Chapter 3

 

Band practice was its usual disaster of poorly tuned guitars and bickering over which song to start with. Lou walked in and took control. “Bluto, tune that bloody guitar. Alasdair, your bass doesn’t work unless it’s plugged in. Put down the vodka, Chiz, and pick up your sticks. Paolo, get your lips off the girl. Banshee, go find a quiet corner to sit in.”

She pulled up a chair and gave them her severest frown. “Let’s start with “Barlinnie Blues.””

“Can we do it reggae style?” Alasdair suggested excitedly, while the rest of the band groaned.

“No, we can’t. It’s a bitter condemnation of the Scottish prison system, not a holiday in the Caribbean.”

Alasdair, as always, fell into a sulk. Lou sighed. She should never have lent him her rocksteady reggae collection.

Bluto kicked into the opening riff, and Lou sat back. Was Zippy still sleeping in her bed?

Chiz missed his entrance. Bluto stopped playing. Alasdair turned his back on the band, continuing his almighty sulk.

Lou scowled at Chiz. “How much vodka?”

“Not much, Lou, I swear.”

“Let me see the bottle.”

Chiz held it up slowly. “See, still half a bottle left.”

How the hell had she managed to bring them this far? Chiz with his drinking. Alasdair forever wanting to do something different. Bluto and his careless laziness. Thank goodness for Paolo. He was waiting patiently for his band mates to get their shit together.

“Okay, let’s start again.”

Bluto started the opening riff again and this time Chiz hit his mark. Lou sat back. Would the Zipman try to see her again? What should she do if he did? Bluto hit a bum note, but kept going. Chiz was playing sloppy. Alasdair seemed to be trying to insert a rocksteady reggae beat into a bluesy rock number. Paolo was waiting for his moment. Bluto opened his mouth to sing the opening line. Then promptly forgot the words. He mumbled them until he suddenly remembered. Lou rolled her eyes. They were playing like a bunch of amateurs. This was going to be a long practice.

“Lou. Can I talk to you?” Banshee had pulled her chair next to Lou’s.

“Not now. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“It’ll just take a minute. I’ve written some songs, you see. And I wanted to ask your opinion. You know, get some advice.”

Chiz dropped one of the sticks, then fell off his chair as he tried to retrieve it. “Not now, I said,” Lou yelled at Banshee. Bluto launched into the chorus, but instead of singing “Barlinnie,” about Glasgow’s notorious prison, he sang “Balvenie,” an equally famous brand of whisky.

Banshee tried to shove some papers in her hand.

Lou shoved them back. “Will ye please just go the fuck away!”

The band jangled tunelessly to a halt. Lou looked at them.

Paolo had held out a hand and kept them silent. “Apologize, Lou.”

“What?”

“Apologize to Banshee. Now.” Paolo gently put his guitar back in its stand. “You’ve been rotten to her for no good reason from the moment you met her. Apologize.”

“But—”

“Last chance!”

They stared at each other. Paolo, always so calm and patient, was furious with her. “I’m trying to manage—”

“You’re no a manager, Lou. You’re a fucking dictator. A little Mussolini. I’m sick of it. We’re all sick of it!”

Lou glanced at the other band members. None of them would meet her eyes.

“I’ve got you this far—”

“Aye. Singing your songs the way you want them played. Wearing clothes that you want us to wear. Naming us stupid bloody Guyville. Picking out our instruments. And now. Now! You want to pick my girlfriend for me. I’m sick of it.” He walked over to her and paused a moment, before bending and kissing her on the cheek. “I love you, Lou. You’ve done everything for me. I know that. But I’m done. I’m done.” He turned and walked away.

“Paolo, wait.”

He stopped at the door. “I’m not like you, Lou. I can’t just live on music and the occasional one night stand.” He took Banshee’s hand in his, and Lou swallowed hard when she saw how tightly they held on to each other. “Maybe you should think about what else is important in life.”  He and Banshee walked out the door without looking back.

Lou turned back to the band. “Am I really that bad?”

“Well, you don’t take too kindly to input,” said Bluto.

“Or feedback,” Chiz added.

“Or even suggestions.” Alasdair had finally broken his sulk.

Lou took a deep breath. “I’ll apologize to Banshee. And I’ll do better. I promise.”

Bluto propped his guitar against a speaker, then came and sat down next to her.

