GRIND (The Silver Nitrate Series Book 1) (6 page)

Harmony was his escape when his mind got too heavy and when the drums stopped, his soul kept leaping about, unable to settle down until it was time to go back to work. He had to have his hands in the fire and his feet against the blasting bass. It was his calling and his duty, and he embraced his life as a welder and drummer, feeling at times they were one and the same. They both required discipline, skill, caution, control, desire, art, and science. They both took years of practice to perfect, and anyone who respected them and kept at it would only get better with time.

Where the hell is Javier?

He sighed and sat down on the sable brown stool chair, picked at his faded black jeans, and tapped his foot on the floor to warm up. The crowd grew thicker, their voices carrying, until there seemed to be only standing room, and that was going away quickly as each second passed. This was further proof of their popularity, and that sort of thing tasted sweet and smooth going down. They’d built a name for themselves with promoters and club owners alike, so the money was a sure bet. Regardless, complete success had eluded them, and though he hated to admit it, he had his suspicions as to why…

They were a mish mash, a strange bunch indeed. Javier was a loud-mouthed half Portuguese, half Colombian son of a bitch who talked shit and did his damndest to back it up. Mike, the baddest bass guitarist in Syracuse as far as he was concerned, was a big, lumbering white guy with a mop of reddish hair that stuck out in a million directions. He donned a pair of matte black glasses and had one of the strangest laughs he’d ever heard, reminding him of a wailing cat pairing with the call of a sunrise rooster in the wee hours of a brisk, country morning. Miguel, Javier’s little cousin, was just as brash and at times as unpleasant as Javier, but with only a fraction of the talent. Flip was a brilliant Swedish keyboardist, barely understandable half the time, and the other half, high as the flames in Hell. And then there he was… a 6′3 Iroquois Indian with thick, onyx hair that flowed down his back and shoulders, an appearance that gave him the nickname of ‘The Ring’ in high school.

He’d changed up every now and again, his image matching his various moods. At present he’d had his mane shaved on the side, faded out, noticeable when put up in a ponytail or thrown over one shoulder. He usually shaved his face but left a short beard along his chin, what the ladies called his ‘peach fuzz.’ He’d had a pierced nose since the age of fourteen, the septum done by age eighteen. He wore large, dangling earrings during some of his gigs, some of which looked like golden elephant tusks. Last but not least, he donned hard, calloused-over scars on his knuckles from burning rod and a propensity to drown in bottomless pools of negativity as it pertained to human kind.

People fucking sucked and being miserable was seductive. He owned that truth—lock, stock and barrel. Each day proved to be another torture chamber embedded within a tender, sensitive enclosure of bullshit. All one could do was their damn best to not get knifed, robbed, or taken for a goddamn ride. Sarcasm and verbal sparring was his only reprieve; occasionally violence ensued, but it was all in a day’s work.

“All right! All right!” The M.C. walked onto the stage, an obnoxious sort wearing a tweed jacket and bright fuchsia mohawk…

He’s tryin’ too hard. We see you, man… No need to get all clownish. I hate guys like this.

The man wrapped the lengthy microphone cord around his wrist and snapped it as he beamed at the crowd and moved about the stage like a televised game show host on primetime. “It’s on! Let’s do
this
!”

The rowdy mob exploded in whistles and handclapping, their inebriation undoubtedly increasing right before his eyes.

“Everybody, we got Pure Grit in the house tonight! Give it up, make some mothafuckin’ nooooiiiiiise!!!” More applause rang out, now slightly muffled as Zenith carefully inserted his earplugs. Slicking his tongue over his upper teeth, he zoned out, falling into his usual semi-trance-like state. After a few moments, Javier stormed back onto the stage, causing several women in the front row to lose their damn minds. They called out his name and jumped about, their bouncy titties confined in tight sweaters and long hair flopping about in their exhilaration. The man winked at them in a cocky sort of way, grabbed the microphone, and did his usual pussy wetting introductions. But before he could get the sweet, seductive words rolled like a tight blunt, someone rang the alarm, a jealous boyfriend no doubt.

“Look! It’s the band Pure
Shit
!” the man cackled, causing an outburst of boos and cutting curses.

Javier kept his reserve, ignoring the disgruntled fucker, and began his spiel. But Mike, didn’t… He snatched a nearby microphone… “Pure shit? Your girlfriend thinks we got
Pure
Dick… How’d I taste last night?”

…drops mic.

