Jimmy sat sprawled on one of the leather sofas, watching his brother David, sitting on a large amp opposite him, tune a guitar. Mal, the blond-haired maniac, sat behind a drum kit, keeping up a relatively quiet though steady beat. And Gib was in his father’s arms, safe and sound. Thank God.
I tightened my slightly sloppy ponytail and stood taller. Jeans and a tee wasn’t my usual slick day wear. But at least there were currently no food groups represented in my hair.
“But you’re supposed to hang out with Aunty Martha. We talked about this,” said Ben with a frown. “What if she gets lost? She hasn’t been here that long. She doesn’t know the house like you do.”
“Aunty Martha there.” Expression decidedly unconvinced by the argument, Gib pointed at me, standing in the doorway.
I lifted a hand in greeting. “He got away from me.”
Mal snorted, the jerk.
Ben just nodded. “Yeah, I noticed. He’s like Houdini when he gets an idea into his head that he wants to be somewhere else. Kind of impressed you kept him occupied for as long as you did, actually.”
Phew.
“Keeping track of children isn’t as easy as it looks,” said Jimmy with a small smile. Not a smirk, however, which was interesting. It might have almost been kind. Marriage and fatherhood must have mellowed him plenty.
“I’m finding that out,” I said.
David just jerked his chin at me. Not awkward at all.
With an electric guitar in his hands, the new kid, Adam, stood waiting nearby. He looked a little wide eyed at the company he was keeping. Fair enough. Any no-name baby rocker like him would give up valuable parts of their anatomy to be hanging out with Stage Dive.
“What did you think?” he asked Ben, gaze hopeful yet braced for the worst.
Mal cleared his throat. “So you’d label that maybe a standard sort of rock, pop, soul, with a dash of Americana-type sound, yeah?”
Adam just blinked. “Ah, well—”
“Don’t get me wrong. While there’s nothing particularly fresh or interesting about what you’re doing, you don’t completely suck. Not completely,” said Mal, all seriousness. “I hope you can find something to cling to in that, son.”
“Ignore him,” groaned David. “Unless you want to hit him with something. That’s fine too.”
“Hey!” Mal held up his drum sticks, making the symbol of the cross. “Stay back, fiends. I’m a ninja master with a set of sticks in my hands. I could take you all down without even raising a sweat.”
A hand rubbing tiredly over his face, Ben nodded in agreement. “Definitely ignore him. God knows we do. Your sound is fine, Adam. In fact, it’s damn good. That’s why you’re here.”
Brows drawn tight, Adam looked around the room. “Okay.”
Mal grinned. The man truly was the Puck or Loki of rock ’n roll. Pure mischief with a side order of annoying as all hell. “Actually, the truth is that you’re killing it. But we hate any sort of genuine competition and the only way we could think of crushing your talent was to have Ben produce your next album.”
Ben quietly grumbled something rude, given the small ears no doubt listening.
“So I’ve decided I’ll play on your album, Adam. But like under a pseudonym,” said Mal. “This is going to be great. I’ll use a cool fake name like Captain P. Niss. Get it?”
“You’re an idiot,” said Jimmy flatly.
Surprisingly enough, the drummer actually looked vaguely wounded. “Anne thought it was hilarious.”
“Your wife is an incredibly kind and gracious person.”
“Enough. You can play uncredited,” said Ben, ending the discussion.
“You can’t hide
talent that easily. The true musos will still recognize my style. They’ll be like, ‘no way that’s anyone but Malcolm Ericson on the drums’. Tell them, Marty.”
“Ben, you guys are working. Let me take him.” Ignoring Mal, I wandered over to my brother, arms extended for the two-year-old terror. Gib of course scowled and turned away, hiding his face in his father’s thick shoulder. Like I was the worst. Sigh. To think, I’d actually imagined he and I were bonding sort of over the last few days. Sure, it was based on an illicit chocolate chip cookie enticement system, but you had to start somewhere.