Lou rested her head on his shoulder for a brief moment. “I’ll book a practice for this evening. But first I’ll go back to the hotel and make things right with Paolo.”

Bluto took her hand. “I think it’s too late for that, Lou.”

She stared at him. “Och, don’t be silly. He’s just throwing a strop. I’ll take care of it. He wouldn’t leave the band. Not on the eve of our big breakthrough.”

Chiz pulled up a chair and took a swig from his vodka bottle. “He’s been talking about it for a while, Lou.”

“What? He never said anything to me.”

Alasdair pulled up a chair. “Aye, well, it was hard for him. Letting ye down, like.”

“Letting me down? What do you mean?”

Chiz took her other hand. “We all know how important this band is to you, Lou. After your mother died and you had to leave Uni and come home. Well, this was all ye had.”

Lou shook her head. “No, no. It wisnae like that.” She thought, taking herself back to that time. “Paolo was sixteen. I wanted something to keep him out of trouble. And you lot, too. You were all into music. The band was just a way to keep you on track. It was never about me.”

“Aye, lass.” Bluto patted her hand. “That’s the way it started. That was eight years ago.” He sighed. “But along the way…it wasn’t about us anymore.”

“It was. It was too!”

Chiz snorted. “Remember that song ye made us do?”

“The Bloody Rag!” they all intoned in unison.

Lou ducked her head. Not the best decision she’d ever made, to have the boys do a song about the challenges of being on your period. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible song.”

“It was a brilliant song,” said Alasdair. “That catchy melody. When you played the recording for us, we thought it was clever and funny.”

“But it wasn’t when we did it,” said Chiz. “I couldn’t show my face in the pub for months.”

“But we were all much nicer to our girlfriends after that,” Bluto added, with an encouraging smile.

Lou squeezed Chiz and Bluto’s hands. “I’ll do better in future.”

Alasdair grabbed the vodka bottle and took a swig. Then another. “Lou. It’s over.”

She shook her head.

Alasdair handed her the bottle. “It is, lass. The way Paolo sees it, you gave up Uni and your dreams to move home and get a job and take care of him. And then you poured everything into the band. He’s being cruel to be kind by breaking up the band. Then you’re forced to get a life of your own and pursue your dreams.”

Lou took a swig off the vodka. “Pursue my dreams? I dream of the band. How does breaking it up—”

“Louisa Marzaroli!” Bluto turned her face to look at him, not gently. “When you went away to Uni what was your plan?”

Lou looked at him, confused. “Study music. See if I could get a career out of my songs.” She shrugged. “Teach if I couldn’t. Your point?”

“And then your ma got sick. You came home to take care of her. You buried her. You took a shit job and took care of your wee brother and his pals.” He kissed her cheek. “Eternally grateful, by the way.”

“Still not seeing your point, Bloot.” She scrubbed at her eyes. The big galoot had made her cry.

“And all that desire to create, to teach, to lead…” He looked upward, searching for the words. “That desire to fucking be something. All that got poured into the band, when it should be you on that stage, singing your songs about menstrual cramps and the fucking price of tampons, and the state of the prison system, and the death of your ma, and…and…and—”

“Okay. I get your point now. But—” She grabbed the vodka and drained the last of it. “The stage fright, Bloot. I cannae dae it. I cannae.”

“Jesus Christ, woman. If I can get up on a stage and sing about going on the pill to make the bleeding slow down, in front of a crowd of drunken Scotsman, then you certainly can, madam.”

“Months before I could show my face in the pub again,” Chiz repeated, with a traumatized expression.

“All my brothers still slag me about it,” Alasdair added.

Lou buried her face in her hands. “I thought you all liked being in the band.”

“I do,” Alasdair said. “But I’d rather be in a ska band.”

“Metal band for me,” said Chiz.

Bluto bounced in his chair. “I want tae join an American band.” He forgot about Lou and rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming. “New York City is fuckin’ fantastic. And the women. Sweet Jesus, the women…”

Lou turned to her old friend. “Et tu, Blute?”

He grinned at her. “Let’s go for a wee drink, hen. You’ll feel so much better with a drop more voddy in your body. I’ve heard of a great wee bar just down the road.” He took her by the arm and escorted her out of the building, turning in the opposite direction from the hotel, as the other two followed.

