Page 3 of Shattered Chords

“I didn’t peg you for a guy who’d play a reissue,” the girl said.

“Is that so?” I chuckled. “You’ve been watching me?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“True.”

“Do you really have more than two hundred guitars?”

“Yes.”

She turned her head to look at me. “Do you still have the Olympic White Jeff Beck model you used to play during live shows in 2005?” She had a heart-shaped face and her hair fell messily across her wide forehead, covering almost her entire right cheek.

“You remember what I played in 2005? What were you? Two?” I laughed.

“YouTube, duh.” She rolled her eyes.

“Right,” I drawled. The girl made me feel ancient. There was no YouTube when I was growing up. No Instagram. No Twitter. No whatever-the-fuck new social networking app was trending today. “You know your stuff.”

“I know some,” she agreed.

“I take it you play.”

The girl nodded. “Yep. I’m in a band.”

Pulling the lollipop from my pocket, I battled with the wrapper for a few seconds. “What’s the name of the band?”

“Systematic.”

“Sounds dangerous.” Grinning, I stuffed the candy into the corner of my mouth. “You’re playing live?”

“First show is on Friday.” She lifted her chin. In her gaze, there was a flicker of pride and something else. Hopes and dreams. Oh, I knew those two very well. We’d been buds for years. Our fragile friendship had been glued together by oceans of booze and mountains of coke.

“Nice,” I said. “Where at?”

“Valley Club.”

“That’s a cool spot.” I nodded. “They have great sound.”

Valley Club was one of just a few venues with live music in this area. Tucked between Hidden Hills, a gated community that catered to some of the richest people in the world, and a large stretch of the immense Santa Monica Mountains, Calabasas was hardly a city famous for its entertainment spots. Those who lived here indulged in early mornings of golf, coffee meetings at artisan shops, dog walking, and hiking. If anyone wanted a glimpse of real nightlife, they drove to L.A. Partying and easy access to women and drugs of any kind was the main reason I’d never moved into the house near Mulholland Highway that I’d bought some years back.

It’s a good investment, Dante, my financial advisor had said during the market crash in 2008.

Growing up in an apartment the size of a shoebox, I’d been more than happy with my penthouse in Westside. Besides, I’d never stayed in L.A. long enough to actually want to settle somewhere more solid and permanent. With a yard.

However, nothing changed one’s perspective like fucked-up kidneys, a torn pancreas, and a stroke.

Good thing I’d been too high to argue during that conversation with my financial advisor. Hall Affinity had just signed with KBC and all four of us had received fat advances. I had money to burn, so I bought the property and conveniently forgot about the purchase the following day. I never told anyone either.

“Are you gonna come?” the girl asked, her voice snapping me back to reality. I was in the guitar shop, and the candy tingled inside my mouth. Not quite the same effect as nicotine.

“If I’m not busy, I might,” I said.

“That’d be rad.” She gave me a small smile, trying to keep it cool.

“What time is your set?”

“Eight.”

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