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“Agree.” Sager nods. “A million to charity is cool. Bragging rights. Top billing on a tour. I like those a lot too.”
“If we tour,” I grumble.
“Mary will come around,” Bryan says, his eyes glistening with confidence.
“Maybe,” I say. After all, she did come around to forgive Lace after she messed up. “I’ll call her.” My skin chills at the idea of talking to the ice queen, but I get the words out. “I’ll apologize.”
“Whoa.” Dizzy’s golden eyes widen. “I bet that’ll do it.”
“Or she’ll die from shock.” Bryan grins, then grimaces when I punch his arm hard. “What was that for?”
“We have some kickass riffs.” I hit Bryan again just for fun. His grin only widens. “It’s time to pick one and get behind it. Drums. Bass. And rhythm.”
I make eye contact with King, Sager, and Dizzy.
“You got it.” King kicks his bass drum.
“On it.” Sager gives me a snaky groove on his Fender.
“I’m already there.” Dizzy strums some powerful chords.
“Okay. Yeah.” That’s what I’m talking about. My band is with me. Encouraged, I share the idea I got at breakfast. “I wanna dedicate a song to Peace. She has a lot to say but she struggles to be heard.”
Sager nods. “I can relate.”
“It’s a universal condition,” I say slowly, thinking it through. “We all have concerns and struggles that we find it difficult to talk about.”
“Everyone wants to be understood.” Bryan’s eyes brighten, and he points. “Give me that steno pad.”
“Sure.” I scoop it off the small table where I left it yesterday and hand it to him.
Removing the pencil from behind his ear, he scribbles something down.
When he shows it to me, I read what he wrote, and I slowly grin. “Yeah. This is it. I can sing the fuck out of that. Give us a riff that will set this tune on fire.”
“You got it.” Bryan lays one out, his fingers a blur on his fretboard.
King crashes in on his drum. Sager closes his eyes and finds the perfect spot for his groove. Dizzy bobs his head, strumming the perfect rhythm. And I sing Bryan’s introduction, adding the words that went through my head at breakfast.
It’s good, really,reallygood. My nerve endings tingling, I look at Bryan. He looks at me. Excited glances are exchanged all around. This song motherfucking rocks.
Brutal Strength is so going down.
* * *
“Just one moment, please,” the receptionist says in my ear. “I’ll see if Mrs. Timmons-Morris is in.”
“Thanks.”
In my bedroom, I tap my foot. It’s late. But my pulse is still popping from the tune we laid down in the studio.
The receptionist comes back on the line. “Sorry, Mr. Jinkins. Mrs. Timmons-Morris isn’t answering. Do you want to leave a message on her cell?”
“Since when does Mary not answer her phone?” I ask.
“She’s in San Francisco with Mr. Morris, sir.”
“Oh.” My eyes widen. “I see.”
