Page 28 of Broken Bridges

I hadn’t known Tia long, but her spark needed a good kick up the ass. Life was too short to mope around indoors all day. If I moved to LA in a couple months, I’d take her out...Wait. No. Cole should do it. He was her fucking brother.

Sutton grabbed a cushion and turned toward Flint. “Can you move over please, hun? I need to lie down.” He shuffled along the sofa toward the corner so she could rest her head on his lap. “I’m spinning. I’ll be okay in a second.”

I raised a questioning eyebrow. Or throw up.

“You want me to take you to bed?” Flint leaned over and kissed her forehead.

“No. Play some music for me.”

“Now that is a great idea.” Flint eased himself out from beneath Sutton’s head, leaped from the sofa, and headed over to the storage nook underneath the staircase. He grabbed his electric guitar from its case. “Guys, let’s jam a few songs.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice.” I stumbled over to the nook to grab my bass. After veering around the furniture, fumbling with cords, and plugging our guitars into the amps stowed by the wall, I sank onto the floor beside the fireplace. Bourbon sloshed in my belly. Hmm. Any warmer and I’d be a hot toddy.

Tia giggled. “Lewis, are you okay?”

She was kinda cute wrapped in her blanket and with her hair tied in a messy knot on top of her scalp. Ergh! I dropped my head back against the stones. This nonsense had to stop. “I’m just a little drunk.” I set my bass across my lap and strummed the strings. Better.

Within minutes, Slip had his guitar, Cole had grabbed his small snare drum and sticks, and music flowed from our fingertips. Flint’s swoony voice filled the room as we played covers of “Wonderwall” by Oasis, “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac, and “I’m On Fire” by Bruce Springsteen. Sutton had passed out beside Flint before we’d made it to the end of the second song. I pursed my lips. Poor girl hadn’t been able to keep up with us guys drinking. She’d tried. I’d give her ten points for effort.

Flint stroked her hair. “Our audience didn’t last long.”

“Hey?” Tia piped up. “I’m still here. Can you play some of your new stuff? That one about dreams?”

“‘Shattered Dreams?’” Flint grimaced. “Yeah, I’m still not happy with that one. It needs a lot of work.”

“And so does the intro on ‘Fragile’. It’s not right yet.” Cole tapped his sticks against the rim of his drum. “Maybe while drunk we can come up with something better.”

It wouldn’t be the first time we’d played under the influence of alcohol.

We ran through “Shattered Dreams,” then fell into playing “Fragile.” I positioned my fingers over my strings, ready to join in after the electric guitar intro. But as I closed my eyes, the notes twisted and twirled through my head. Yep. Something about the beat was off. It was too reggae. Too boppy. Too...wrong. Then it hit me.

“Wait. I might have something that could work.” I placed my bass down, shot to my feet, and swiped my laptop off the sideboard. Returning to sit on the end of the sofa by Tia’s outstretched feet, I turned my computer on and scrolled through my folders of files. The riff I wanted them to hear blared inside my head. “Hold on a sec. It’s here somewhere.”

“Are you ripping another one of our songs apart?” Humor glinted in Flint’s eyes as he continued to strum the tune softly on his guitar. But was that bite I’d detected in his tone?

“No, man.” Crap. Should I keep my mouth shut until we know each other better? I didn’t want them kicking my ass to the curb for being too cocky. “It was just an idea for the start. I can find it later.”

“Lewis.” Slip slid his fingers down the neck of his guitar. The sound sliced the air. “You need to own your shit. You’re good. We don’t mind listening to your ideas. That’s why you’re here. Flint’s just messing with you.”

Flint grinned. His head wobbled with a drunken nod. “I am. Totally.”

“Okay. Good.” Thank fuck. I was still getting used to the guys’ digs and jokes and wicked senses of humor. I’d only known them for a week, but we seemed to share the same warped level of shit-stirring and sarcastic banter. I had to trust them more, trust my gut, and be bold enough to have my say. Not everyone was an asshole like Kilt from my previous band.

“You need to chill, bud,” Cole slurred. “We’re a team. We work together. But if you ram nothing but your shit down our throats, I’ll kick your ass out the door.” Cole smiled but was serious.

“Trust me—that’s not my style. I honestly love the songs you’ve written for this album. Like you said, some still need finessing. I wanna help you do that.”

Over the past week, these guys hadn’t taken all my suggestions onboard. Many of my ideas had been tossed aside. But they’d listened to each one, worked with what they liked, and refined my input. That was freaking awesome. I hadn’t realized how much of a battering my confidence had taken over the years thanks to Kilt’s obsessive control over our band and Emilio’s over me. Thank God both relationships had ended. Each day I spent with these guys, my faith in my talent grew. Being surrounded by like-minded people helped. Attitude was key. Slip was right. I was fucking good.

Yeah, but don’t push it.

Dick!

Cole waved his finger at my laptop. “Now. Play whatever it is you want us to hear.”

“Will do.” Blinking away the alcoholic haze from my vision, I searched my files again and found the folder I was looking for. I scrolled down the list.

Tia curled in beside me and edged closer to the screen.

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