Chasing Death Metal Dreams (37 page)

Two years later

Carlos clasped his cell phone in his sweaty hand and eased past an arguing knot of people down the corridor of the stadium. This was the biggest venue Serpentine had played in the two years since they’d signed the contract, and he was tense. Not nervous. Well, okay, a bit nervous, but mostly keyed up.

He hadn’t really believed he’d end up touring with the band, back when it all started. He’d figured Eli would get over feeling bad about the way he treated him and keep him in the background. But they’d started out recording the album, and all the guys had loved the added dimension of a cello part in their songs. When it was time to tour, they’d wanted that sound on stage as well. So here he was, two years later, living the life.

Onstage, the opening act was coming near the end of their set. In the hallways, the roadies were gathering, getting ready to swap out the gear. The headliner band was off somewhere chilling, and Carlos could have been in the Serpentine dressing room doing the same, but he needed something different.

He wandered far enough to find a corner where the music didn’t pound as loudly in his head. In the past, he’d sometimes escaped out a back door for private time, but with this tour, they’d become recognizable enough that it wasn’t smart to stand outside a venue in full view. He eased into a corner, and slid down to sit on the floor.

He found a couple of pics he’d taken of the audience before the house lights went down and sent them to Mia.

Wish you were here.

A text immediately chimed:
Wish you had baby puke in your hair.

He texted back:
Aw. Thanks.

Your goddaughter is a little witch when she misses her nap.

But you love the Mommy thing

Mia had met a woman who’d come into her store looking for lingerie to show off a pregnant belly in her selfies, to prove to an ex what he’d tossed away. Apparently sparks had flown, and they’d moved in together a month later. Her girlfriend Anne was everything Mia wasn’t— tall, calm, brunette, and unmusical— but they both were apparently crazy because they’d agreed on Carlos as the godfather. He’d tried to point out how unsuitable he was for the job. Anne had said, “You’ll teach her determination. Show her how to be too stubborn to ever quit on what she wants in life.”

Mia had nodded. “Yeah. That. Come on, Carlos.”

Which was how for the first time in ten years, he’d found himself inside a church. Not like church back home though, as the smiling pastor helped two lesbians, a straight sister, and a gay man agree to watch over a baby.

Mia sent him a Snap of the little girl, baby food all over her face.

Yeah, it’s great. Now go out there and be great too. Break a leg. You deserve this.

Thanks

And don’t forget you’re coming to dinner Monday. You and Nate. It’s your Godfatherly duty

If I’d known how much mileage you’d get out of that, I might not have agreed

Bullshit. You love it too

He smiled, even though she couldn’t see him.

Yeah. See you Monday.

He hesitated for a while, thinking about texting Nate. They’d Snapchatted earlier in the day, and he had some great pics on his phone, but instead he dialed.

Nate picked up right away. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Then, because sharing what he felt with Nate was something he was working on, he added, “A bit nervous. Missing you.”

“You’ll be great.” Nate’s voice softened. “I miss you too. One more night, TatBoy, and you’ll be home.”

“I know.” He clutched the phone tighter. “Can’t wait.”

“I did a new chest piece for you. This time I’ll convince you.”

Carlos laughed. It was a running joke between them. “What’s on it?”

“Steampunk gargoyles. Very metal.”

“I can’t wait to see it. Can’t wait to see you.”

“See? How about touch? Kiss? Fuck?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Shut up. I don’t want to go onstage all distracted.”

Nate chuckled. “Nope. Stay focused or our brother will kill me.”

“How’s the commission going? And the book?” Nate had been getting more art sales lately. The most recent were an album cover and better yet, a graphic novel collaboration.

“The cover’s done. I did three versions, they’re coming to discuss and choose tomorrow.”

“Not late in the day, I hope.”

“We’ll be done before you get here. I promise.”

“And the book?”

Nate’s voice held a rush of excitement. “It’s cool. Wait till you see it!”

Carlos let his eyes droop shut and listened to Nate’s voice, more than his words, as he described the project.

When his enthusiasm eventually ran down, Carlos said, “I love that you’re so into it. Still wish you were here.”

