With Vengeance (6 page)

At least that hadn’t been Cliff’s mansion she
was at. A little more research on Google had revealed that the
place belonged to the bassist. Richard was pretty sure the guy was
a fag. During all of the appearances and shows Bleeding Vengeance
had done, he’d never been seen with a chick. Still, it was grating
enough knowing that she had somehow managed to get a job with them
in the fucking studio—a job that ended with her being invited to
the bassist’s house.

Richard leaned back in his chair, eyes
narrowing as a disturbing thought surfaced.

Bleeding Vengeance needed a new guitarist.
She wasn’t
in
the band, was she?

He shook his head. No, it took a man to play
their riffs. Kat was damn good for a girl, but there was no way
they’d let her on a stage. She was probably even only in the studio
because one of them wanted to fuck her.

Probably Cliff.

Unless… Richard froze. Maybe she’d already
been fucking Cliff. Maybe that’s why she’d broken up with him in
the first place. He didn’t for a minute believe her bullshit story
about him scaring her with his yelling and not wanting to be like
her mother. He wasn’t even convinced that it was because he’d hit
her. Really, it was only that once, and he’d been drunk and she
knew that she’d pissed him off. He’d apologized until he was out of
breath. He’d even bought her a dozen roses. No, there had to be
another guy involved, and it looked like that guy was in Bleeding
Vengeance. The band had been in Spokane only a year ago, when
they’d opened for Viciӧus.

His fists clenched, and he punched the
windowsill. “I knew it!”

The bass player with the fancy rustic mansion
might be gay, but everyone knew that he was the real authority
behind the band. He was also, by all accounts, an anal
perfectionist. So he wouldn’t take kindly to Kat disrupting their
schedule by not showing up at the studio tomorrow.

Richard smiled, reached into his pocket, and
pulled out a knife.

Chapter Five

“Son of a bitch!” Kat groaned as she lugged
her guitar out to her car. Morning sunlight glinted cheerfully off
the rim of the rear tire. It was flat as a pancake, and she had to
be at the studio in twenty minutes.

Her curses became a rhythmic mantra as she
popped the trunk for the jack and spare. Only her second day on the
job and she was going to be late. That would not reflect well on
her. She was so stressed at the prospect that she had the wheel
almost fully jacked up before realizing she’d forgotten to crack
the lug nuts loose.

“Shit!” she panted and lowered the jack.

Hands trembling, it took her a little longer
than usual to put on the spare. Though, at least she had a
full-size tire instead of those stupid doughnuts that you couldn’t
take over twenty five miles an hour. It came in handy as she sped
down the Denver streets, eyes darting back and forth from the
racing dash clock to the rearview mirror, checking for cops. The
last thing she needed was a ticket.

Her phone buzzed and chimed the bass line for
“Bring out your Dead,” the ringtone she’d set for Klement when he
first began sending her music files, but she never could manage to
drive a stick and talk on the phone at the same time, so she let it
ring, tension mounting with every thrumming note.

A thousand worst-case scenarios played in her
head as she pressed her foot down on the accelerator. He was
probably pissed that she was late and not answering. What if he
yelled at her? What if he thought she was irresponsible? Oh,
Christ, what if he fired her? What if, what if, what if…? The
shriek in her mind was deafening. Her fingers tightened on the
steering wheel as she felt a low-grade panic attack surfacing. And
she’d forgotten to take her Xanax, too.

She practically cried in relief as she pulled
into the studio parking lot. The dash clock read ten-eighteen. She
was over fifteen minutes late. Her stomach roiled. She’d always
been OCD about punctuality. It seemed Klement was, too.

Dread prickled her spine as she saw him
pacing back and forth in front of the studio, his phone in his
hand. Digging into her purse, she pulled out her medicine and
checked the seat for a bottle of water. Finding none, she got out
and checked the back seat.

“Thank God,” she murmured as she glimpsed a
half-full bottle on the floorboard. The water was warm and her
hands were filthy from changing the tire, but she didn’t care. She
needed to take her pill now, before she went into full freak-out
mode.

Klement’s voice rumbled behind her. “What
took you so long?”

