“Son of a bitch!” Kat groaned as she lugged her guitar out to her car. Morning sunlight glinted cheerfully off the rim of the rear tire. It was flat as a pancake, and she had to be at the studio in twenty minutes.
Her curses became a rhythmic mantra as she popped the trunk for the jack and spare. Only her second day on the job and she was going to be late. That would not reflect well on her. She was so stressed at the prospect that she had the wheel almost fully jacked up before realizing she’d forgotten to crack the lug nuts loose.
“Shit!” she panted and lowered the jack.
Hands trembling, it took her a little longer than usual to put on the spare. Though, at least she had a full-size tire instead of those stupid doughnuts that you couldn’t take over twenty five miles an hour. It came in handy as she sped down the Denver streets, eyes darting back and forth from the racing dash clock to the rearview mirror, checking for cops. The last thing she needed was a ticket.
Her phone buzzed and chimed the bass line for “Bring out your Dead,” the ringtone she’d set for Klement when he first began sending her music files, but she never could manage to drive a stick and talk on the phone at the same time, so she let it ring, tension mounting with every thrumming note.
A thousand worst-case scenarios played in her head as she pressed her foot down on the accelerator. He was probably pissed that she was late and not answering. What if he yelled at her? What if he thought she was irresponsible? Oh, Christ, what if he fired her? What if, what if, what if…? The shriek in her mind was deafening. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she felt a low-grade panic attack surfacing. And she’d forgotten to take her Xanax, too.
She practically cried in relief as she pulled into the studio parking lot. The dash clock read ten-eighteen. She was over fifteen minutes late. Her stomach roiled. She’d always been OCD about punctuality. It seemed Klement was, too.
Dread prickled her spine as she saw him pacing back and forth in front of the studio, his phone in his hand. Digging into her purse, she pulled out her medicine and checked the seat for a bottle of water. Finding none, she got out and checked the back seat.
“Thank God,” she murmured as she glimpsed a half-full bottle on the floorboard. The water was warm and her hands were filthy from changing the tire, but she didn’t care. She needed to take her pill now, before she went into full freak-out mode.
Klement’s voice rumbled behind her. “What took you so long?”
The pill bottle slipped from her fingers and clattered to the asphalt. She turned and watched as he bent down, and his long fingers curled around the bottle. Eyes narrowed, he read the label.
“What are these for?”
His fist moved forward. Kat’s eyes squeezed shut, and her arms flew up to protect her face.
“Hey,” Klement said softly. “Relax, I’m just giving them back to you.”
She opened her eyes, face burning with embarrassment as she took the medicine. “I have PTSD,” she said, barely above a whisper. “The Xanax helps my anxiety.”
Raw compassion glinted in his eyes. “Shit, that sucks. What from?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
The response had been automatic, yet part of her had a strange urge to tell him.
He gave a respectful nod. “I’m sorry for asking. That was probably insensitive.”
She dismissed the apology with a wave. “I’m sorry for being late.”
His gaze dropped to her grimy hands. “Car trouble?”
She nodded and wiped her palms on her jeans. “I had a flat. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I thought I’d get it fixed in time.”
“No problem. I figured something happened. You’ve always been— I mean, you’ve always seemed punctual to me.” He ran a hand through his long, golden hair, looking suddenly shy. “So, take a few deep breaths, take your Xanax, and we’ll get your session going.”
He picked up her guitar case and headed toward the building, slowing his long strides so she could keep up. When they got inside, Cliff had his phone in his hand and was ranting to Roderick about something he’d read off it.
“Can you believe this motherfucker?” He jabbed the air with his finger, punctuating his ire. “He says my voice sounds like a rabid Saint Bernard. And that I should have died instead of Lefty.”
Roderick whistled. “Man, that’s cold.”
Klement shook his head. “You’re still going on about that guy? I told you, he’s a troll. Don’t feed him.”
“But he’s talking shit on every site. Especially on Metalness. I mean, what the hell is his problem?” the singer whined. “C’mon, Klem, can’t you track him down and give him a virus or something?”
“Possibly, but it’s not worth my time. Besides, your fans will defend your honor.” He handed Kat her guitar case and fiddled with a button on his shirt. “Just stay off the Internet for awhile.”