“Maybe next tour.”

“Maybe.” Serpentine was moving up. They were second bill to a big act on this tour, and there were fans out there in the audience with multi-headed snakes on their T-shirts, screaming just for them. It was extra cool that the artwork was Nate’s. But they weren’t making enough money yet for Nate to feel safe giving up his day job. “Anyway, I can’t wait to see you.”

“I’d tell you all the things I want to do, but then you’d really be distracted onstage.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Use your imagination. We’ll sleep in too. Mom said she and Dad wanted us there for brunch, but I told her to make it lunch. Late lunch.”

“Good plan.” Nate’s parents were great, but sometimes a guy had to draw the line, especially when they still lived just down the driveway.

There was an odd squawking noise from Nate’s end of the line. Carlos asked, “What’s that?”

“New kitten. Ghost’s already on the job.”

Carlos had to smile. Since the band quit practicing in the garage, Nate had been able to take in more feral kittens to tame them, and then pass them on to find forever homes. But somehow Ghost had stayed, slowly going from spooked and jumpy to fat, mellow and content. Now she mothered all the new kittens.

Nate had sworn he wasn’t keeping Ghost. She’d go off to a good home as soon as she was really settled down. But then he’d brought home a new kitten, and Ghost had done half the job of taming it. She stayed with them, while that kitten went off to new owners, and then she took care of the one after it. Five ferals so far, and the new one made six. Ghost mothered them one and all, and they got calmer faster.

She mothered Nate too. Carlos had watched her waiting for Nate to come home, eyeing the door from one of the perches, intent on the world outside, some kind of psychic awareness or pressure sense taking the place of her hearing. She would jump down out of the cat tree with an uncatlike thud to hurry to the door almost before the old Civic’s tires hit the driveway. Then she’d wind around Nate’s legs or jump on the counter to pat at him with one white paw. After a year Nate had finally stopped talking about “
when we find her a home
.” She was staying forever.

So was Carlos. Touring was great, and he didn’t regret a minute of it, but that little garage apartment was where his heart was now. He was grateful to a fat white cat for helping keep it safe. Who’d have thought?

Nate rustled around and said, “Here, Ghost, want to say meow to Papa Carlos?”

“I am not that cat’s father,” Carlos protested, while listening to see if he could hear Ghost at all over the phone. “Anyway she can’t hear me so why bother?”

“Don’t listen to him; Papa doesn’t mean that.” Nate hesitated, then said, “She’s off to groom the kitten again. He’s a wild little thing.”

“How wild? Should I wear armor when I walk in the door tomorrow night?”

“More like a raincoat. The kitten will hide, but Ghost’s saving up drool for when you get back.”

“And fur, I bet.” By now, he’d gotten used to having cat hair on his stuff. He’d never admit it, but just a couple of days ago, weeks into the tour, he’d felt almost sentimental about finding a tuft of white hairs at the bottom of his suitcase. “You’re sure we can’t dip her in Nair?”

“Cruel! You’re a cruel papa.”

“I’m a cat-hair-in-my-mouth papá.”

“See? You admit it. You’re her daddy.”

“I think being alone with the cats has warped your brain.”

“You’ll just have to come home and un-warp and un-alone me.”

Carlos pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Can’t happen soon enough for me.”

“Me either,” Nate said quietly. Something rustled again.

Carlos pictured him sitting on the couch, his hair mussed and ink on his fingers, a sketchpad in his lap.
Dios
, he missed being there. He wouldn’t have given up touring for anything, but he was glad they were almost done.

Nate said in a more practical voice, “By the way, your Aunt Lisa called again to make sure I was coming with you to Crescent City next week.”

“Are you?”

“Hell, yeah. For your uncle’s cooking, I’ll even let him glare at me some more and interrogate me about my savings account.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Sure he does. It’s cool. They love you.” Carlos could hear the smile in Nate’s voice. “I love you too, you dumb bastard. Now go out there and be great.”

“Love you too,” he said. “Sleep well,
Dragoncillo
. Dream of me.”

“You do know those two things don’t go together. I dream of you and I wake up pretty fast, all hot and sticky.”

