Page 25 of Deliverance

“I’m on it.” Ian sounds pleased.

“And call Julian. See if he’s available.”

“And if he’s not?”

A loud sigh leaves my lungs. I have to think about it because Julian has been with me for almost ten years. He’s the best drum tech there is and I don’t feel like working with someone new. It’s always a fucking pain in the ass, but I haven’t been the best employer lately. Since The Deviant went into hibernation, Julian picked up a few gigs with another band this year.

“Maybe Wiley,” I say after a long moment of contemplating and running through my mental list of people I know can be a decent fit.

“Okay.”

“Thanks, man. Keep me posted.” I end the call and stare at my phone for a bit, suddenly wanting to text Drew. I got the girl’s number, after all. Actually, to be fair, she gave it up. After inviting me to her studio obviously.

I’ll be there all next week. Just message first to let me know when you’re thinking of stopping by. Afternoons and evenings are better.

I didn’t expect that she’d offer to let me see her workspace so easily, especially since she was guarding the elusive secrets of her creative process with such ferocity, but then again, I was somewhat of a pushy ass. Maybe she cracked under pressure. Or maybe it’s something else.

I’m leaning toward the latter.

A smile pinches the corner of my mouth. It’s been averylong time since someone has caught my attention the way Drew did. She sneaked up on me like a lion would sneak up on a zebra, and my comfortable world went off balance.

After a few seconds of hesitation, I finally text her.

I’m in town. Was wondering if you’ll be around later.

My phone dings with a message almost instantly.

Drew: Yes. I’m at the studio all day.

She supplies the address and parking instructions, and I’m almost surprised at how easily everything has fallen together, as if the universe had a hand in it. With the band meeting being the only real reason I got up at the crack of dawn and drove up to L.A., I hadn’t planned on messaging Drew. Not until later in the week.

It was an impulse, a strange tug from within, a soft whisper of the voice that belonged to a younger and more adventurous version of me.

Because why the hell not.

Apparently, Drew’s studio is somewhere downtown, and traffic gets thicker by the minute as I near the cluster of skyscrapers sitting between the multiple interchanges. The air here is heavy with smoke and an odd mix of hope and inevitability. The buildings looming over the patches of freeway feel like a threat, tall and formidable. A nine-to-five prison.

I dart from lane to lane, hoping to get to my destination faster, but soon realize that trying to fight the monster rush at this hour is useless. It’s just another reminder of why I love Laguna so much. The beaches. The waves. The lack of the crazy city bustle.

My GPS keeps taking me farther into the madness until the freeway exit finally opens up to a wide street that runs toward a single-deck viaduct spiked with lampposts. I continue my drive, occasionally glancing at the shabby looking structures that line both sides of the avenue. The neighborhood is both fascinating and daunting, much like other parts of the immediate city, old beauty wrapped in grime and years of neglect.

Drew wasn’t kidding when she mentioned parking would be an issue. A small lot crammed with vehicles of all sizes and makes, flanking the lone four-story building near the fork in the road must be it, but there are no spots left that can fit my Spyder. Or, at least, no spots where a sane person would risk wedging a two-hundred-thousand-dollar ride.

Frustrated, I suck in a deep breath and drive down the block riddled with construction, then make a U-turn and head back, my gaze sweeping over the shabby surroundings in search of a better parking option. After ten minutes of going in circles, I finally pull up to the warehouse across the way.

An attendant in an orange jacket rushes over to me.

“Hey, man.” I jerk up my chin. “Can I park in here?”

“Employees only,” he states, his accent heavy.

I dig into my wallet and hand him the smallest bill I can find, a fifty. In all honesty, I’m not too bitter over parting with this sum, because my desire to see Drew at work overshadows my annoyance.

Grinning, the guy tucks the money into the inside pocket of his shirt and shows me where to leave my ride.

“Thanks, man,” I tell him, scanning his nametag.Fernando.“What time are you done?”

“Seven. Make sure to be back by then,” the attendant warns me. “The company tows all vehicles without permits after they close for the day.”

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