Cliff glanced back down at his phone. “He’s also calling you a fag.”
The bassist laughed. “Oh, the old, ‘Klement is gay’ thing? That one never goes anywhere. And if it did, I still wouldn’t give a shit. It has no bearing on my playing.”
Kat bit back a gasp. Some people thought he was gay? True, her gaydar wasn’t right a hundred percent of the time, but she didn’t get that vibe off of him at all. Not that it mattered one way or another…right?
“Fine,” Cliff grumbled. Then he noticed her and brightened. “Oh, hi Kat. We were wondering when you were going to show up.”
“My car had a flat tire,” she said, marveling that someone would dare mock Cliff and Klement. “I still need to wash my hands.”
He favored her with a smile that should have made her melt. “Okay. Meet me in the third room on the left when you’re done.”
Kat headed to the bathroom and scrubbed her hands. She followed Klement’s advice and took a few deep breaths. Thank God the guys didn’t seem to be mad at her for being late. Roderick appeared indifferent, Cliff was more concerned with his Internet bully, and Klement seemed to have been simply worried about her. Even though it was too soon for her Xanax to have kicked in, she felt better. Especially after combing her hair, which had been messed up from changing her tire.
Klement stopped her just outside the isolation booth. “Here.” He held out a guitar strap.
She looked up at him in surprise. It looked like one of those fancy ones advertized on her website. “What’s this for?”
“I noticed that the one you have hurts your shoulder.” He fidgeted with the strap. “This one is padded and designed to distribute the weight of your guitar more evenly than your cheapo one. It also has a better adjustment range so you can get it to fit better.”
Their fingers brushed as she took the strap. Warmth suffused her body at his kindness and generosity. Here she’d been terrified that he was angry with her, and he was giving her a present. “Thank you so much!”
“Anytime. Let me know how it works.” He shrugged and headed into the sound engineer’s booth.
Cliff had his gear hooked up and ready. “I’ve been waiting for you, doll.”
Not knowing how to respond to that aside from gagging a bit, Kat hooked up her guitar and pulled the headphones over her ears. Hopefully he’d get the hint that she was here for business, not pleasure.
Klement caught her eye through the glass of the booth. It looked like he and the sound engineer were having an argument. Finally, the sound guy spread his hand in surrender, moved a dial, and gave her and Cliff the signal to start.
The bass and drums played in her ears just as Cliff started the rhythm. Kat mentally counted the beats before entering with the lead melody. Their chords blended together seamlessly and kept time with the bass and drums playing in the headphones. So far, so good. But when it came time for her solo, Cliff suddenly abandoned the background rhythm and played her part before altering it to another set of riffs.
Kat’s jaw dropped in outrage. He’d done it again!
The bass and drums abruptly shut off through her headphones, replaced by Klement’s angry voice. “Cut! Damn it, Cliff, will you stop fucking with her solos? You’re the singer, not the lead guitarist.”
Kat silently cheered. Damn straight.
“You said you wanted to keep that set of riffs I wrote.”
Klement rolled his eyes. “Yes, but you’re not supposed to do it until the bridge after the second chorus.”
“But I thought it would sound cool here.”
Klement rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Just do it how we planned and save the improv for the writing sessions.”
“Okay,” Cliff said sullenly. “Sorry.”
The bassist waved off the apology. “All right then. From the top.”
The song began again, but this time Klement cut it off to scold her for not holding a note long enough, and it took six more takes, some interrupted by spats with the sound engineer, before he was satisfied.
“Finally,” Cliff breathed when they finished the song all the way through and a break was called. He smirked at Kat. “Are you still liking the job?”
“Actually, yes.” Sure, Klement could be a bossy taskmaster, and playing the same parts over and over again grew redundant and exhausting, but she felt like their takes improved every time. She felt like they were creating something together. Something she could take pride in being a part of.
Still, she was damn grateful for the strap Klement gave her. Her old one would have killed her shoulder by now. And they still had another song to do.
They met Klement and Roderick in a break room behind the lobby. Rod had brought lunch from a local burger joint. Kat’s stomach growled. She’d been too nervous to eat breakfast.
“My fingers hurt,” Cliff complained through a mouthful of fries.