The pill bottle slipped from her fingers and
clattered to the asphalt. She turned and watched as he bent down,
and his long fingers curled around the bottle. Eyes narrowed, he
read the label.

“What are these for?”

His fist moved forward. Kat’s eyes squeezed
shut, and her arms flew up to protect her face.

“Hey,” Klement said softly. “Relax, I’m just
giving them back to you.”

She opened her eyes, face burning with
embarrassment as she took the medicine. “I have PTSD,” she said,
barely above a whisper. “The Xanax helps my anxiety.”

Raw compassion glinted in his eyes. “Shit,
that sucks. What from?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

The response had been automatic, yet part of
her had a strange urge to tell him.

He gave a respectful nod. “I’m sorry for
asking. That was probably insensitive.”

She dismissed the apology with a wave. “I’m
sorry for being late.”

His gaze dropped to her grimy hands. “Car
trouble?”

She nodded and wiped her palms on her jeans.
“I had a flat. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I thought I’d get it fixed
in time.”

“No problem. I figured something happened.
You’ve always been— I mean, you’ve always seemed punctual to me.”
He ran a hand through his long, golden hair, looking suddenly shy.
“So, take a few deep breaths, take your Xanax, and we’ll get your
session going.”

He picked up her guitar case and headed
toward the building, slowing his long strides so she could keep up.
When they got inside, Cliff had his phone in his hand and was
ranting to Roderick about something he’d read off it.

“Can you believe this motherfucker?” He
jabbed the air with his finger, punctuating his ire. “He says my
voice sounds like a rabid Saint Bernard. And that I should have
died instead of Lefty.”

Roderick whistled. “Man, that’s cold.”

Klement shook his head. “You’re still going
on about that guy? I told you, he’s a troll. Don’t feed him.”

“But he’s talking shit on every site.
Especially on Metalness. I mean, what the hell is his problem?” the
singer whined. “C’mon, Klem, can’t you track him down and give him
a virus or something?”

“Possibly, but it’s not worth my time.
Besides, your fans will defend your honor.” He handed Kat her
guitar case and fiddled with a button on his shirt. “Just stay off
the Internet for awhile.”

Cliff glanced back down at his phone. “He’s
also calling you a fag.”

The bassist laughed. “Oh, the old, ‘Klement
is gay’ thing? That one never goes anywhere. And if it did, I still
wouldn’t give a shit. It has no bearing on my playing.”

Kat bit back a gasp. Some people thought he
was gay? True, her gaydar wasn’t right a hundred percent of the
time, but she didn’t get that vibe off of him at all. Not that it
mattered one way or another…right?

“Fine,” Cliff grumbled. Then he noticed her
and brightened. “Oh, hi Kat. We were wondering when you were going
to show up.”

“My car had a flat tire,” she said, marveling
that someone would dare mock Cliff and Klement. “I still need to
wash my hands.”

He favored her with a smile that should have
made her melt. “Okay. Meet me in the third room on the left when
you’re done.”

Kat headed to the bathroom and scrubbed her
hands. She followed Klement’s advice and took a few deep breaths.
Thank God the guys didn’t seem to be mad at her for being late.
Roderick appeared indifferent, Cliff was more concerned with his
Internet bully, and Klement seemed to have been simply worried
about her. Even though it was too soon for her Xanax to have kicked
in, she felt better. Especially after combing her hair, which had
been messed up from changing her tire.

Klement stopped her just outside the
isolation booth. “Here.” He held out a guitar strap.

She looked up at him in surprise. It looked
like one of those fancy ones advertized on her website. “What’s
this for?”

“I noticed that the one you have hurts your
shoulder.” He fidgeted with the strap. “This one is padded and
designed to distribute the weight of your guitar more evenly than
your cheapo one. It also has a better adjustment range so you can
get it to fit better.”

Their fingers brushed as she took the strap.
Warmth suffused her body at his kindness and generosity. Here she’d
been terrified that he was angry with her, and he was giving her a
present. “Thank you so much!”

“Anytime. Let me know how it works.” He
shrugged and headed into the sound engineer’s booth.

Cliff had his gear hooked up and ready. “I’ve
been waiting for you, doll.”

Not knowing how to respond to that aside from
gagging a bit, Kat hooked up her guitar and pulled the headphones
over her ears. Hopefully he’d get the hint that she was here for
business, not pleasure.

