that looks like it should be on the television show Hoarders.
I should have just stayed with one of the guys in the band, or even Declan. Any of the three of them would have let me crash at their place while mine was being finished. I remember when we were in high school and I’d couch surf with Miller and Flynn on the regular. Declan didn’t stay over as much since her parents weren’t very fond of her hanging out alone with three teenage boys, but the four of us were together as much as possible.
I smile for the first time since I walked into my dad’s place at the thought of my band, Reckless Desires. Our drummer, Flynn, is the best damn drummer I’ve ever heard, and I’ve been to a lot of shows and have seen a hell of a lot of performances. You don’t get better than Flynn. Miller, our guitarist, is probably better than me now. I could totally take him in a strum-off when we were kids, but now that I’ve taken more of an interest in my voice and the lyrics and he’s all about his guitar skills, he’s better than me—although I’d never admit that to him ever. We wouldn’t be where we are today with Declan, our badass feminist bassist. She keeps us all in check and is honestly one of the most hardworking, dedicated, and loyal women I’ve ever met. The three of them, along with me on lead vocals and guitar, make up Reckless Desires. The four of us found each other when we were freshman in high school. Flynn and I were best friends, and we were looking for two people to join us for a talent competition. The grand prize was one thousand dollars, and we’d been jamming together since the beginning of freshman year. The talent competition was in the spring and we posted on social media about needing someone who could play the bass and possibly a second guitarist. Declan and Miller both went to different schools in Chicago than Flynn and me, but we met up with them and played together, and the rest is history. Flynn and I never imagined having a girl in our band, but she was the coolest girl we’d ever met and we decided we were way better with her than without her. Miller, too, even if he is a pain in the ass and more of a womanizer than me. Reckless Desires was born, and we never looked back.
Getting signed to a major label just out of high school was the cherry on top of our short lives.
We just didn’t know that cherry was going to be real fucking tainted.
I snap out of my thoughts and realize I’m still at Dad’s, wishing I could go back to high school when things were much fucking simpler.
For a moment, I think maybe I should check his breathing, but he jerks his head up when I slam my fist onto the coffee table. “Christ, you fucker. You scared the shit outta me,” Dad half slurs, half grunts as I yank him up and put his arm around my shoulder. We stumble into his room and I let him fall onto his bed sideways. It really doesn’t matter to me how he lays in it as long as he’s in his room, so I don’t have to see him in the morning—so I don’t have to be reminded about this shitty hand I’ve been dealt in the parenting department.