Everyone including Zenith burst out laughing, then Javier got the crowd back under control.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to have a good time tonight.” Flip began to strum his bass guitar over Javier’s rhythmic, perfectly timed words, like a dramatic lead in to some epic flowetry shit. “We’re going to perform some of your favorites, and a couple of new selections, too… but first, we’re going to begin with an older, personal favorite of mine: J. Holiday’s, ‘Bed.’

The women in the mob screamed out, their arms raised high in lusty anticipation. Zenith lifted his upper lip in a coy smirk as he began to tap lightly against the shiny, copper-colored hi-hat cymbal with nylon brushes. He bobbed his head to the beat, falling in perfect sync as the speakers made their vibrating magic, an eargasm elixir in the form of a hard and heavy pulse that traveled throughout him and entered his veins like freshly injected drugs.

Javier poised to start, his head thrown back as if he contemplated the ceiling, and brought the microphone closer to his lips.

“I’mma put you to bed, bed, bed!” he crooned.

The screaming melted into a scene of frantic female movement, creating an intoxicating blend of excitement that sent Zenith on his way. Moving his arms back and forth, he chased the timely rhythm, following it lightly, touching it personally, but ever so softly, as if he’d been dared to not leave a forensic trace. Javier pushed sensual buttons as his voice seductively wrapped around each lyric. The man delved into the hedonistic throes of symbiotic passion with hip rotations and timely pelvic thrusts. Zenith peered at the vibrant red and light purple lights that twirled and spiraled above the audiences’ heads, and his eyes narrowed.

There, in the second row, swirls of crimson and lavender illumination haloed a voluminous crown of dark coarse curls piled majestically high towards the sky. Around and around the rotating lights went, showcasing the stunning specimen, then shrouding her in possessive shadows. Her skin reminded him of black diamonds, cheekbones highlighted in dusts of shimmering silver.

Her lips, perfectly plush, were the kind of lips a whisper could sleep against, a place for his secrets to be held. That marvelous mouth allowed a smoky vapor to escape, one birthed from her glimmering gold and green hookah pen. He wanted to be the smoke, or the air it floated against… made not one damn bit of difference to him. Perhaps he could be the reflection in her sight? Her dark eyes reminded him of a condensed universe—shimmery, dazzling—the whites of them so bright, they evoked freshly fallen snow that had yet to touch the waiting ground.

…Snow Angels…

“Damn… she’s beautiful. Who the hell is that? I’ve never seen her before,” he murmured as he waited for the lights to showcase her once again…and then again.

The music surrounded him, the voices grew louder, the band beautifully tumbled against the throbbing rhythm, and the carnal lyrics encircled his world as he stared at the woman that appeared oblivious to his unchanging gaze. Scrutiny transfixed on her, he kept on drumming, song after song, offering the occasional stilted grin. The lights grew brighter for a spell when Flip burst into his twisted, unusual, and downright funky solo for, “Everybody Loves the Sunshine” by Roy Ayers. The crowd cheered all the way until he’d strummed his last note.

Zenith sank his teeth into his lower lip, squelching a grin. Their eyes finally locked…

Flip moved towards the back recesses of the stage, tapping a light chord beat to give the floor to the other band members, so they could show their wares.

Here it comes…

His heart beat a bit faster in eager anticipation, but a different excitement had taken hold, and not because they’d been promised free drinks. A few moments later, a bright yellow light beamed down upon him, and his form was encircled by mist from the puffing smoke machines. He quickly plucked his ear plugs out of his ears, reached for his KAT percussion headphones, and protected his hearing before going into a pounding rendition of “Toxicity” by System of a Down. He’d become so fixated on what he was doing, he’d lost focus of her for a moment or two. But his performance was a gift, specially crafted for the Midnight Goddess with a thousand stars in her eyes. As he struck the loud, heavy, commanding beat, his wrists stung from the brute force of it all. Sweat drained down his face.

He looked out at her once again… She smiled.

The crowd cheered so loud, the sound was damn near piercing. The kind of yelling and screaming that seemed amplified through invisible speakers affixed to their hoarse vocal chords. Javier shook his head, cheeky laughter dancing in his eyes as he looked at him curiously, then turned away. That song wasn’t in the plan; he was supposed to stick to the R&B and Hip Hop covers for this particular crowd and evening, but he wanted to show off, let her know what he was working with. He gave those drums a few more hearty whacks, then simmered down into a hush…

The crowd exploded, cheering him on, though his time to peacock about had come to an end.