It was still sweltering. The heat rose from the pavement in a slow wave of damp air. Suddenly the last thing Lou wanted was another drink. “I think I’ll just go back to the hotel. See if I can calm Paolo down. It’s stupid. This is our big break. Even if he does really want to leave the band, it would be better to do it after the show. Go out with a bang.” Lou smirked. She had exactly the thing that would appeal to Paolo’s romantic nature. One last great show. After that he’d be enjoying himself too much to consider leaving. Plus, if they put on a great performance, the label would be sure to sign them. Finally, after all these years…money!

Bluto still held her arm. Alasdair and Chiz were watching him. He pulled out his mobile and checked the time. “Should be long enough now,” he mumbled.

Lou caught the furtive glances between the three of them. They were up to something. The penny dropped. “You bastards! You’re in on this.” She broke away and started to run back toward the hotel, the second time in as many days that she’d had to sprint down 23rd Street. Only this time the heat was even more unbearable and she was wearing heavy boots. She had to get to Paolo in time, despite the band’s delaying tactics. They knew she’d be able to talk him around. They knew it! The soles of her heavy boots pounded the hot pavement ever slower as she avoided the overheated citizens of New York City. Rivulets of sweat poured down her back.

She had to stop one block from the hotel to lean against a lamp post, her head swimming. She could see the steps to the hotel, could see a yellow cab parked at the front door. She pushed herself into a stagger as Paolo and Banshee climbed into the cab, carrying their bags. “Paolo,” she called out weakly. But the cab pulled away from the curb and, by the time she reached the hotel, it was just one more splash of yellow among all the others.

Lou stumbled through the hotel doors into the icy blast of the air conditioning, then took the lift to her floor. A note had been taped to her door. It was from Paolo. She read it then crumpled it up. They were headed for Mexico to get married, then were going to start a new band and a new life together. Eejits. They’d run out of money within the week and would be calling to ask for her help. But by then it would be too late. Their big opportunity would have passed, never to be offered again. She pushed her way into her room and collapsed on the bed, eyes filling with hot, angry tears. All the work of the last eight years. For nothing. She grabbed a pillow and gave the poor thing the beating of its life.

Rolling onto her back, she grabbed her mobile from beside the bed. Time to make the dreaded phone call to the label. It would at least give them time to get someone else on the show. She grimaced, then punched in the numbers.

* * * *

Four hours later Lou was back at the rehearsal rooms, waiting.

Bluto strolled in looking slightly the worse for wear. “I love this city!” he announced. “Why did ye drag me back here? You caught up with Paolo in time?”

She shook her head. “The label’s sending us a session musician to fill in for him. I left a message for Paolo to get his arse back here. If he doesn’t?” She shrugged. “Flashy lead guitar players are ten a penny. We’ll replace him.”

Bluto sighed, then stumbled. He sat down heavily on a ratty couch. “Will ye never let it go?”

“The band? Why would I do that after working so hard all these years?”

“We’ve given you eight years of our lives, Lou.”

She stared at him, so angry she started to splutter. “You…you’ve given me? I’ve given you eight years of my life!”

Bluto stared back, his face almost a stranger without its usual toothy grin. “You’ve made us do all the things you wanted to do, but were too scared to.”

She almost wavered, the hard truth staring her in the face. “Where would you be without me, Bluto? I ask you that? Drunk in a gutter with a dozen ex-girlfriends and a few bastard brats to ignore?”

He nodded slowly. “Mebbe. Or maybe I’d be in a band doing my own songs, playing the music I want to play, instead of being your little puppet on a string.” He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. “We all love you, Lou. But ye need to let us go. If you can’t get up on stage and do it for yourself, it’s time for you to manage a different band.”

“But—”

“Stop making us hurt you! Please.”

“Bluto, this is our big break. You can’t just jack it in. You can’t.”

He stood and approached her, cupping her cheek with a large, rough hand. “This will be my last show, Lou.”

The door to the rehearsal squeaked open and they both turned their heads in its direction.

Lou felt her jaw drop open. “I don’t believe it.”

Bluto grinned. “Is that no your bad boy from the other night?” He ruffled her hair, then put his arm around her. “Seeing a man more than once? Getting soft in your old age, Lou-Lou?”

Lou gawked at Zippy. He was glowering at her—and, she realized—at Bluto. He must think… She pushed Bluto away. “What the hell are you doing here?” She looked down from his angry eyes to the guitar case he was carrying.

“Don’t worry. I’m not here to see you. The label sent me. Told me to ask for the manager. Lou, I believe his name is.”

