Chasing Death Metal Dreams (27 page)

There were a bunch of cars in Nate’s driveway when they pulled in. Nate groaned. “Just what I wanted, a metal show.”

“Those are the band again?”

“Mostly.”

The main door was open, and although there was no thumping back beat, there were plenty of people in the garage. Eli spotted them as they got out. “Hey! Nate, and Carlos! Just the guys I wanted to see. Come on over here.”

They glanced at each other. Carlos shrugged and followed Nate inside. Eli led them up to a vaguely familiar older guy and said, “This is Donald Naylor, the music producer. Mr. Naylor, this is my brother Nate. I showed you his cover art. And this is Carlos Medina who wrote some of our original material.”

“Gentlemen.” Naylor shook hands with them. “Carlos, I do want to talk to you about your songs.”

“Yes?”

“Ellis, do you have a signed contract for the ones you used yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you agree, Carlos, that you sold those rights to Ellis Gold?”

“Um. I think he signed as Eli Goldstein, but yeah.”

Naylor waved a hand. “As long as it’s legal. That’s good. Carlos, would you be able to supply more original material on short notice. Ten songs, perhaps?”

“I, um, sure. For Serpentine?”

“Yes.” Naylor gave Eli a dry look. “They’re a good band. They have the sound, the look, the talent. I think they could be big. But the songs the audience liked best were the ones you wrote. Frankly, I could hire an established writer to do material for them, but you clearly know how to get the most out of them. And you work for cheap, right?” He laughed like it was a joke, but his eyes were watchful.

“Well, cheaper than some,” Carlos said cautiously. “I do have to eat.”

“You were on stage last night too? Early on, right?
Switchblade
? Something like that?”

“KnifeSwitch,” Nate said at his elbow.

“Right.” Naylor didn’t look at him. “Anyway, you had some good material, good lyrics. Crappy sound, way too thin, you should think about adding at least two, three guys. But your songs were decent.”

“Um, thank you.”

Naylor looked around the garage. Chris, RoRo and Tom eyed him back from where they were standing by the drums. “So, gentlemen, I’ll email a link to the contract tomorrow, after my lawyers check the details. Do have your lawyers check it as well.” He turned to Carlos. “You too. I’ll have a clause in there for new material at a set frequency and price. It’s part of the package deal. I want to get an album done, some video singles and a tour lined up. That means each of you—” he met their eyes in turn “—is responsible for making this work. Carlos, that cello you played onstage, you might write that into a song or two. I’ll add a clause for payment and rights for studio work, if we use you for that. It wouldn’t hurt to have a gimmick, something more uncommon for Serpentine’s sound.”

“Um.” Carlos glanced at Eli. Was he going to let Naylor effectively say, “
You might have to let this guy in your band sometimes
”? Eli gave him a bland look back, so apparently he was.

Naylor nodded briskly to Eli. “Talk to your boys, talk to your lawyers, e-sign the contracts. If you want changes, you can contact my lawyers and they’ll relay. Once all the signatures are on the line, you boys are going to
work.
Any questions?”

Carlos had a dozen, but Eli shook his head. Naylor stuck out his hand and shook Eli’s firmly. “I’m certain Serpentine and Ellis Gold will be one of my better productions. Congratulations.”

They all stood still, as if turned to stone, as Naylor walked out the big door, got into his BMW, and pulled away. They watched his car as it reached the road, and turned into the traffic. Then Tom whooped, grabbed Chris around the waist and whirled him around, and set him down with a loud smacking kiss on the top of his head. “Hands off! I don’t like you that much!” Chris protested.

Eli blew out a loud breath. “Well.”

Carlos said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to walk into your parade like that.”

“Nah. He’d already asked if we knew where to find you. You were part of the package from the start.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“Hell, yeah. Write some more songs like the last ones, and I’ll kiss you myself.”

Carlos looked at Tom. “What about you? I’m stepping on your toes here.”

Tom shook his head. “You heard what he said. If not you, he’s gonna hire someone else. No problem, man, I’m way more of a drummer than a songwriter.” He grinned, showing teeth. “I’m just way more of a songwriter than the rest of these sorry bastards.”

Chris shoved him. “I can write songs.” He warbled, “
There once was a band guy named Tom, who wrote shit that always sounds wrong—
eep!” Tom grabbed his arm and tickled him to the floor.

