Page 1 of A Little Campfire Blues

Chapter One

Axis

The wind in my hair felt amazing as I pointed my royal purple Jeep Wrangler towards the highway, tendrils of twilight blue hair fluttering past my face where they had escaped the messy bun I’d tied it up in. Cranking the radio up at the first tones of Godsmack’s Unforgettable, I settled in as the music washed over me, nodding to the beat as I maneuvered around slower-moving vehicles one-handed and leaned back in the seat. It was a three-hour drive from Portland, where I’d lived since graduating high school eight years before, to Redmond, Oregon, the site of the camp I’d let an old friend talk me into joining him at.

Okay, so he wasn’t just an old friend; he’d been more, once, not that we’d gotten to explore all the possibilities with my abrupt departure and him shipping out for basic training following his enlistment in the Coast Guard.

Our dreams had always meant that we were destined for different paths, but texting and email had allowed us to maintain the bond of friendship we’d shared since we were little and ran around the neighborhood together getting into shit with Ezzy.

Damn, I missed them both.

When I’d left, I hadn’t been thinking about how much I’d miss them or the way we’d grown to the point of being able to finish each other’s sentences, knowing, with just a look, when one of us was pissed off about something or scared. Maybe I’d taken for granted what it meant to have bonds that close, or maybe I’d just been too eager to exchange what we’d had for a different kind of family.

One with the band members I’d loaded up with that fateful May morning, choosing to skip walking the stage at graduation for the series of bookings Rory had set up for us at his uncle’s dive bar. Talk about old school: dim lighting, wooden paneling on the walls, and air thick with profanity, body odor, and the scent of beer. Long as my hair was, even back then, I always hadto wash it twice after a show, just to get the lingering stench out at the end of every night.

Duncan McKaggan, Rory’s uncle, took a liking to us early on and put us up in the apartments over the place where I still lived to this day, even after the others had moved on. Rory and I had roomed together on one side of the building, Bowie and Duce on the other. They used to joke about how we should have switched, so Bowie, the band’s lead guitar player, and I were rooming together, since we could always be found in one another’s apartments working on music, but beyond the music, we’d had little in common.

It didn’t help that there had always been a not-so-healthy rivalry between us, stemming from the early days of the band, when we’d been dueling over who was gonna play lead. He’d won, and I’d always resented him for that, even while admiring his playing. He truly was better, at least back then. Now, I had no idea what he was up to. A motorcycle wreck had put him on the shelf, fracturing the band, which splintered more when Rory and Duce voted to replace him.

Big mistake.

Replacement was a self-centered dick with an ego the size of Texas. It hadn’t taken any of us long to see that the soul-sucking drain of having to be around him wasn’t worth what he brought to the table in terms of playing.

Lyrics weren’t his thing.

Songwriting, outside of long, drawn-out, hastily stitched-together guitar solos, wasn’t his thing either.

But man, he’d loved the spotlight.

And drugs.

All the drugs.

Anything anyone gave him, to the point where it showed every night he got on the stage with us. Tragic, considering it woundup being a life cut short when he passed away backstage after collapsing during a show.

As a band, we couldn’t bounce back from that.

Maybe that was my fault too. I’d never fully forgiven them for replacing Bowie, who was a damn better player than fucking K.C. had been. My resentment got the best of me more than once during his time with us, but dammit all, replacing Bowie had been such a dick thing to do after he’d gotten hurt. But I’d been outvoted. When faced with whether to walk or accept the decision, I’d stayed because music had always been my drug of choice, and I’d already proved I was selfish enough to sacrifice anything for it.

Hadn’t really known what to do without the band, either, with Roman stationed in Ketchikan and Ezzy who knew where.

I’d left that friendship beyond fractured.

Songs changed as the trees along the highway blurred, wheels eating up the miles between me and the first face-to-face reunion with my past since the night I’d slipped away without saying goodbye.

Thanks to hours of video chats, I didn’t have to worry about not recognizing Roman, not that he’d changed much over the years. Two years ago, he’d been medically retired and returned home to take over the position of swim coach at the high school we’d gone to. Since then, he’d started letting his chestnut hair grow out until it flowed over the back of his neck when he swept it back, but it still had a few inches to go before it touched his shoulders.

Wouldn’t have needed a bun if my hair was that short; I’d have just let that warm wind send it whipping everywhere, but mine reached the middle of my back, thick and sleek in the strobe lights on the nights I still played.

Alone.

Damn, it sucked sometimes.

I missed the stage interactions, the laughter on long van rides, and when I was at my loneliest, I even missed the stench of Rory’s farts after the goddamned Reuben sandwiches he insisted on getting every time we went to Arby’s.

Which was a lot.

Like, a lot-lot.

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