Bluto started to giggle. “You’ve been up to your old tricks again, haven’t you, doll?”

Lou gave him a shove and walked towards Zippy. “You…you’re the session guy?”

He nodded, his eyes cold. “Make yourself useful and tell Lou I’m here.” He brushed past her and walked over to Bluto, who was now lying on the couch, chortling. “You got a problem, dude?”

Bluto stopped laughing, stared at him wide-eyed, then collapsed into another set of giggles. He pointed at Lou, trying to get the words out. “She…she…” He slapped himself in the face, sat up, and took a deep breath. “Lou is otherwise known as Louisa Margaret Marzaroli.”

Lou watched as Zippy frowned in puzzlement. “You’re managed by a woman?”

“She’s rumored to be of the female sex. You’d probably know more about that than me.” He cracked himself up at his own joke and subsided back into the cushions, his sides heaving.

Lou wondered if beating Bluto to death with his own guitar would be considered homicide or manslaughter.

Zippy was turning her way, but then he changed his mind and went back to Bluto. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Lou?”

Bluto nodded.

“Not a groupie?”

Bluto shook his head.

“She’s your girlfriend?”

Bluto’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “Fuck no, man. She’s more like the bossy harridan of a big sister I never had.” He grinned and glanced over at Lou. “Naw, man. No worries. She’s all yours.” He muttered under his breath, but Lou caught it. “Ye poor bastard.”

Zip turned to Lou. “You told me—”

“I told you nothing. You believed what you wanted to believe, what all men think if they see a woman hanging around with a band.”

Lou watched him, desperately trying to stop her eyes from wandering to his crotch. Was it just a few hours since he’d been naked in her bed back at the hotel? She’d left him sleeping there. The poor thing had been exhausted after everything they’d done. A shiver ran through her. And they’d certainly done everything. She’d licked a lot more than his armpit this time. Every part of him was delicious. Every part of him beautiful. She looked at the well-worn laugh lines around his mouth. He wasn’t smiling now.

He decided something, then shrugged. “I’m under contract with the label and they’ve sent me to work.”

“Maybe it would be better if I called them and asked for someone else?”

He shook his head. “I’m the guy they go to in moments of desperation.” He smiled crookedly. “They pay me for moments like this, Maggie. I mean Jolene. I mean Miss—”

She smiled despite herself. “Call me Lou.”

“I’m sorry I thought you were a groupie.” He said it softly so Bluto couldn’t hear, leaning forward to put his mouth next to her ear. His cheek brushed hers, and Lou clenched her fists, so strong was her desire to touch him. She took a step back.

“Let’s get to work.” She gestured to the back of the rehearsal space. “If you want to get set up? The other two are running a wee bit late, but that’ll give you time to learn the song we’ll be performing.” She remembered they were doing “Song for Margaret,” with its final blistering solo. He was just a session musician. Should they do something easier? “Um,” she said. “Are ye…well…any good?”

His shoulders stiffened. “I’m a professional. I can handle anything you want to throw at me.”

Oops. She’d delivered an inadvertent insult. But then he smiled. Was he remembering how she’d pelted him with condom packets while she’d been on top of him? She almost moaned, remembering how he’d grabbed her hips and thrust himself into her, over and over, and oh… She closed her eyes. The sound of their joined laughter, the feel of their sweat on each other’s bodies. She bit her lip and forced her eyes open. Aye. By the expression on his face, he was thinking exactly the same thing she was. Sweet Jesus, he was licking his lips. That tongue of his, the things he could do with it.

Lou took three steps back. “I’ll just…um…I think…”

Zippy had one eyebrow raised and an indecent smile on his face.

“I need to pee!” Lou gasped at the stupidity of her statement, then turned and rushed out of the rehearsal room. She dashed down the hall and shoved through a door into the ladies, heading for the sink. Running the cold water, she splashed it on her over-heated face, wishing she could pour a gallon or so down her over-heated jeans. She turned off the tap and stared at herself in the mirror. Raccoon eyes again. Oh, Zippy. What are you doing to me? This silly girl wasn’t her. She needed to get a grip, be a professional. Would he be able to play the solo? Another bolt of heat ran from her brain straight to her crotch. She couldn’t wait to see what he could do. He’d played her body like a virtuoso. He’d played it for hours. What would his hands be like sliding up and down the neck of his guitar? Those fingers. Could he make his guitar cry and moan like he’d made her? Could he pluck a string and make it vibrate for long, delicious moments? Like he’d done to her.

