Page 4 of A Winter's Night with Tempest

“What are you implying?” I narrow my gaze, playing along. I know very well that he means me.

Bryan grins and changes the subject. “Your girls sure are pretty.”

“Yeah.” I agree wholeheartedly, and this is a subject I instantly warm to. I love my girls. “They look like their mom.”

“They do for sure.” Bryan looks around again and crosses his arms over his chest. “I can’t get over it. This studio is the shit.”

“Thanks.” My shoulders go back.

“Important to you, huh?” Both his dark brows rise to an inquiring height.

“Definitely.” I give him a serious-as-shit look. “Tempest is going to record our best fucking album here.”

I take a moment. Emotion sweeps over me as I gaze around my living room, which has never been so full. The sectional, the easy chairs, the couch, and the game table that seats four, every available seat is taken.

Moving further into the space, I clock Bryan’s location. Unsurprisingly, he is beside Lace with his arm around her. The large window behind them reveals that the snow has transformed our front lawn into a winter wonderland.

My girls are on the leather sectional with their beautiful mother. Shaina is deep in conversation with Miriam Acenado. My wife and my drummer’s wife are likely discussing Hope House.

Miriam started the Southside-based charity years ago. Shaina is on the advisory board. All the wives of Tempest band members have roles in the nonprofit that serves underprivileged youth. We have come a long way from our Southside Seattle roots, but those roots remain.

Juaquin catches my gaze. The Tempest drummer is known as King to all of us in the band and our fans, but he is Mr. Southside to the rest of the world because of his multiple platinum albums as a solo rapper.

King is standing but hovering close by his wife. As I watch him, his tawny gaze slides to his daughter.

Hope has long glossy black hair like Miriam, but her eyes are the same tawny shade as her father’s. At fifteen, Hope is older than her cousin Bo or my girls, who are twelve. Hope’s focus isn’t on me or any of the rest of us. It’s glued to her phone.

Just to the right of King is Sager Reed. Our wise and well-read bassist has his wife beside him. Melinda, who is Blue to her husband, was once a competitive ski-cross racer and a solo recording artist with significant success. But nowadays she spends most of her time at Black Cat Records in Vancouver.

Mary Timmons, the owner of our record label, and Melinda have grown close. The ice queen began to thaw when she took Melinda into her home after the ski accident that left Melinda blind. Mary thawed even further after reconciling with her former, now current husband Charles Morris. He owns Zenith Productions, Black Cat’s biggest rival in the music business. There are rumors, though I can hardly believe them, that Mary will retire soon.

“Yo, War.” Dizzy Lowell, our rhythm guitarist who is also Lace’s brother, makes eye contact with me and lifts his Ranier beer. His other arm is draped around his wife, April.

Like Sager and Melinda, Dizzy and April don’t have any kids, but they possess the type of insular love that makes the rest of us feel like outsiders.

“Thanks for inviting us all here.” Dizzy gestures with his bottle. “Cool idea. Nice digs, man. Great view of the lake.”

“Thanks.” I downplay the praise with a shrug. “It’s all right.”

The big benefit to our home is the location and the fact that the community is gated. That provides an extra layer of protection and privacy for Shaina and my girls from our fans, who sometimes don’t understand boundaries. It became a home as soon as we moved in, not because of where it is or how many square feet it has, but because of the three most precious people in the world who occupy it.

“Missed you guys,” I say sincerely. Everyone here today is precious to me. Man, I’m becoming a sap.

My throat tight, I cast my gaze around and make eye contact with each of my bandmates, who are really my brothers. I don’t speak about my feelings because that would make me a pussy, but I don’t bother to hide what’s in my eyes.

“Oh no.” Bryan groans after taking a long look at me. “War is gonna make a speech.”

“Got things to say, smartass.” I narrow my gaze on my best friend.

“Can we get the CliffsNotes version?” Sager asks. “Please?”

“Fu—I mean, hell yeah, what Sager says.” King weighs in, and he and his best friend share a commiserative nod.

“I vote for CliffsNotes.” Diz raises his beer again.

“That’s my vote too,” Bryan says, and everyone else raises their hands, even my girls, the little traitors.

“Put your hands down.” I mock glare at everyone.

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