Eli said, “I guess we’re all getting some changes. He wants me to lose ‘Goldstein’ —too Jewish. Chris has to grow his hair, RoRo shaves his beard, and Tom quits writing songs, while you start.”

“Okay…” Carlos said slowly. “I can do that, I guess.”

“Well, don’t give up your day job,” Eli said. “Who knows how this will go? The contract sounds complicated, especially if you’re going to record with us too.” He sighed. “Run it by your lawyer. Do you even
have
a lawyer?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“Uncle Aaron,” Nate put in. “He’s a lawyer.”

“Divorce lawyer.”

“He’ll find someone.”

Eli gave Carlos a smile. “Family networking is good. You want him to check out your deal too?”

“Yeah. I can pay for his time. I think. If it’s not till after my next paycheck.”

A deeper voice behind him said, “I’ll pay for it.”

Carlos whirled, as Nate said, “Dad! Hey, hi.”

“Hi, boys.” Nate’s father raised his hands, a foil-topped bottle in each. “I brought bubbly.”

Eli said, “The producer just left. You should have been here.”

His dad said, “It’s your band, son. Your life. But I
will
pay for a top lawyer to look at the contract and make sure it’s fair all around. I want to see you get your break, more than anything, as long as it’s a real, fair break.”

“I can pay my share,” Carlos said stubbornly.

Nate’s dad shook his head. “I was careless and could have hurt you a while back. I’ve felt really bad about it. Let me make it up to you now.”

“Yeah, let him,” Nate said. “Lawyer time is freaky expensive, like, hundreds of dollars an hour. Let Dad feel better and save you the big bucks.”

Carlos thought about his bank account, swallowed, and said, “Okay, I guess. If you’re doing it for everyone else. Thank you.”

Nate’s father had his same smile, the one that could warm Antarctica, and he turned it on Carlos full blast. “Thank
you.
Now, let’s pour the bubbly. Eli, you have cups out here?”

A woman said, “Paper cups.” She came in, carrying wine glasses, the stems tucked between her fingers, and glanced around. “Perfect, I brought eight. Come and take them, boys, because I can’t set them down.”

The guys went to her, sliding their glasses from her hands. Carlos hung back and Nate went and took two, but she followed him back across the room to Carlos. “Hi, I’m Rebecca. You must be Carlos.”

“Um, yeah, hi.”

“It’s good to meet you. Nate’s been singing your praises for weeks now.”

“No, I haven’t,” Nate said. “Not until Dad, um, spilled the beans. Anyway, I can’t sing.”

“Silence, boy child,” his mother said. “You know what I mean.” She turned back to Carlos. “It’s nice to see him happy.”

“Yeah, um, me too.” He’d never met a guy’s parents before, and this was really awkward, but for Nate he’d try to do better. “It’s nice to meet you too, miss. Ma’am.”

She laughed. “Call me Rebecca. I hope we’ll get to talk sometime, but for right now we have something to celebrate.”

“That’s right.” Nate’s dad came over and tipped a splash of champagne into their glasses. “A toast.” He raised his glass high, and so did the rest, although the guys looked a bit sheepish. “To a great bunch of musicians who’ve been playing their hearts out for no reward for— how many years now, Eli?”

Eli glanced at Tom. “We started when, eighth grade? And Chris was ninth?”

“Summer before,” Tom said.

“Thirteen years then,” his dad continued. “Lucky thirteen. Congratulations on your success, and best wishes for the sky being the limit.”

Nate’s mom said, “Hear, hear!” and raised her own glass.

They all drank to that. Champagne wasn’t Carlos’s favorite booze, and the bubbles went up his nose, but the taste was sweet and sharp and clean. Nate leaned over and clinked their glasses together. “And to a guy who has a way with words, who’s going to write them the best fuc—”

“Nathaniel,” his mother cautioned.

He grinned at her. “Best freaking songs ever. Carlos!”

They raised their glasses again and toasted him, while he squirmed with embarrassment. When the glasses were empty, Nate said, “I hate to drink and run, but I have to work. C’mon, Carlos, let’s go upstairs.”

“What kind of work is that gonna be?” Chris said.

“Don’t you wish you knew.” Nate took Carlos’s glass from him and set it down on a shelf against the wall. “Seriously, I have a shift. I’ll see you all much later.”

“You could stick around, though,” Eli said to Carlos. “We should talk about songs and shi—” He glanced at his mother. “—stuff.”