Groaning, Lou turned the taps on again and dunked her head under the cold water. She dried her face with some paper towels, then pulled her mobile out. She should take a few minutes to calm down, then try to get a hold of Chiz and Alasdair. They should’ve been here by now. She remembered she’d taken a photo of Zip as he lay sleeping earlier. She pulled it up and stared at it. What was it about him? She’d never thought she could be so daft over an older man. He was in great shape, but the silver hairs running through his chest and head told the story, as did the slight lines around his eyes and mouth. He was no spring chicken.

Still, she’d spent years surrounded by four very immature men. If Bluto was to be believed, they didn’t even want to be in the band, but had been too cowardly, or lazy, or too stoned, or drunk to bother telling her. Zippy, now. He knew what he wanted. He wanted her. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. It was quite a refreshing change. A grown man with a few years under his belt, with plenty of experience. She shuddered delicately, thinking of what he had under his belt. He certainly knew his way around a woman’s body. Her zipless fuck was turning out to be so much more. It was probably a bad idea, but…those hands, that smile…

With an exasperated sigh, Lou turned on the cold water again. She needed to get Zipless out of her head and focus on him as a musician. If she couldn’t get Paolo back in time, Zippy was the key to their big break.

* * * *

“And you are?” Chris stuck out his hand towards the grinning man seated on the couch, who wiped his hands on his jeans before shaking it.

“Bluto. Singer. Rhythm guitar.”

“Front man?”

“Aye, most of the time. Until Paolo takes over, then I step back and let him do his thing.”

Chris nodded. “I’m Chris O’Conner. Wanna get tuned up together?”

“Aye, sure. You want to use Paolo’s axe?”

“Got my own, thanks.” He bent to his guitar case and started to open it.

“Mind if I ask ye a personal question?”

Chris shrugged.

“You responsible for all those weird noises coming from Lou’s room earlier?”

He looked up at Bluto. “I guess I am.”

“And you were with her last night too?”

Chris nodded.

Bluto was looking at him incredulously. “You got together with Lou more than once?”

“Well, yeah, why wouldn’t I?” He opened his guitar case, hearing a sharp intake of breath as the light caught the guitar’s reflective blue surface.

“Wow, man. Wow. That’s beautiful.”

Chris picked it up and strapped it on, smiling down at his favorite guitar. “You ready?”

“Aye.” Bluto grabbed his and together they began to tune up. “I’ve only seen a guitar like that once before. Years ago. When I saw Snakebite play the Barrowland Ballroom in Glasgow. That guitar picked up every light in the place. People were jumping up and doon, trying to get a wee look at themselves in the reflection. That Crash dude would let girls kiss it. Bloody thing was covered in lipstick by the end of the night. Great night, that. Great band. Shame what happened to…”

Chris looked up as Bluto trailed off.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” Bluto stared, eyes wide. “It’s you. It’s you! I didnae recognize you without all the makeup. Oh, my fucking god, I’m gonnae play with Crash fucking Burns!”

“Hey, man. It’s no big deal.” Chris shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t Crash anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time. But Bluto didn’t seem to care.

“You disappeared. After the singer died. Jake… What was it?”

“Allende. Jake Allende.” Amazing. His name still hurt. Even after all these years it was still hard to believe he was dead. Jake had been so alive. So fucking alive. But he’d been blotted out. By a fucking needle. “Come on, Bluto. What’s the song we’re gonna be doing. Key?”

The door opened and Bluto glanced over. “Hey, Lou. Remember that band, Snakebite?”

Lou went to a corner of the room and rummaged around in a big leather bag. “Aye, vaguely. One hit wonder, over-produced, they all ended up overdosing or choking on each other’s vomit or something.” She shoved her hand deeper into the bag and looked over at them. “That the one you mean?” She pulled out a sheaf of papers.

Chris stared at her, willing her to shut the fuck up. He looked over at Bluto who seemed to be frozen with embarrassment.

Bluto tried to intervene, to head her off at the pass. “You’re a wee bit harsh, are ye no?”

She shrugged as she walked towards them. “Another junkie band with more showmanship than talent. That singer was a joke.”

