Page 4 of Shattered Chords

I contemplated. My days were simple, with activities that included hiking, working out, seeing my therapist, going to AA meetings, and practicing on my guitar. I’d also adopted a new hobby—cooking. It was the only way I could stay sane at this point in my life. My last and only post-overdose public appearance had been months ago.

A high school band on a Friday night? That didn’t sound like me at all. At least, not the old me. The new, stitched up and reimagined Dante Martinez had no idea who he was anymore.

“Hey, buddy!” I waved at Lance. “Can we look at that Les Paul again?”

He grabbed the stepstool and sidled around the counter with a chain full of keys.

I gestured at the speaker. “You should put on some Bonamassa.” The candy rattled against my teeth as I spoke.

In my peripheral, the girl bit her lips to hide her giggle. I was intrigued. There weren’t many teenagers who knew the genius of Joe Bonamassa. There weren’t many teenagers who were interested in playing an electric guitar like back in the 90s either. Today, everyone wanted to be a DJ. Except for this kid with purple streaks in her hair.

Lance took out the instrument and handed it to me. Then the three of us went to the back area where a mountain of amplifiers lined the wall.

“Wanna go first?” I asked, handing her the Les Paul.

It wasn’t the gentleman in me speaking.

It was the coward.

We hardly talked. There was some nodding and eye contact, but no words. She plugged in the guitar and settled down on a bench across from the amplifiers. Lance handed her a pick and hovered over her, perked up and ready to close the sale.

I stood off to the side with my arms crossed on my chest and watched the girl run through a couple of chords. She was good. Fretting fingers arched, thumb relaxed, face screwed up in concentration.

An instrument either loved you or it didn’t. And this Les Paul adored the girl from the moment her hands touched its smooth sunburst body. She was serious about her playing. In a way, she reminded me of myself at that age. My hunger to learn everything there was about guitars and how to make them produce the sounds I wanted had been absolute.

My skill was the greatest gift I’d ever received in life, the gift I’d taken for granted all these years. It’d pulled me through hell so many times that I’d lost count, and now this gift was slipping away, just like my sanity and my health. Some nights when I lay in my huge bed, I felt it leaving my body. A soft flutter of my spirit and a gentle beat of my heart. Deserting me quietly.

I was terrified that one day I’d wake up and wouldn’t be able to hold a guitar anymore.

My exit from the world of music had been pathetic. I’d wanted a death worthy of my own legacy. I’d imagined going out with fireworks. I’d imagined dropping dead on stage in the middle of a solo, but apparently, someone upstairs had made other plans for me.

Instead, it was a slow, horrific decay. Days filled with pointless tasks that lead me back to where I’d started—a life of dull loneliness.

The girl fiddled with the strings and ripped through a Led Zeppelin riff, her gaze remaining on the Les Paul. She scrunched her nose during the harder parts of the solo.

Lance figured out that we were going to be a while and returned to the front, leaving us to our own devices.

Curious, I listened.

Music had always rendered me both speechless and powerless and this girl could play.

She messed around on the guitar for a few more minutes, breezing through some rock classics and harmonies I’d never heard before, then stopped playing and gazed up at me. “Your turn, dude.”

I stepped closer and took the Les Paul from her. “What’s your name?”

“Ally.”

“Just Ally?” Snapping my fingers, I called Lance over, and he rushed to hand me a strap. I hadn’t played sitting down in ages. Except for the acoustic set during theDreamcatcherspremiere, which didn’t count. I’d fucked that one up real bad. My fingers had refused to listen to me. I’d gotten better since then thanks to daily practice, but nowhere near the level I was before the stroke.

One step at a time, Dante, the voice in my head that sounded a lot like Sonia, my therapist, said.

“Ally Rockwell.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ally Rockwell.” Attaching the strap, I asked, “You know why you need to run the cable from behind it, right?” My mind kicked into that long-forgotten geek mode, where all the little pieces of knowledge I’d collected over the years were now pushing through.

“So I don’t rip it out when I accidentally step on it. It tugs on the strap.”

After two decades of touring, I could easily tell the difference between a real fan—someone who followed my story for my playing—and a fan of my looks and charm—a.k.a. a groupie in the making. Ally was the former. She watched my hands like a hawk, devouring my every move.

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