She raised her glass to him. “Good save.”

Carlos said, “Yeah, okay. I guess.” He felt drunk, which was impossible on half a glass of champagne. His head spun, though, and he wasn’t sure whether he had stomach cramps or his breakfast was tap-dancing.

Nate took his hand, and he let him, willing to be tugged toward the door. “You can have him later,” Nate said. “After I leave. And no freaking music until I’m gone, right? My head’s still pounding from last night.”

Eli waved his glass at him. “We still have booze. Your head’s safe. Empty, but safe.”

“Lame, bro,” Nate called back. He towed Carlos around the corner and up the stairs. The door at the top opened with one jiggle of the key, and Carlos ducked past him into the warm, stuffy apartment.

“Damn, let me get the AC.” Nate locked the door and went to turn on the air. The rattle and hum eased the hollow sound in Carlos’s head. Nate came back and put gentle hands on his arms. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I guess. It’s been a strange day. A strange twenty-four hours.”

“I bet.” Nate leaned in and kissed the angle of his jaw, nipped at his earlobe, then stepped away and let go. “But some of it was good, right?”

“Some of it was awesome.”

“I hate that I have to leave, but I need to get changed. Work sucks. Wait, here.” He hurried to his kitchen counter and fished something out of a drawer. “Here.”

“What’s that?”

“Key. To my place,” Nate said, like it was no big thing, although something about his expression said that maybe it was. “You should hang out here for a while. It’s dumb to drive right back. You can talk to Eli about music, find yourself something to eat, maybe go for a run if those shoes are okay.”

Carlos looked down at his sneakers. “They’d do. But—”

Nate made the keys jingle. “What else would you do? Sit around your place and worry? Take them. Hang out here. If you get bored you can drive over to the Top Cup and harass me, or even go home if you want. Just don’t let the cat out and text me if you leave, so I know.”

Carlos took the keychain slowly. Nate tapped the silver key. “Front door. You have to jiggle it. That other one is for the back door to the garage. There’s a hatch in the ceiling there, leads into my closet. If this door ever really jams I can get in that way.”

“Oh.” Carlos closed his hand on the keys. “What do you want me to do with them if I do head home.”

“Keep them.” Nate curled his fingers around Carlos’s fist and pressed it shut. “Keep them.”

Carlos blinked hard, his voice lost somewhere in his aching throat.

Nate stepped back. “So I really need to have a shower and change and go. Will you be okay here?
Mi casa es tu casa.
Did I get that right?”

“Something like that. Yeah, this is great.”

“As long as you save me a beer, what I have is yours. Wait, save two beers.” He hurried into his bedroom, came out a moment later naked with clothes in hand, and ducked into the bathroom. The shower came on.

Carlos stood with his fist wrapped so tight around the keys he could feel them digging into his palm.
Shit, what a day.
He thought momentarily about refusing the keys, backing away from the whole
mi casa
thing, but the idea hurt so bad he stuffed the keychain deep in his pocket.
Not going under, not giving in.
Not to his parents when they made him go out in a dress to his ankles rather than letting him wear pants, not to the haters who called him names in school, not to the cop who sneered at the wetback weirdo, and not,
not,
to his own chickenshit fears of finally having what he wanted most.

He went over to the fridge, pulled out a soda, and sat at the kitchen table. The shower and the AC blurred in a soothing white noise. Overhead he heard a rustle that had to be the cat, but he couldn’t spot her. Still it was okay to have company.

He opened the can, took a sip. Lyrics swirled in the back of his mind, unformed, waiting. He knew he’d write a song today. Maybe more than one. Write and run and work out because yeah, he didn’t get to keep the muscles without putting in the time. Talk to Eli, one on one, and make sure he really was okay with hitching the band’s success to Carlos’s songs. Hang out here and think about Nate, and how being followed by a vampire-boy who turned out to be nothing of the sort had changed his life.

Maybe call Mia. That would be tough. Maybe set up a meeting. Some things needed to be talked about face-to-face. He was still imagining that conversation when the shower cut off. Nate came out toweling his hair, black jeans on but his T-shirt tucked in a pocket. Carlos looked at him and felt a rush of emotion so pure it made him dizzy.

He set his soda down, crossed the room and reached for Nate, skimming his hands over Nate’s shoulders, down his elegant neck and across his flat, smooth chest. Nate gave him a goofy smile. “What?”