Chris held his breath as she shoved a piece of paper into his hand. She hadn’t said anything unforgiveable. There was actually a lot of truth in her brutally-stated opinion. He opened his mouth to inform her that there’d been only one junkie in the band.

She looked up at him. “People who waste their lives like that? In thrall to heroin?” She grimaced. “They’re an insult to all the people who died of cancer. The ones who wanted to live.”

Her lip was trembling and, as she turned away, he thought he’d seen tears in her eyes. He turned to look at Bluto. “Just drop it,” he said quietly. “Let’s get to work,” he added more loudly. “What song are we doing?”

“The one you’ve got in your hand,” Lou said, still with her back to him.

He glanced down at the paper. Song for Margaret. Words and Music: Marzaroli. The title was followed by sheet music. He shook his head. “I can’t read music.”

Lou turned to him, rolling her raccoon eyes.

“I can learn anything by ear. Do you have a recording I can listen to?”

She nodded and returned to her enormous leather bag, soon pulling out an iPod attached to massive headphones. She tapped away at the iPod as she ambled back.

She pushed a chair toward him with a foot. “Sit,” she barked, then put the headphones on his head. He watched her as she walked away. In his ears the song started, sweet and mellow. She was talking to Bluto, who was nodding and smiling. Bluto handed her something, then left the room, waving and grinning. She came back, pulling a chair with her. She sat on it in front of him, bending slightly, then clipped a capo onto the neck of his guitar. The song continued. He played a single chord, and she shook her head, putting her hand over his and sliding it a couple of frets up the neck. He played the chord again. This time she nodded and moved closer. He looked down. His leg was between hers, the guitar in his lap—and she was either staring at his crotch or trying to look at herself in the guitar’s reflective mirror.

Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out a pick. In the song, a slow, sad phrase was playing over the rhythm guitar. He’d already heard it twice. The third time he played along with it. Lou smiled and nodded. With more confidence, Chris continued with the song, adding some length and vibrato to the final note. Would she mind him changing it a little? Adding something of himself? She wasn’t smiling any more. She was just staring. Maybe she didn’t like it. He played the phrase again, adding a small run in the middle. He had the repeating phrase down now, just had to hear the solo. He listened to the lyrics. Bluto had a good voice, gruff yet tender. The song was about somebody dying. Someone called Margaret. That was Lou’s middle name.

The song was reaching its emotional climax in the final verse. He’d thought it was a song about losing a lover, but it wasn’t. It was about losing a mother. Being left alone. The feeling of fear and confusion. Chris closed his eyes. He’d known those emotions. Back in South Carolina, the third foster home, his social worker with tears in her eyes, telling him that Mom had died. Liver failure due to chronic Hepatitis C. Fifteen years old and he’d finally understood why his mother had dropped him at the local children’s home nine months earlier. Why she’d been crying, telling him it was better this way. She’d loved him; he’d always known she loved him. In her way. Not more than the smack, though. Never more than that.

The final line of the song registered, and then it was into a full-blown screaming wave of agony disguised as a guitar solo. Chris didn’t even try to play, just listened. Until the headphones were wrenched away.

“Zippy, you okay?” Lou’s voice was soft and sweet. “You’re crying,” she said, as she collected the solitary tear that was making its way down his face.

One single tear, he thought. The first he’d shed for Mom in so many years. He shook his head. “Sorry. It’s just…” He remembered the final line—having to stay strong for the younger brother who was falling apart. One of the Marzarolis had written the song. And he was sure it was the one sitting in front of him. What she’d said earlier about people dying from cancer who’d so badly wanted to live. He took a deep breath. “My momma died when I was fifteen.”

She didn’t speak. Just nodded like she knew exactly how he was feeling. “The song made you cry?”

“Yeah.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You sure you wanna do this one on the show? I mean, it’s a great song. No doubt. But it’s kind of a downer.” He sniffed, trying to do it unobtrusively.

“I suppose it is,” she said.

“What’s the newest song? Would you consider that one?”

“Um. The band hasn’t recorded it yet. But they’ve played it live a few times and it went down well.” She picked up the iPod. “I’ll let you hear it and you can tell me what you think.” She put the headphones back on him, then walked away. He started to listen, aware that she hadn’t walked far, and that she was watching him.

