Page 23 of On The Rocks

“Too many. They’re more worried about going viral than actually honing their talent.” I tossed my hat on the end of the long dining table. “Justin sends me links all fucking night.”

He laughed. “Justin doesn’t settle down—ever.”

“That’s the damn truth. But it’s nice to see someone excited.” I dropped into one of the mismatched chairs. “Baron was so snide about newer talent.”

Kain tapped along the back of a chair, then finally pulled it out and flipped it around to sit in it backwards. “Was that your bassist?”

“You know it was. I bet you looked it all up after I told you the other day.”

He sipped from his can. “Maybe.”

“Baron, Irene, and Marc—three of my best friends. Or so I thought.”

“The breakup was more than musical differences, huh? Not much on the internet about it. Speculation and Reddit-conspiracy theories galore, but no interviews.”

I lifted a shoulder. “Trident—our label—didn’t want to put a breakup sign on their cash cow. No one really buys albums anymore, but they love a show. Between that and the merch, we made a stable income. Not flashy anymore, but we were solid.” I leaned back in my chair and kicked out my leg. “Marc kept chasing the viral moments. He always had his damn phone out to record us.”

“And you didn’t punch him? Or hide the camera?”

“Luckily, he didn’t care much about getting me in frame. Irene was plenty interested in being outrageous enough for all of us.”

A memory of her climbing in Baron’s lap to make out while Marc filmed dashed through my brain. Both of them always tried to poke at the other. By the end, I was pretty sure the three of them were climbing into each other’s beds on the regular.

Until Irene had gone too far.

The half empty can crackled under my fingers.

Kain glanced down at my hand.

I eased up, then lifted it to finish it off. “June will be two years since we broke up. Trident is trying to put out some compilation album of old B-sides. Squeeze us for every drop of blood.” I stood and pitched the can in the recycling bin.

“Sounds shitty.”

“You’d be correct. But we were young and dumb when we signed our contracts. Trident has access to all our old recordings. They can do what they want.”

“I imagine you have money to get a good lawyer.”

“Theirs are better. We tried to get out of the contract. Ironclad. Why we ended up doing a Vegas residency. Between that and interpersonal crap, we were a tinderbox.” I curled my fingers around the back of my chair until my palm throbbed. “But that’s not my life anymore. I’m tired of cutting off my music because of their bullshit. Now I can just play for myself.”

“Don’t give Justin an opening or you’ll be on that stage, son.” Kain stood. He crushed his can and tossed it into the recycler from where he was. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and smiled at it. “Kaimoniis looking for a lunch date since it is slow at the Lodge.”

“Go on. I’ll clean up. Where do you want me to put the rest of the leftover stuff?”

“You can bring it over to the taproom. I have to patch some things in the kitchen.” At my silence, he arched a brow. “Unless that’s a problem?”

“No. It’ll fit in my truck. I’ll drop it by this afternoon.”

“You sure?”

I eased my grip on the chair. “Definitely.” I followed him out to the front of the Starling. The large carved door was another addition from Kain’s warehouse of goodies.

Kain stepped out on the cement stairs that went to the gravel walkway. “We gotta fix these ugly stairs next.” He turned around to stare at the boxy brick building. “Maybe we knock out some space for tall skinny windows too. Then we can make a porch or pergola.”

I stood beside him. “Porch, I think. Simple. Room for a swing, maybe.”

Thinking about how much Lennon enjoyed the swing, I turned around to look out on the gala apple orchard that was starting to bud with leaves. It was a good view.

Not that I should be thinking about her. I’d enjoy it too, dammit.

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