Page 99 of Red Hot Harmony

Camille frowned.

I winced and mouthed a “Sorry,” then said, “Pretty much.”

“Fuck, yeah!” Malik shouted, his voice booming through the car, and I made a mental note to never use the speaker again.

“Don’t leave my dog home alone,” was my final instruction.

“He called my mother a cow.” Camille huffed once we got disconnected.

“I apologize. He’s very...honest.”

“Right.” She paused, then added, “Sometimes she can be a real bitch, though.”

At that, we both laughed but stopped abruptly because reality slowly set in.

Awkward silence bloomed between us while we continued down the curve of the road toward our destination.

As I followed the GPS around the block and in the direction of the property in question, Camille messaged her mother and explained that Malik was on his way.

The place wasn’t hard to find. It was the only house with several cars haphazardly parked across the front yard and music blaring from the inside. Several people hung out on the porch, smoking cigarettes.

Nicotine and I had a very complicated relationship, and although I suddenly craved it to the point of pain, I couldn’t fathom holding anything that burned that close to my mouth right now.

The Jag slowly crawled past the property to give Camille an opportunity to study the crowd.

“Do you recognize anyone?” I asked.

“No, there’s too much smoke.”

We found an empty spot at the end of the block and parked. She pushed the door open and stepped out, not bothering to cover her face.

I followed, which earned me a raised eyebrow and an over-the-shoulder glance.

“What?” I threw my hands in the air. “You expect me to wait here? I’m coming with you.”

She darted toward the house, strides wide and certain, back rigid.

The ash beneath our feet stirred as we made our way along the sidewalk and across the lawn.

Heads turned at our approach.

I surveyed the surroundings. Through the slits in the shades covering the windows, moving forms could be seen. The walls had difficulties containing the heavy pounding of the drums. I felt the tremble the moment my boots connected with the porch. The floorboards creaked and groaned and the sounds waited for me to get closer.

It was a painfully familiar riff, one I wrote years ago, one that sold millions of copies of our debut album. Hearing these kids playing our songs more than a decade later gave me real pause.

“What’s up, shorty?” someone blurted out, a greeting unmistakably directed at Camille as she headed straight for the door, ignoring the stares.

My blood roared in my veins.

I squeezed my fingers into a fist and pressed on into the house.

The music came crashing down on me like a train that had gone off the rails. It was loud and aggressive and oddly satisfying because I’d never thought the songs we’d created in the early 2000s would still be played today.

The internet, YouTube, and streaming services had changed the music industry. Everyone with a laptop could be a songwriter now, without the blood, sweat, and embarrassment that being in a new band had entailed in the past. Ten people crammed into the back of a gasoline-smelling van. Small venues without proper ventilation. Even smaller crowds spitting on you when you didn’t play a cover of a rock ballad they asked for because you wanted to play your original material.

Oh, the good old days.

How I missed them.

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