It wasn’t the band playing, just a single guitarist. The song started out with a few simple chords and a little nimble finger picking. Was it Bluto playing? Or maybe the brother, Paolo? Whichever one it was, he got a nice full sound out of his guitar. But when the first verse started, it certainly wasn’t either one of them singing. It was a woman. And it was a fine strong voice, clear and pure, with an aching beauty. No vibrato, no runs, just straight melody. No strain on the high notes, perfect pitch, almost effortless. There was a noticeable accent; the singer was making no effort to sound American or at least transatlantic.

He turned and glanced at Lou, who immediately turned away and pretended to be going through her bag. It was her singing. He was sure of it. Such a lovely voice, accompanied by excellent guitar playing. The song was good. Very good. It had the feel of something old that had been modernized. The lyrics were about never giving up on something, never surrendering. It sounded like her. “Who wrote it?” he said over the music, then pointed a finger at her.

She blushed, nodded.

“Paolo or Bluto on guitar?”

She shook her head.

The tempo of the song was building, the guitar playing intensified. “You?” he asked.

She nodded, then turned in the direction of the door as Bluto came crashing through it, half-carrying another man. They both fell to the ground. Over the sound of the music he could hear Lou shrieking. He pulled off the headphones.

* * * *

“Chiz, you drunken bampot! Are you incapable of staying sober?” Lou rushed over as Bluto climbed to his feet. “Let’s get him on the couch.” Don’t kill him, don’t kill him, repeated in her head.

Lou stared down at Chiz’s grinning mug, as she, Bluto, and soon Zippy, dragged his drunken carcass to the couch and heaved him onto it.

“They’re after me,” he slurred.

Lou grabbed a bottle of water and emptied it over his head, smiling with satisfaction as he spluttered. She pointed a finger in his face. “It’s me you’re in trouble with, laddie.”

Chiz started to giggle and hiccup. He might be a drunk, but he’d never been a mean one, Lou thought. And he was used to playing drunk. But— “Where’s Alasdair?”

“With some Jamaicans.”

“What Jamaicans?”

“We met them at a bar down the street.”

“So he’s at a bar? Which one?”

Chiz shook his head and rolled off the couch. “He’s no at the bar anymore. Got to go, lass. Them…they’ll be here soon.” He pushed himself up on his feet and stood there, weaving dramatically.

“The Jamaicans? Why are they coming here? What the hell did you do to them? Are they bringing Alasdair?”

“Naw. He went away with them.”

“Went with them where?”

Chiz tried to take a step back, but ended up falling on the couch. Lou stood over him, hands on hips. Chiz looked a little terrified. “Jamaica?” He asked it nervously, trying to push himself into the couch away from her.

Lou bent over and grabbed him by the shirt. “Tell me that—” She shook him. “—the fucking drummer—” She shook him again. “—hasn’t fucked off…to fucking Jamaica.” She kept shaking him until Bluto intervened.

“Careful, Lou. You don’t want him hurling everywhere.”

She stepped back, glaring at Chiz.

“Sorry, Lou-Lou.” Chiz pushed himself up again. “I tried to stop him. But those Jamaicans were pretty persuasive.”

The door opened and Lou turned to glare at the interruption. Two New York City police officers stood there. “That’s him,” said the female, pointing at Chiz.

Lou thrust her hands into her hair, forcing herself not to pull it out. “What did he do?”

The officers went over to Chiz and the male slapped handcuffs on him.

“I didnae mean to upset you,” Chiz said to the woman. “I just saw you…and well…I fell in love. The uniform. That fierce expression?” He grinned at her stupidly.

“You also offered me a joint and invited me back to your hotel for some rumpy-pumpy. Whatever the hell that is,” she said, furious.

“And took off running, though it was more like staggering,” said the male officer. “That was the easiest chase ever.” He rubbed his rather rotund belly contemplatively. “Thanks for that, at least.” He hauled Chiz to standing. “And now it’s time for you to take a little ride in my vehicle.”

“You can’t arrest him,” Lou yelled. “I need him. He’s my drummer.”

The female officer fixed her with an icy glare. “He’s gonna be charged with every possible thing I can think up.” She pulled on Chiz’s arm, leading him towards the door. “But first he’ll be spending some time in the drunk tank.”

“Since when was falling head over heels in love a crime?” Chiz slurred, grinning down at the very small woman with a very large gun.

Lou closed her eyes and grimaced as Chiz was led out the door, loudly singing an extremely soppy love song. The door closed behind them.

Bluto started to laugh. “Chiz never could resist a lady in a uniform.”

