The Sound of Us

Chapter Three. “Electric Love” by Børns

CHAPTER THREE

“Electric Love” by B?rns

DANTE

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I slammed Quinn against the van as soon as we’d finished loading up after the gig. He’d been high on stage, and his addiction was written all over the lines in his thin face, the sunken eyes, and his almost skeletal frame. Worse, he wasn’t the only one. Both our lead guitarist and our keyboardist had been messed up. It was yet another disastrous gig after a string of bad performances over the last few months.

“What the fuck is wrong with you ?” Quinn snickered. “You’re always taking the best pussy. Didn’t your mother tell you it’s nice to share?”

It took every bit of my self-control not to punch his smug face. My mother had been too busy trying to survive my father’s abuse to share much life wisdom with me and my little sister, Sasha, but she did try to teach us to keep quiet. Sasha had taken that lesson fully on board and retreated into herself. I’d taken the opposite approach and suffered for it every day.

“She isn’t that kind of girl.” If I’d been any other man, I would have given in to the urge to punch him, but damned if I would become my dad.

Quinn held up his hand in a warding gesture. “My bad. You clearly haven’t fucked her yet. I wouldn’t have wasted that opportunity. Did you see that ass?”

I’d seen all of her. She was the kind of woman who drew attention without any effort. My mind flashed back to the moment I’d seen Skye walk into the alley—thick dark hair falling in waves down her back, high smooth cheekbones in a perfectly oval face, jeans that hugged sweet curves and a top that had looked so much like lingerie I’d had to stay in the van until the vivid images of running my hands through the soft material and sliding it off her had passed.

Meeting her in person hadn’t helped the situation. I’d fallen into eyes the rich brown-gold of whiskey, arresting and startling at once. I could still remember the feel of her body pressed against mine, the floral scent of her hair, the soft groan she made when she kissed me. But it was our music connection that had hit me the most, as disconcerting as it was intriguing.

“Ignore him. He’s just trying to wind you up,” Jules said, tucking her drumsticks into the ratty canvas bag slung across her shoulder. Her look was a combination of punk rock and ’90s grunge, with a black leather jacket over a ripped tank, torn skinny jeans, and a pair of combat boots that had seen some serious action. Jules had her problems, but substance abuse was no longer one of them.

“He’s already wound up,” Quinn sneered. “He just didn’t have what it took to bring it home.”

“At least he could play.” Jules turned on him, her pink-streaked bob swinging over her shoulders. “You promised you’d be clean this time.”

Quinn’s face twisted into a snarl. “I don’t have time for this shit. I’ve got a coupla groupies waiting outside, and they appreciate my talents. Who’s coming to party?”

“Not this time. I’ve got a show tonight.” I DJ’d the late-night show at Havencrest’s independent campus radio station, WJPK, five nights a week from midnight until 2:00 A.M. It was my escape—the only time I could just be me.

Jules turned down the offer as she always did, and we got busy packing up the van. “We need to talk about the band and what’s going on.” She kept her voice low as I helped her load her drum kit. “We can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what? Play with half the band barely able to function? I don’t think we need to worry about it anymore. The manager wasn’t happy, and I’m pretty sure that was our last gig at Steamworks. We already got the axe from three other venues and the next two have canceled based on the rumors. I’m done, Jules. It’s over.”

“You can’t just leave.” Jules stared at me, aghast. “What will we do without you?”

“It’s my last year at university,” I said. “I need to focus on my marks and preparing for the LSAT or I won’t get into law school next year. There’s nothing I love more than playing live, which is why I’ve been making the time, but that’s my name they’re dragging through the mud—my reputation as a musician that’s being destroyed. The joy is gone, Jules, and that’s everything to me.”

Music had been my life when I was young. My mother had been a singer in a band before she met my dad and through her I learned about rock gods like Led Zeppelin, Queen, Jimi Hendrix, and Pink Floyd. She bought me my first guitar when I was five years old, and my grandmother, a professional cellist, gave me my first electric, a black Les Paul, when I was eight. The most important women in my life had given me the gift of music, and even my father couldn’t take it away.

“It was just a bad night,” she pleaded. “Don’t make any final decisions. We can’t be a band without a bass player.”

“I’m sorry, Jules.” I put my bass over my shoulder, adjusting the strap so it sat against my back. I’d discovered the bass after hearing my middle school music teacher play during our annual teachers vs. students Battle of the Bands. He was like the secret hero of each song, steering the band from the shadows and laying down the rhythm of a song. If the lead guitar was the lightning, he was the thunder. I offered to do his yard work in exchange for the lessons my father had refused to pay for, and he gave me his old bass and taught me how to play.

