Broken Strings (A Rock Star Novel) (2 page)

Chapter One

Will the Real Kirk Hammett Please Stand
Up?

Present Day…

Gabby and I are kicking back
at
It’s Bean Too Long
a coffee shop in San Francisco waiting for Sam, a
fellow Lunatic (the most faithful of the band Fringe are called Lunatics). He
is supposed to meet up with us and work out a game plan for the San Jose shows.

We don’t know what he looks
like other than he described himself as a Kirk Hammett (Metallica lead
guitarist) look-a-like and would be wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket.
He’ll be easy to spot. It’s a little too warm for a jacket these days.

We always arrive early
whenever we’re meeting a Lunatic we haven’t met before, so we can bug out
without being noticed if a real creep walks in. It’s why when he asks for our
descriptions or what we’ll be wearing, I decline to answer and Gabby is vague.

I’m Japanese American and
Gabby is your typical tall blue-eyed blond. She’s approaching 5 feet 10 while
I’m barely north of 5 feet. She’s got this golden honey colored tan and looks stunning
in a bikini. I on the other hand am fair and look better in a one-piece.

Guys love her for her bra
size and me for my intellect…
right
. So when our Kirk Hammett asks for a
description neither of us is saying anything beyond name, and gender. That’ll
have to suffice for now. We sit on opposite sides of the table so we can visually
cover all the exits.

At five minutes before
meeting time an angel from heaven walks in. He really does look like Kirk’s
twin brother, if he had one! He is so totally hot that I forget to flag him
down; he hasn’t spotted us yet.

Gabby comes to the rescue and
waves him over when he looks our way. The moment he fixes me with his gaze I can
feel myself beginning to melt. If yesterday Gabby would have asked me to
describe my ideal guy I would have described the guy who just walked over and
sat down across from me.

He must be a little over 6
feet tall with a lean muscular frame. I wouldn’t say he’s got a runner’s build;
he’s far too muscular for that. He definitely spends time working out, but not
so much he’s a walking advertisement for Gold’s Gym. He may not be Mr. America,
but he’s Mr. Universe to me;
and
he’s a Lunatic.

Gabby is the first to recover
her senses and introduces us. “I’m Gabrielle and this is my friend June.”

“Very nice to meet you
Gabrielle and June, I'm Sam.” He says in a deep baritone.

The way my name rolls off his
tongue, it makes me wish he’d do something else with it, other than speaking.
The moment that thought pops into my head I can feel the heat rising up my
face. I must be beet red right about now because Gabby is staring at me.

“Are you okay?” She asks. “You’re
turning red. I hope you’re not coming down with something. You’re not catching
the flu right before a show are you? ‘Cause if you are you should go to another
booth…in another restaurant…another town…”

Yeah she gets a little
paranoid before a Fringe show.

“Relax Gabby; I’m just a
little warm that’s all.”

“I’ll say, by the looks of
your face you must be practically smoking.”

I’m trying to relax and
regain my cool but the attention from Gabby is not helping matters. She’s right
though, I’m so hot right now you could probably cook a side of beef on my face.

I try to relax and focus on
the conversation at hand but that just makes me look at Sam and I’m burning up
all over again. He was right about his description. Most guys, when they say
they look like a celebrity; they’re the only one who can see any resemblance.
That is definitely not the case here!

Sam has long curly dark hair
that falls down just past his shoulders. His gorgeous locks frame his perfectly
symmetrical face; he could have been a model, maybe he is. He has perfect skin,
beautiful white teeth, and a light complexion enhanced by his hair. I love that
he has a faint goatee. It gives him that ruggedly handsome slash scoundrel look
with so kissable full lips.

“I would never have pegged
you for a Lunatic,” Gabby is saying. “I mean, you look more like a member of a
band than a rabid fan.” She laughs and he laughs with her. “I guess Lunatics
come in all shapes and sizes.”

He gives her a puzzled look
then says, “Well… I’ve been called a lot of things, never a lunatic. But coming
out of your mouth, the appellation is flattering.”

I look over at Gabby and
she’s got this star-crossed look on her face, the one she gets when she meets a
celebrity right before she embarrasses herself. I should probably jump in
before she sticks her foot in her mouth.

“So tell me Sam, how many-”
I’m about to say,
how many shows have you seen
, when his knee brushes up
against mine under the table.

I can feel my skin getting
goose bumps, starting where our knees are touching, and all the way to my brain.
It’s kind of like a little electric jolt, and it makes me completely forget
what I was saying. I can’t think, I can only feel and right now my body’s
singing the praises of Sam the Lunatic.

Finally I have to shift back
and sit up straight, breaking contact with the man; the fog clears from my
brain enough for me to form words; many words. Gabby and I spend the next half
hour gushing about the band and speculating about the new guitarist who will be
making his debut appearance the next time they play.