The host pranced onto the stage again, announcing a break. The lights grew a bit brighter and showcased a dazed and confused crew. The mass of melody-thirsty vampires was exposed to the artificial dawn. Smoky clouds, dense and profuse, filled the place. Second hand highs were plentiful and he felt easy, cool, and delighted to observe how music turned ugly debauchery into a peace pipe, a signed treaty for connection and appreciation of the art of sound.

“Hey man, I’m about to get somethin’ to drink and make a phone call,” Javier announced with a tap on his shoulder, bringing him out of his zone.

“Yeah, alright.” He nodded as the man walked off the stage. Flip lifted a blunt to his lips and drew in the shit, the hollows of his jaws growing taut at each pass. Turning away and rising to his feet, Zenith looked to the other side of the stage, observing people pressing their bodies into one another as they vied for a bartender or two’s attention.

“Shit… where’d she go?” Frowning, he peered about, sorry that his freshly caught meal may have gotten away before he’d acquired a chance to bag her up and take her home. Like most Saturday nights as of late, he’d play on a stage here, do a gig there, and make a determination fairly early on in the evening on who he was going to fuck that night. Zenith stepped off the stage to make his rounds and mingle with the natives. Extended hands stretched towards him, offering a hand shaking or slapping palms, paired with high praise and kind kudos.

“Yo! Great set, man!” came a voice to his left.

“You rocked that shit, Zenith!” another voice rang out to his right.

“Thanks, man.” He nodded and pushed through the crowd, trying to remain friendly, though he was slightly unnerved that his prey had mysteriously vanished.

Where the hell did she go? She couldn’t have gotten that far…

He kept moving about, surfing the crowd like a leather-clad one-man band wave until he reached the glowing lights of the bar.

“Heeeeey, man!” Elijah called out, dipping his shoulder and shoving it into Zenith. The man enfolded him in a hug, and their hands wrapped around one another for a vigorous, soulful dap. Zenith used to work with the man at another company, now defunct, so many lifetimes ago. Elijah was true blue and funny down to his bones. He worked for some hardware and electronics store now, drifting about, taking contract welder jobs too when he saw fit. They both did; the private gigs were sometimes the most lucrative and every now and again, they’d phone one another regarding a lead.

“What’s up!” Zenith’s scrunched face broke into a smile, but this time, it was legit, not simply for show. “What are you doin’ here, man?”

“Just chillin’.” The man took a quick, leisurely glance around the place before placing his gaze back onto him. “I just got here a few minutes ago. They said it was at capacity but you know me.” He popped his light blue collar in a silly sort of way, like a damn big shot. “I got my ways!”

“Yeah? I bet you do. Haven’t seen you in a minute. You still at Tycois?”

“Yeah, man. Kept this one, been workin’ steady and everything. They got some new shit, been trainin’ to do installations, too.” The guy chin checked, causing his black, mid-length feathered hair to rise and fall against his shoulder blade. One renegade strand grazed his dark, ruddy cheekbone before falling into place.

“That’s cool, man.” Zenith looked past him for a moment, detaching from the conversation. His body longed for something far more substantial, something of the feminine sort. Raking his hand through his hair, he flipped it to one shoulder, miffed and perturbed as he was… still wondering where the lovely swan had swam off to with his curiosity in tow.

“When do you all start up again?”

“In about ten minutes or so…” Zenith made his way closer to the bar as the crowd thinned out a bit, many returning to the dance floor. “Let me get a gin and tonic,” he hollered over the noise. “What you want, man?” he offered.

“Oh, you got me?” The man’s mouth widened and his cheeks plumped with exuberance.

“Of course, go ’head.”

“I’ll take a Heineken.” The bartender, a short, bushy bearded man with slightly crossed eyes, nodded and marched away to go grab a clean glass from the overhead rack.

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem. You don’t have to thank me. Besides, we cool.” He leaned his hip against the bar and unhurriedly crossed his ankles as he fell into a groove. Elijah joined him, echoing his stance. The fellow Iroquois man began to speak of work related things, plans he had for new fangled ventures, but Zenith was only half listening… for in the mirrored reflection of the bar stood a woman in the not too far distance, the one who’d made him spread his shiny, black peacock feathers via the tapping of a drum. A wily smile lined his face as he stood erect, recovering from his slouching position, and raised his ringed finger in the air. “Hey man, hold that thought,” he said.