Lou turned on him, surprised to feel hot tears burning in her eyes. “How can you laugh about this? Don’t ye understand it’s all over? Paolo in Mexico, Alasdair in Jamaica and Chiz in jail. There’ll be no big break now. After all our hard work. After all—” She stopped talking as the lump in her throat clogged her words. For it to come to this…

“Aw, lass. It’s for the best.” Bluto tried to hug her, but she pushed him away.

“How can you say that, Bloot?”

He shrugged and stopped smiling for once. He eyed her, shaking his head. “Fucking blind, ye are.” He turned and started putting his guitar back in its case. He clipped it closed, picked it up, then stared at her. “We don’t want to be in your band any more, Lou. We’re sick of living your dream for you. Do it your fucking self.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “I’ll be starting a speed metal band. And I’d rather fail doing my own music than succeed doing yours.” He walked to the door. “Love you, Lou-Lou.” He opened it, passed through—and was gone.

The lump in Lou’s throat broke. She started to sob. So close. We were so close. Her shoulders heaved and tears ran down her face as she stared at the closed door. Even Bluto…

Suddenly her face was pressed against a broad chest as strong arms squeezed her tight. “Oh, Zippy.” All the wet and snotty misery came pouring out onto the poor man’s shirt, while a large hand rubbed up and down her back, sparking a rather unwelcome frisson of desire. “What am I going to do now?”

He tipped her head back and gazed at her with eyes so full of compassion that she started to cry again.

“Aw, c’mon, Lou.” He pulled off his shirt and wiped her eyes with it, then handed it to her. “Blow your nose. I’ve got an idea.”

Lou turned away for a little private snot removal. No way this situation could be salvaged. But it was nice of him to be so kind.

He sat her down on the couch and knelt in front of her. “That was you singing and playing on that recording you gave me to listen to?”

Lou nodded and sniffed. Where you going with this, Zip? She pulled out her mobile. “I’d better call the label and let them know what’s happened. Give them time to find a replacement for us.”

He took the phone away and dropped it on the couch. “It’ll be best coming from me. I’ve been working with them for years. But hear me out first.” He took her hands in his. “You’re very talented, Lou. Fantastic voice. Skilled guitar playing. And you write great songs.”

Och, no. She knew where this was going. She shook her head.

“I happen to know the label has been searching for just your type—a female singer-songwriter. They’ve been scouting for one these past six months.” He gripped her hands tightly. “They’ve been looking for you, Lou. If I play them this recording, I know they’ll give you the slot. Your debut. Your big break.”

“No. I cannae.” Lou buried her face in her hands and spoke through her fingers. “I can’t perform. Stage fright.”

“You recorded it, right? You performed it.”

“Alone in the bathroom behind a locked door.” She peeked out from behind her hands. “Good acoustics in there, but on stage—panic mode. I freeze.”

“But—”

“No! I. Can’t. Do. It.” Lou wiped her face, grabbed her mobile and stood up, pushing past him. She picked up a guitar case and turned to him. “I really appreciate your offer to call the label and I’ll take you up on it, thanks.” She walked to the door, shoulders slumped, feet dragging. It could have been the best night of my life, but instead I’ll be heading back to Glasgow. She turned to him before leaving. He was still kneeling on the floor, deep in thought. “Nice knowing ye, Zippy. It was fun.” She pushed out what she hoped was a brave little smile and left him there.

Walking down 23rd, carrying her beloved guitar, Lou started to cry again. Back to Scotland with no band. Back to stocking shelves in the supermarket. Back to the house where Mum had died. She shook her head. What a way for it all to end. So close, but the big break had turned out to be the big break-up. Could they not have said something earlier?

The wet heat beat her down as she trudged slowly back to the hotel, nursing her shattered dreams. She should call Paolo and Alasdair, make sure they were okay. Maybe try to find out what Chiz was being charged with. Or perhaps she should let them figure it all out on their own? They might have hated being in the band, but they’d spent the last eight years happily being taken care of by her. She stomped her Docs on the blistering heat of the pavement. Aye, she thought. Let them figure it out on their own. No more Lou to pick up the pieces and get them out of whatever trouble they got their stupid selves into. They were on their own. She’d arrange for all the gear and herself to get back to Scotland. The decision was made. Guyville was the past. If only her future didn’t look so bleak. If only she could get past the incident that had left her terrified of going on stage. She swiped away a tear—and kept walking.