Sam doesn’t talk a lot but he
makes me feel like I am the most important person in the room. He’s super
attentive and very intelligent, traits not often found among fellow Lunatics.
I’m in the middle of this long monologue about rock-n-roll and my take on the
lifestyle and how incredibly egotistical and selfish so many are, even my
favorite band, Fringe, and how I could never date a rock star.

Just then, another guy
wearing a motorcycle jacket, and who also looks vaguely like Kirk Hammett walks
up to our booth.

“Hey guys.”

I do a double take. What’s
going on here? “Do I know you?” I ask.

How is it that there are not
one, but two Kirk Hammett, Metallica Guitarist look-a-likes in the same room?
Is there some Kirk look-a-like contest going on that I’m not aware of? This is
totally weirding me out.

“Uh…hello,” he says, “I’m the
Lunatic who looks like Kirk Hammett who’s supposed to meet two girls here.
Who’s this guy?”

“
He’s
the Kirk Hammett
look-a-like we thought was the Lunatic we’re supposed to meet.” Gabby replies.

“
He’s
a Kirk Hammett
look-a-like?”

Gabby and I nod together.

“Hm…I don’t see it.” He says.

He doesn’t see it? That
coming from the guy who looks no more like Kirk Hammett than Gabby does?
He
doesn’t see it? I’m at a loss for words.

Gabby comes to the rescue.
She looks at
our
Kirk look-a-like, the one we’ve been talking to the
last half hour and who really does look like the Metallica guitarist, and asks,
“Who the hell are you then?”

“Hey I just came in for
coffee; you guys are the ones who called me over.” Says our Kirk.

“Well why didn’t you say
something then if you’re not the guy meeting us here?” I complain.

“Are you joking? Two hot
girls wave me over and offer me a seat and I’m supposed to refuse? Are you
kidding me?”

He said hot! He said hot. My
brain is shooting sparks out of my ears. He said hot! Okay I really gotta
settle down here. He said hot! Once more Gabby saves the day.

“Sorry Sam, I can’t believe
I’m saying this, but we did promise to meet…” She looks at the sorta Kirk
looking guy. “What did you say your name was?”

“Jack.” He says, but I only
have ears for Sam.

“Well Jack,” says Gabby,
“let’s take a seat over there.” She points to an empty booth, “and we’ll let
Sam
have his coffee in peace.”

As we get up to leave I
glance back once more at Sam. He’s watching us with an amused look in his eyes.
“You really are a lunatic,” I say over my shoulder as I walk away. I don’t see
his expression but as I head over to the other booth I can feel the hairs on
the back of my neck tingling; he’s watching me. Oh yeah, he is definitely
watching me.

As we sit here talking to the
real
Lunatic I find I can’t keep focused on our conversation. It seems
so trivial compared to the one we were having with Sam. Jack is just your
typical Lunatic. There’s nothing special about him and now that I've gotten a
closer look, he doesn’t even look remotely like Kirk Hammett.

The whole time I can feel my
body responding on some low frequency to Sam in the other booth, and when the
feeling suddenly stops I know he has gone. I don’t have to turn around to know
he’s no longer in the coffee shop, and despite myself I feel like something is
missing.

I have no idea how long we
end up talking to Jack but as we get up to leave I find I can’t recall a single
word said, including my own. No, someone else has swept into my life stealing
my attention. Now he’s gone and left a gaping hole where there wasn’t one
before.

Chapter Two

Searching for Silas Mann

I’ve never fallen in love; at
least not that I’m aware of. In fact if I did fall in love, I’m not sure I’d
recognize it. What is love anyway? Is it a mental thing or a physical feeling,
or a combination of the two, or something completely different?

I have girlfriends that
profess to be in love and most of the time it just makes me sick. If its love
that turns you from a strong independent woman to a sappy, weepy, I can’t live
without him woman; I want no part of it. But I do wanna fall in love; someday,
and it has to be something different than what’s been modeled for me.

If my parents' brand of "in
love" is what it’s all about then count me out. My father rules the roost
so to speak, and my mother is subservient to him. Sure they may discuss
important issues, important purchases, and things like that but in the end, my
father has the final say; always. So if I’m going to sign up for my parent’s
version of love, in my opinion It would be like going back in time a couple
hundred years or so. So much for progress.

My best friend Gabby claims
to be in love with her boyfriend of 8 months, Kevin. If I’m going to subscribe
to her version of love I’ll be checking in with my ‘better half’ on all
important decisions ranging from brushing my teeth to…well to anything that
requires a choice to be made.

I asked her why she had to
run everything by him and she said; “Kevin and I are a team. Of course we’re
going to make decisions together.”