Jules turned on me, hands finding her hips. “What’s more important than your music?”

Except for Sasha, nothing had been more important to me than music after my mother died. It was my escape, and after Sasha took her own life, it became my retreat. But when I finally got my life back together, music had to take a back seat to vengeance.

“I’m pursuing my dream of becoming a lawyer.” As far as I was concerned, my father was responsible for the deaths of both my mother and sister, and my life goal was to work for the DA’s office, where I would be able to make him pay for his crimes.

“What about your talent? What about the fact that you come alive on stage?”

“I haven’t truly felt alive since I lost my family, Jules.”

At least not until tonight.

I wasn’t surprised to see Noah Cornell at his desk when I arrived at the station shortly before midnight. As station manager, Noah lived and breathed WJPK. Within five years of taking over, he had turned the middling station into one of the most popular college radio stations in the country, amplifying voices and issues that are often underrepresented in mainstream media.

When podcasting started to gain in popularity, he added podcasts to the schedule but kept the focus on traditional radio programming. He’d understood what others in the industry hadn’t—that radio audience figures remained stable year after year because listeners still wanted the immediate connection and engagement that came only from radio, allowing for a community experience that brought listeners to WJPK from all over the world. He was highly respected in the world of independent radio, and the only other person I’d met who understood music the way I did—at least until I met Skye.

“What’s keeping you so late this time?” I walked into Noah’s office, careful not to step on the piles of papers, albums, and boxes scattered across the green carpet. Noah was a great station manager, but he was a hoarder of anything to do with music. Band posters. Memorabilia. Vinyl. CDs. 8-track tapes. T-shirts. Buttons. Between the disaster of his office and his retro fashion look, people often underestimated Noah, but he was a card-carrying member of Mensa, the society for certified geniuses. He was also highly intuitive, keenly observant, and he carried more trivia in his head than the best Jeopardy! player.

“It’s my fault.” Nick Chan stuck his head out from behind a pile of boxes. “Noah just bought a vintage Gloria Jones vinyl on eBay, and I made the mistake of asking to hear it after my show. He’s been cleaning it for the last hour.”

Tall and lanky, with a thatch of black hair, Nick was an economics major who DJ’d the jazz and blues shows at the station. He was a music virtuoso and could play the saxophone, guitar, trumpet, piano, and he’d just learned how to play the trombone. Despite the late hour of my show, he always seemed to be around to help with my sound check, and I’d caught him sleeping on the couch in the lounge a few times when I was done. When I’d mentioned it to Noah, he’d waved it off. He said he wasn’t about to raise the issue in case Nick had nowhere else to go.

“You shouldn’t have tempted him.” I leaned against the doorway. “Does he know we have an accounting test tomorrow?” Nick and I had several classes together, and he always came to sit with me, chatting away as if we were friends, inviting me out for drinks, or to group study sessions at the library. I didn’t understand it. We weren’t friends. I didn’t have time for friends. And yet, Nick was always there, no matter how many times I turned him down.

“Are you guys ready to hear the original version of ‘Tainted Love’?” Noah held up the record, one finger in the center to keep it pristine.

“Would you consider trading it for Gloria Gaynor’s album Never Can Say Goodbye ?” Noah’s vinyl addiction was worse than mine and it wasn’t the only thing we had in common. He’d also wound up busking on the street at the lowest point in his life and had been given a second chance by the then-manager of WJPK. I was eighteen years old when Noah saved me. Devastated by Sasha’s death and the truth of my mother’s accident, I’d disowned my family and had been living on the street for two years when he offered me the same deal the former station manager had given him—a job at the station, a place to live, and support to finish school and clean up my life.

Noah snorted as he walked over to one of three turntables he had set up in his office. With his shoulder-length straight blond hair, pink shirts, tight black jeans, and silver bolo ties, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of the eighties. “Don’t make me laugh. That’s almost as bad as the time you tried to convince me to give you Tommy Johnson’s ‘Alcohol and Jake Blues’ in exchange for a first pressing of Bob Dylan’s The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan .”

Nick and I found places to lean—Noah’s chairs were always full of junk—and we gave him the courtesy of listening to the title track of his new treasure.

“I heard a scratch.” Noah peered down at the spinning record. “I can see it. Goddamn it. That’s why it’s always better to buy local.”

Noah rarely used swear words, so I knew something was wrong, and it was more than a scratch on vintage vinyl. “What’s going on?”

