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I’m not the only one frustrated.
“That’s it?” Tristan demands. “What happened? Did our marketing budget get slashed?”
Cringing, Brendt tries to explain. I don’t listen. I don’t need to. The marketing budget isn’t the problem here. We released a weak song. The numbers support it.
I kick away from the table and roll into a corner to give myself some distance from everyone else. The disappointing single spins in my head, and I push a set of earbuds into my ears to listen to it again. I wish I didn’t. For the first time since its conception, I see it,hearit the way I should’ve weeks ago—as yet another mediocre track about rebelling against the system and sticking it to the man. What’s with the shallow melody? And I sound like I’m a fourteen again, overly eager and trying too hard. I’ve been playing guitar since I was ten years old. I’m twenty-five now, which means fifteen years of discipline and dedication amounted tothis.
We will never become a first-tier band. Never. I’m useless.
Before the last note rings out, I take the earbuds out and pack up my thoughts for when I’m by myself. Jelly, Link, and Tristan still put a lot of work into this. I can’t tear them down.
“So we made a dud.” Jelly shrugs. “Who hasn’t?”
Project Viper, that’s who.
I abandon my seat and head for the door.
“Jace,” Link calls out.
“Yeah?” I stop with my hand on the handle.
“The rest of the album is going to turn out good. We’ll top a few charts.” He knows, to some degree, what I aim for. I got drunk a few years ago and blurted out to him that I needed to beat Project Viper or there’s just no point in being in a band.
Once again, everyone stares at me, giving me no choice but to pull out the big guns aka my cocky grin that irks the devil out of most people. “I know it’ll be good. Do we have something else on the agenda today? I thought this was only an informative meeting.”
“No, nothing,” Brendt says. “I know this could’ve been an email or a video call, but it’s better to get together for not-so-positive news. Drive carefully, and if you’re training tonight, take care of your hands.”
“I always do,” I reply and leave.
This morning I’d decided that I wouldn’t go to my usual kung fu training session in the evening, but after this mess, guided pain sounds good.
A dark blue baseball cap sits low over my forehead as I walk into my favorite taco place to grab some dinner to go. The numbers meeting left me irked and short-tempered. The kung fu session that followed drained what little okay-whatever attitude I had left. A bruise is blossoming on the right side of my ribcage, but at least my sparring partner went home fully proud of himself.
“O.M.G. It’s him!” a young woman’s voice whisper-shouts behind me while I grab the paper bag with my order.
Turning around, I do my best to not smile. Five years in a band, but I enjoy the attention more than I did in the early days. Back then I was arrogant and unfamiliar with the industry or proper etiquette, putting on airs of a dedicated artist. These days, I know what it takes to get that kind of an adoring reaction—years and years of relentless excellence.
The excited young woman isn’t alone. She’s got two friends flanking her sides, all three of them watching something on her phone and…ignoring me.
“Shane O’Neal,” one of them says in the most sickening, dreamy tone. “The only Viper who was never truly available. First, he had a high school sweetheart, then he got married out of the blue.”
The three girls sigh with a mountain of regret. I stifle my own sigh and head out the door. Wearing a hat wasn’t necessary at all.
This situation is why I love fan attention more now. We’ve released three platinum tracks, raked in a few millions in royalties (back in our more fortunate days), and I’ve got guitar manufacturers all but lining up in front of my door to make me their brand ambassador, but I’m still nothing compared to Shane O’Neal.
“Rumor has it,” one of them goes on behind me, “his wife dated his biggest rival, Jake What’s-his-name from ACD before she hooked up with Shane. What I wouldn’t give to know what really happened there. Did Shane steal her from that other guy? Or did she aim for someone better all along?”
I stop by the doors despite knowing I shouldn’t pay attention, for all too many reasons.
“Juliette was quite determined to settle down with a rock star then, huh?” Another one laughs. “Can you blame her for choosing someone from Project Viper though? ACD’s latest song is trash, and Shane owns the stage with his guitar and looks like…” Another dreamy sigh times three.
I grind my teeth. Shane O’Neal. It’s always him. Since before Acid Churro Dreams took flight he’s been in my way. And my name is Jace, by the way, not Jake.
What ignites my irritation more, though, is the fact that anyone would talk about Juliette as if she was a headhunter, a gold digger, a… I exhale and exit the restaurant.
Appetite ruined, I throw the tacos in the garbage can and walk down the street to another favorite place of mine—Guardian of Rock, a boutique guitar shop run by one of my oldest friends. The shop bobs like a beacon of relief as I march along the sidewalk. My whole body aches, not just the bruised ribcage. A burning itch spreads through my soul. Many beautiful guitars keep me company at my house, but there are times, like today, when I want something fresh. Not even simply want—need. Until I play on something new, or at least a guitar I don’t own, the restlessness won’t go away. When my bandmates get on my nerves, when songwriting is hard going, when life in general is a massive heap of blah, Guardian of Rock is the perfect solution. Guitars solve everything. No one believes me, but it’s true.