Then I asked her if he helped
her decide which brand of feminine hygiene products she should be using. That
didn’t go over too well. If what she has is love, forget it.

My older sister got married
last year to a great guy. One day I decided to ask her what love felt like, you
know just in case it’s more a feeling sort of thing than mental. So anyways, I
asked her what it felt like to be in love.

She gave me this song and
dance about when we were kids and our parents brought home a puppy from the
pound. She asked if I remembered how it felt to care for and provide for such
an adorable cute puppy. That, she said, is what love feels like.

Yeah that doesn’t work for me
either. Four weeks after we got the puppy we returned him because he chewed up
everything in sight. I never really missed him. So if love means it’s that easy
to just push that special person out of your life, what’s the big deal about
it? I’ll take a pass.

That whole no strings
attached, friends with benefits kinda thing is sounding more and more appealing
every day. Right as I’m about to launch into yet another long mental diatribe
about sex with no strings, love comes to town. My internal dialogue is just
getting kicked into high gear when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around
ready to snap at the owner of the offensive finger when I’m stopped dead in my
tracks.

There’s a guy standing there behind
me, looking totally hot! It’s almost enough to make my mouth water. I mean he
is so totally desirable I catch myself wiping imaginary drool from the corner
of my lips.

“June right?” He asks in this
adorable voice that makes me hang on his every word.

I stammer and splutter: Y-yeah
t-that’s right and y-you’re?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Brand. I saw
you at the Portland show.”

“Are you sure it was me?”

“I stood behind you in line
for eleven hours. I think I’d remember you.”

“Are you like, stalking me or
something?” I ask, not quite sure what to make of this.

“I’m a writer.” He says, as
if that answers everything.

“Writers can stalk.”

“I promise, I am here to see
Fringe. You, I just ran into. You’re kind of like a side benefit to the whole
Fringe show thing.”

“A side benefit? Is that the
same thing as a side dish?”

“Your words, not mine,” he
says. "You know, for all the time I spent rehearsing this you’d think I’d
be a little smoother when it comes to introductions.”

“You actually rehearsed this
little bit here?” I ask incredulously.

“That sounded a lot less
creepy in my head.”

“You definitely sound like a
stalker.”

“Not me. I just notice
everything. I actually overheard you and your friend Gabby. You guys are
Lunatics right?”

“It’s startin’ to sound like
you’re one,” I reply. Despite the weirdness of this conversation, I find myself
liking the guy.

“I know what this sounds
like-”

“Do you?” I jump in
interrupting him. “I think if you really knew what this whole little
conversation sounded like, you’d run for the hills in embarrassment.”

“If I were trying to pick you
up I might, but I’m just here for the show. You guys are Lunatics right?”

“I think we just covered
this, and yeah, we’re Lunatic Fringes. We go to every single Fringe show.”

“Holy shit, that’s gotta get
expensive.”

“We have our ways. So obviously
you’re not a Lunatic, so what are you, a reporter or something?”

“I write rock and roll
articles for different music websites.”

“Oh cool, which ones?”

“Oh geeze, I’ve written for
SixStringGods.com, GuitarGods.com, MetalMadness.com, a bunch of others.”

Wow, I may have to give this
guy a break. Not only is he hella cute, he’s into the same music as me, he’s a
writer which means he’s got brains…I like this hot writer dude.

“So which are you writing for
now?” I find myself checking him out as I ask. If I can just maneuver around to
see his ass…

“Guitar Player Magazine.” He
says.

“Holy crap? That’s awesome!”

“Wait, before you get all
excited, it may not get published. I’m actually in the
Get the Dirt
contest. The writer who gets the best dirt on a guitar player, real dirt not
made up crap, gets his article published with a byline. And, the winner also
gets one paid assignment for the magazine. It’s how Hector Oh got his start and
now he’s this heavy hitter columnist for
Guitar Player
. A write up from
him could make or break a new guitarist’s
career.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

“Wow, I guess I gotta read
more.”

“You never heard of
Guitar
Player
?”

“Of course I have silly. I
just haven’t really read it. I would if they’d do an article on Fringe’s new
lead guitar player.

“Well I’m here for the big
reveal. Finally the world is going to see who Fringe’s newest guitarist is. Hey
maybe you’ll read mine then. That’s who I’m here to write about, the new
guitarist.”

“Wait a second! You’re here
to get the dirt on Fringe’s new lead guitarist?”

“Well yeah…I wanna win that
contest.”

“But that could totally mess
up his career before it really even got started.”

“I guess he better not have
any dirt on him then, right?”

“You should be writing about Hammer,
he’s the guy who’s always getting the band in shit; him and the drummer Marcus.
You heard about that shit last year with the underage Lunatic? Except she
wasn’t a Lunatic, she was just posing as one so she could get Hammer into
trouble and sue him.”