“That’s because you don’t practice enough,” Klement said without an ounce of pity. Kat bit back a laugh, but Roderick didn’t.
Cliff flipped off his bandmates before turning to her. “You did really good in there. Few musicians can survive Klement’s anal perfectionism.”
“Oh, come on, I’m not that bad,” the bassist protested.
Roderick chuckled. “You’re almost as bad as Kubrick.”
“Kubrick did films, not music.”
“Thanks,” Kat cut in before another argument erupted. “And really, he’s not that bad.”
Klement toasted her with his milkshake. “See? Now let’s get back to work.”
The next song took only four takes, maybe because Kat had clued in to most of what they wanted her to do. And Cliff seemed to have lost all urge to get creative. Still, she was relieved when they were done for the day. Even her fingers were getting sore.
Cliff high-fived her before they bent to unhook their gear. “Great job. Rod and I are going out for beers and pizza. Wanna join us?”
The idea of having beers with Cliff Tracey and Roderick Powell would have made her squeal in delight only days ago, but now all she could think about was getting back to her room and practicing like a fiend to be good enough to tour with them. “No, thanks. I have to do some work on the website.”
“You sure?” Cliff’s mouth twisted like she was speaking a foreign language.
“Yeah, but if I finish up early enough I might catch up with you guys.” Though she doubted it. She did not want to do this work with a hangover.
“I remember when I worked two jobs. It gets rough,” Cliff said. “You gotta just say ‘fuck it’ sometimes and have some fun or you’ll get burned out.” He inclined his head toward Klement, who was once more lecturing the sound guy, and whispered, “Or end up like Mister Six-jobs over there.”
“Oh, he’s not going out with you guys?” A pang of sympathy struck her for the bassist. While his bandmates were partying, he was probably going to spend his evening listening to the tracks, making adjustments, and planning tomorrow’s session. “And did you say he has six jobs?”
Klement entered the room, towering over them all. He bent and fiddled with the knobs on one of the amplifiers. “Four. I’m a workaholic.”
As if afraid to be tasked with more work, Cliff took off.
Klement picked up a discarded guitar pick from the floor and slid it around between his long fingers. “Sorry for barking at you earlier.”
“No problem.” She had to tear her gaze from his hands as she packed up. “If you don’t tell me what I’m doing wrong, I won’t get better.”
“No, I’m not apologizing for how I handle sessions.” He tapped the guitar pick on his chin. “I meant about your pills. It was none of my business, and after losing Lefty I’ve been paranoid about man-made drugs.” He smiled. “Now, if you’d had a joint, I would have made you share.”
She laughed. Kinley had told her that Klem was a bit of a stoner. “No, I can’t smoke that stuff. It gives me panic attacks.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, in the same mournful tone as every other pothead who offered to smoke with her. It was like it broke their hearts not to share.
He went back to playing with the guitar pick. “Anyway, as for today’s session, you did very well. Tomorrow I’m hoping we can get your parts done for ‘Fractured Dreamscape’ and ‘Doors to Nowhere.’”
Kat grinned, excited at her progress on the album and anxious to give them nothing but her best. “Did you want me to do ‘Fractured Dreamscape’ in G or in E?”
As they talked, she felt a warm, tingling sensation between her thighs and Kat’s face flushed even though he couldn’t see what was happening. What the hell? It wasn’t as if they were discussing anything that should turn her on.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow…”
Klement trailed off, frowning like his words didn’t match his thoughts, but after waiting a few seconds Kat didn’t think he was going to continue. Just as she headed for the door, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, why don’t you come stay at my place? I have plenty of guestrooms. Then you won’t have to pay for a hotel or go to the Laundromat.”
For a moment Kat blinked up at him in astonishment. If anyone else had grabbed her from behind she would have instantly panicked. Instead, the heat of his touch felt so good she wanted to purr.
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her response. Only then did she digest his suggestion and recover her voice.
“Okay.”
“Cool.” He gave her another one of those heart-stopping smiles. “I’ll make up a room for you and you can follow me up tomorrow after your session.”
Kat’s clit began to throb. Shaking her head, she walked out of the studio as quickly as possible without looking like something was wrong. But by the time she got out to her car, her panties were soaking wet.
“What the hell is happening to me?” she whispered.