Klement caught her eye through the glass of
the booth. It looked like he and the sound engineer were having an
argument. Finally, the sound guy spread his hand in surrender,
moved a dial, and gave her and Cliff the signal to start.

The bass and drums played in her ears just as
Cliff started the rhythm. Kat mentally counted the beats before
entering with the lead melody. Their chords blended together
seamlessly and kept time with the bass and drums playing in the
headphones. So far, so good. But when it came time for her solo,
Cliff suddenly abandoned the background rhythm and played her part
before altering it to another set of riffs.

Kat’s jaw dropped in outrage. He’d done it
again!

The bass and drums abruptly shut off through
her headphones, replaced by Klement’s angry voice. “Cut! Damn it,
Cliff, will you stop fucking with her solos? You’re the singer, not
the lead guitarist.”

Kat silently cheered.
Damn
straight
.

“You said you wanted to keep that set of
riffs I wrote.”

Klement rolled his eyes. “Yes, but you’re not
supposed to do it until the bridge after the second chorus.”

“But I thought it would sound cool here.”

Klement rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Just
do it how we planned and save the improv for the writing
sessions.”

“Okay,” Cliff said sullenly. “Sorry.”

The bassist waved off the apology. “All right
then. From the top.”

The song began again, but this time Klement
cut it off to scold her for not holding a note long enough, and it
took six more takes, some interrupted by spats with the sound
engineer, before he was satisfied.

“Finally,” Cliff breathed when they finished
the song all the way through and a break was called. He smirked at
Kat. “Are you still liking the job?”

“Actually, yes.” Sure, Klement could be a
bossy taskmaster, and playing the same parts over and over again
grew redundant and exhausting, but she felt like their takes
improved every time. She felt like they were
creating
something together. Something she could take pride in being a part
of.

Still, she was damn grateful for the strap
Klement gave her. Her old one would have killed her shoulder by
now. And they still had another song to do.

They met Klement and Roderick in a break room
behind the lobby. Rod had brought lunch from a local burger joint.
Kat’s stomach growled. She’d been too nervous to eat breakfast.

“My fingers hurt,” Cliff complained through a
mouthful of fries.

“That’s because you don’t practice enough,”
Klement said without an ounce of pity. Kat bit back a laugh, but
Roderick didn’t.

Cliff flipped off his bandmates before
turning to her. “You did really good in there. Few musicians can
survive Klement’s anal perfectionism.”

“Oh, come on, I’m not that bad,” the bassist
protested.

Roderick chuckled. “You’re almost as bad as
Kubrick.”

“Kubrick did films, not music.”

“Thanks,” Kat cut in before another argument
erupted. “And really, he’s not that bad.”

Klement toasted her with his milkshake. “See?
Now let’s get back to work.”

The next song took only four takes, maybe
because Kat had clued in to most of what they wanted her to do. And
Cliff seemed to have lost all urge to get creative. Still, she was
relieved when they were done for the day. Even her fingers were
getting sore.

Cliff high-fived her before they bent to
unhook their gear. “Great job. Rod and I are going out for beers
and pizza. Wanna join us?”

The idea of having beers with Cliff Tracey
and Roderick Powell would have made her squeal in delight only days
ago, but now all she could think about was getting back to her room
and practicing like a fiend to be good enough to tour with them.
“No, thanks. I have to do some work on the website.”

“You sure?” Cliff’s mouth twisted like she
was speaking a foreign language.

“Yeah, but if I finish up early enough I
might catch up with you guys.” Though she doubted it. She did not
want to do this work with a hangover.

“I remember when I worked two jobs. It gets
rough,” Cliff said. “You gotta just say ‘fuck it’ sometimes and
have some fun or you’ll get burned out.” He inclined his head
toward Klement, who was once more lecturing the sound guy, and
whispered, “Or end up like Mister Six-jobs over there.”

“Oh, he’s not going out with you guys?” A
pang of sympathy struck her for the bassist. While his bandmates
were partying, he was probably going to spend his evening listening
to the tracks, making adjustments, and planning tomorrow’s session.
“And did you say he has
six
jobs?”