Page 73 of Deliverance

“Exactly.”

“You know Kent?” His gaze darts to the dude with the camera.

“Haven’t had the pleasure.” At least I don’t think so, but the face does look familiar.

“He did our lastPulse Nationcover,” Toby chimes in.

“I’m just going to take a few behind the scenes shots,” Kent says. “If you don’t mind.”

“No. It’s cool.”

I’m used to photographers. Such is the life of a major league drummer.

“We’re excited to have you on this record.” Mitch surveys the surroundings with an expert eye while Kent pops the cap of his lens open and wanders over to the partition to study my kit.

“I’m excited to be here.”

No one brings up the elephant in the room—the fact that I’m just a stand-in guy and the gig belongs to Ashby, but as much as it bothers me on some levels at times, I don’t allow it to affect my mood today. I can’t. I’ve got a week to get all my parts right before the band moves on to tracking guitars and vocals, and my only focus at the moment is to make sure drums on this album kick ass.

“Sick setup,” Kent notes, glancing at me.

“You play?” I down the rest of the water and throw the empty bottle into the trash can in the corner.

“When I was in high school. Haven’t had much time lately.” He gestures at his camera.

“Hey, man. Whatever makes you tick.” I give him a smile and run the towel over my face and neck to collect the sweat.

We continue the small talk until Mitch finally corners Luca, and I use the opportunity to pull Toby aside and ask him my own questions, “Leo coming?”

“He said he was.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good. I didn’t drink that much last night.”

But he’s not the one I’m worried about.

13 Drew

“I don’t believeit was a butt dial.” Santiago slurps on his smoothie.

It’s quarter to eleven and we’re in our usual spot near the gallery. The breakfast rush is over and the lunch madness hasn’t begun yet, so the place is pleasantly empty.

Well, as empty as an artisan cafe on the Westside can be. There are a few unoccupied tables and only two people hovering at the register.

“I’m pretty sure my silence explains where I stand,” I mutter as I stare out the window. My fingers are torturing a napkin. Or what’s left of it, anyway. My egg sandwich is untouched.

“Come to the meeting tonight.” Santiago sets his smoothie aside and gives me his undivided attention.

I turn my head and look him in the eye, trusting that he’ll see what exactly is happening in my head right now. Words fail me. Instead, I rattle off a poor excuse, “I’m tired of talking about it. I just want it to go away.”

“You know it won’t go away if you keep it to yourself.” Santiago reaches for my hand and I let him hold it. His warmth is comforting, reassuring, hopeful. “You’re just accumulating all this bad energy. You need to release it into the world.”

“I kicked him out, half-naked with paint all over him.” It may sound funny to someone who’s not privy to the whole picture, but in reality, the situation is as far from funny as it can be. Zander Shaw definitely wasn’t laughing on Friday night. “I don’t know what came over me.” My voice drops to an ugly whisper. “It was like I was back in that house and Rhys was there…and I couldn’t breathe.”

Santiago offers an understanding smile, encouraging me to continue, but I’ve never been able to tell my story in a way that someone can truly understand what my ex-husband put me through. It’s always just a bunch of phrases that make little sense to the outsider. The only time I’ve actually managed to produce a coherent account of everything that happened between my meeting Rhys Jacoby and my move to L.A. was during one of the group meetings a few weeks after I met Santiago.

Only once.

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