“Save the hot and sticky for tomorrow, until I’m there to collect.”

“Always more where that came from for you, TatBoy. Good night.”

“G’night.” A picture came across on his phone, a drawing of a serious young man, better looking than Carlos had ever been in real life, his dark hair tousled, eyes hooded, with a big tattoo of gargoyles inked across his chest.

He sat there, looking at it, tipping the phone to keep it on, until he realized he’d spent ten minutes smiling down fondly at the latest entry in the tattoo wars. He shut the phone off, stood, and stretched.

As he was heading back toward the stage, the set ahead of them ended, to a roar of applause. That was a good sign that the audience was primed and ready. He sped up. Eli met him outside the dressing room with a smack to his arm. “There you are. Were you off making kissy noises at my brother again?”

“You don’t want to know.” Carlos smirked. “Setting up now?”

“Yep.”

Getting their gear out on stage was a choreographed dance by now. This crew was far better than on the first tour, when half the time they’d ended up juggling cords and amps themselves. Carlos went out onto the dark stage to check his instrument. The cello was set up in her stand, the wood gleaming softly in the low light. He tapped a string and heard the mellow hum of her voice. Behind him, RoRo said, “Hey, man, need anything from the dressing room? Otherwise they’re going to lock it.”

“Nope. I’m ready.”

Around him the band took their places. He glanced at them all, his brothers in music now. Wisps of melodies flitted through his mind, sounds, phrases, new songs waiting to be born. He pushed them away. There would be time for that. Tonight was for performance.

He settled behind the cello, checking the pick-up, adjusted the mike for his backing vocals. A mark on his left wrist caught his attention, and he smiled. He might be holding out on the chest piece, partly as a game with Nate, partly after two years still not sure what he wanted to do. But he had let his boyfriend design one tattoo for him. On his other wrist, a contrast to the stark block letters of “DON’T”, was a curvy, intricate design that matched the one at his throat.

Nate had said, “They don’t
all
have to clash,” and designed this one in plain flowing black lines, curling sinuously around his wrist. Wrapped in the lines, almost camouflaged, was the word, “
Love
”. When he set his wrists together they said, “
Love don’t
.” Love don’t care. Love don’t quit. Love don’t end. Lousy grammar, and mushy sentiment, and perfectly how he felt about Nate. Love don’t tie you down, it sets you free. Tomorrow he’d be home and say thank you again, properly.

The houselights faded. Then abruptly the spotlights came on, and the backdrop lit with their trademark knot of writhing cobras, heads weaving, tongues flickering. The energy hummed across the stage.

Eli lifted his chin and shouted out across the footlights, “Hey, fuckers, I’m Ellis.”

The others chimed in. “Chris.”

“RoRo.”

“Tom.”

He growled into his own mike, “Carlos.”

Eli said, “Hang onto your guts. Gonna get ripped.”

Around Carlos, they all tensed, poised, watching for the three count from Eli. Then Carlos’s hands landed on the cello strings, and he opened his mouth, aware of guitars coming up and drumsticks rising, as he and his band of brothers snarled the first of his words together, and launched into their music.

The End

Author Bio

Kaje Harper grew up in Montreal, and spent her teen years writing, filling binders with stories. But as life got busy, the stories began to just live in her head. The characters grew up, met, endured, and loved, in any quiet moment she had, but the stories rarely made it to paper. Her time was taken up by work in psychology, teaching, and a biomedical career, and the fun of raising children.

Eventually the kids became more independent and her husband gave her a computer she didn’t have to share. She started putting words down in print again, just for fun. Hours of fun. Lots of hours of fun. The stories began piling up, and her husband suggested if she was going to spend that much time on the keyboard she ought to try to publish one. MLR Press accepted her first submission,
Life Lessons
, which was released in May 2011. Kaje now has many novels and short stories published, including Amazon bestseller
The Rebuilding Year
, and a selection of free short stories and novels available on Smashwords and elsewhere. She currently lives in Minnesota with a creative teenager, a crazy omnivorous little white dog, and a remarkably patient spouse.

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