“So he screwed her?”

“I think so. It was all over
the papers and lawyers all got involved and I think they just paid off the
girl’s parents or something ‘cause he never went to jail or anything. Yeah, you
should write about dirt on Hammer.”

“He’s not a guitarist.”

“He plays sometimes.”

“Yeah but he’s not Fringe’s
main guitarist, so he really doesn’t count.”

“What?”

“Are you a U2 fan?”

“Sure.” I’m not sure where
he’s going with this, but I do like to hear him talk.

“Who is Bono?”

“He’s their front man.”

“And who’s their lead
guitarist?”

“The Edge, of course,” I say
without thinking.

“See, Bono does play guitar
off and on but not even you consider him a guitarist.”

“I get your point, but I do
think you should think twice before you start writing a lot of bull crap about
people. Think about lives you could hurt just so you can get a little article
in a magazine? That’s messed up.”

“Hey if he’s clean he’s clean
and I won’t have anything to write about and no one gets hurt.”

“I don’t know, I still think
it’s twisted. I mean, no one’s perfect, so if you looked hard enough you could
find dirt on the Pope.”

“Wow, I’ve never had to
defend my livelihood like this before. Maybe I should stick to my day job.”

I’m just about to ask him
what his day job is, when I catch sight of my best friend Gabby working her way
down the twisting line, looking for me.

“Hang on a sec,” I say to
writer guy, “my best friend is looking for me.”

I step off to the side of the
line and holler. “Gabby…Gabby, down here.” Her head swivels around as she tries
to locate my voice. “Gabbs, I’m here!” I shout even louder.

Finally she sees me and walks
up, extending a cup of steaming hot Starbucks coffee. “You’re a lot farther up
in line than I expected,” she says in between sips of the hot liquid.

Brand holds his hand out to
Gabby. “Hi there, Gabby is it?”

She steps back and gives him
a suspicious look.

“Sorry Gabbs, this is the
enemy, enemy, this is Gabrielle.”

“Hey that’s not fair,”
objects the enemy.

“Sorry Gabby, meet the
totally honorable guy who’s going to ruin the life of our favorite band’s new
guitarist so he can get published.”

I tune out Brand’s inevitable
reaction as Gabby whispers loudly in my ear. “OMG, he’s smokin’ hot! I can
forgive a lot of shit when it comes wrapped in that,” she says, clearly
indicating Brand’s obvious physique.

He has definitely been
spending time at the gym. Even if you discount his dreamy eyes, perfect hair,
flawless complexion, beautifully tan skin, and so rock hard abs, yeah I can
count his muscles right through his tight black turtleneck; he’s still a catch.
If I’m not careful he’s going to be Gabby’s catch and not mine though. She’s
gone all gaga, and she’s making no attempt to disguise it.

“Hey writer man,” I begin,
trying to catch his attention. “Can you hold our spot here for a few
minutes?"

“Sure,” he replies. “I’ll
hold your spot if you promise to stop calling me the enemy.”

I hook my arm in Gabby’s and
turn to leave with her in tow. “See ya in a few…
enemy
.”

Before he can react or object
I spirit Gabby away towards the front of the line. This is where the real
Lunatics are gathered. Judging by the stories that are flying around I’d say
that of the first 15 people in line for the show today, they’ve each probably
seen a good 40-50 shows each on this tour alone.

After we’re finished gawking
at the real Lunatics, Gabby stops me. “Okay June spill it, who was that totally
hot guy you were talking to? What’s his story?”

“You’re like a guy Gabby, all
you need is a warm body. I just can’t get past his whole writer thing. He’s in
some contest for
Guitar Player
where whoever finds the most dirt on a
guitarist gets published and gets an assignment or something like that.”

“Holy shit! He’s in the
Get
the Dirt
contest. That’s how Hector Oh got his big break! Now I really
wanna talk to him. Hector is a legend. Maybe he knows him.”

“Yeah I don’t think so. He
just writes for websites and stuff. Besides, he’s the enemy. He’s trying to
bring down Fringe’s new guitarist.”

“You really are a Lunatic
June; he might be a Cyclops for all you know.”

“Hey, all lead guitarists are
hot; it’s like a prerequisite. Think about it, there’s Kirk Hammett and James
Ulrich of Metallica, the Edge from U2, Dan Donnigan from Disturbed, need I say
more?”

“Yeah, Eddie Van Halen and
Mick Mars, need
I
say more?” Gabby replies.

“Those are the exceptions;
there are always exceptions to every rule.” I reply, a little miffed that she
can’t let me have my little fantasy here.

 “So how many shows you been
to?” Gabby asks, changing the subject.

“This makes number 19.”

“Lightweight!” she replies. “This
is number 28 for me on this tour alone. Last tour it was 56 shows; a personal
best.”