He glanced at Nick, the meaning clear. “It’s nothing.”

Nick took the hint and made his way to the door. “I think I’ll head out and spend the night processing the greatness that is Gloria Jones. See you in class.”

After he’d gone, Noah sighed. “Things aren’t looking good for the station. The university just turned down our annual request for funding. I’ve been swamped preparing grant applications and making lists of potential donors. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’ve been up late every night, sometimes all night, trying to find a way to keep the station going.”

I’d noticed Noah had lost weight—his skinny jeans weren’t so skinny—and his face had become pale and lined. I’d thought it was too many late nights listening to music and watching his favorite reruns, but Noah didn’t lie and the tension in his voice was almost palpable.

“I’ve heard rumors the new CFO wants to repurpose our space for a revenue-generating business,” he continued. “If we can’t show we’re a viable nonprofit, they’ll have an excuse to shut us down.”

I stared at him in shock. “Are you serious?”

“Nonprofit isn’t good business.” Noah shrugged. “I’ve been going through the books to see where we can cut costs. Things are going to be very tight this year. No new equipment, no free snacks in the lounge, less promo, fewer parties, staff reductions… I’ll be asking all the volunteers”—his gaze cut to me, his meaning clear—“to help take up the slack.” He carefully removed the album from the turntable and slid it into its sleeve. “I don’t suppose they offer a class on fundraising for nonprofits at Havencrest…?”

“I’ll ask around.”

There was very little I wouldn’t do for Noah. Eight years ago, when I’d gone into a downward spiral after my sister’s death, he’d given me a reason to go on living. But that was Noah; he was the kind of guy who picked up strays. When the previous WJPK station manager retired, Noah had bought his run-down house in Forest Glen and filled it with rescues—two cats and three dogs, and later on, me.

“What have you got planned for the show tonight?” He returned to his desk and refilled his cup from the ancient coffee maker beside the window. Noah had a three-pot-a-day habit and was totally unaffected by caffeine. He could drink a triple espresso and fall asleep in two minutes flat.

“I got in some demos from a couple of new indie bands that I want to showcase, then a bit of pirate metal…”

“Be careful if you’re planning to play Alestorm.” Noah knew even the most obscure bands that I dug up for my show. “We got warnings about the language from the higher-ups last time.”

“That’s the point of pirate metal.”

Noah laughed. “How about some baby metal instead?”

“I’m feeling the need for some hardcore catharsis.” I hesitated, but the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “I met this girl—”

“You meet a lot of girls.”

“She’s different,” I said. “She knows music the way we do. She knew bands I’d never heard of. She was listening to Angerfist—”

Noah perked up at the name of the fringe band. “Was she wearing a hockey mask and a black hood? Did you hear her metal scream?”

“She was the opposite of an Angerfist stan,” I said. “She was… fun and sweet and loyal and… interesting. I’ve never had a conversation about music like that with anyone except you.”

“So where is this mysterious woman who captured the interest of a man who breaks more hearts than I break coffee cups?” He kept his tone light, but I knew Noah well enough to recognize the hyperfocus of his attention.

“Quinn was messed up at the gig again and said some stuff that scared her away.”

His shoulders slumped the tiniest bit. “So that’s it? No wedding bells?”

“Christ, Noah. I spent less than half an hour with her. I’ll probably never see her again.” Damn Noah for making me regret my decision to just let her walk away. He could always do that to me. A question. A word. And suddenly I would realize that what he’d just said was what I’d been thinking or feeling all along.

“So, pirate metal because of a girl?” Noah put his feet up on the desk. I could swear there was a dent in the wood beneath the mass of papers from countless years of refusing to sit up in his chair.

“That and the fact I just found out I have to visit my dad’s lawyer to discuss my grandmother’s estate.” I’d been putting off the meeting just like I’d been putting off reading the correspondence from my grandmother’s lawyers that had been piling up for over six months. Not just because I simply didn’t have the time or emotional energy, but also because I didn’t want to face the reality that the last family member who truly cared for me was gone. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my dad shows up and tries to convince me to join the family business again.”

“You’d be rolling in cash,” Noah pointed out. “More than enough to help out a struggling nonprofit radio station…”

“I want to help, Noah, but I don’t want that life,” I said. “It comes with a price tag I’m not willing to pay.” There was no way I would ever join the family real estate business that had been passed on from father to son for four generations. It was all going to end with me—the business, the legacy, the generations of trauma, and the family line.

My father had done something so unforgivable, I’d even changed my last name.