CHAPTER EIGHT
What does that even mean?” I ask. A replacement for an irreplaceable man?
Ty still seems lost within himself when he answers. “It means that I took over the job of lead guitarist for Red Hot after Keith James died, but according to pretty much everyone in the entire world, I’m not up to the job.”
Now the makeup, hairdo, and tattoos are starting to make sense, along with the fact that he was in Lister’s office. “You’re not up to it because you can’t play their songs well enough?” I find it hard to believe that a band as experienced as Red Hot would accidentally hire someone unqualified.
“No, that’s not it.”
After trying to imagine my mothers’ reaction to him being onstage, knowing how much they cherish Keith James and all the rest of the band members, I nod. “Okay, I get it. You’re thirty years too young, you’re not sporting a teased mullet, and you don’t yet have a beer gut, wrinkles all over your face, or hanging jowls.”
He looks up at me slowly, his expression at first suspicious but then more relaxed as the lines of worry ease away. “No, that’s not it either.” His smile is barely there, but it’s charming, nonetheless.
“Oh, trust me, I’m sure it is.” I roll my eyes and shake my head, lowering the fake Mace to my side. “The women who fell in love with these guys thirty years ago or whatever are all the same; they’re lost in the past. They see these guys who haven’t changed their clothes, hair, or music, and they picture their own pasts, imagine they’re still living in them—still young, still vibrant, still wild and free. I’m sure when you walk out onstage you destroy the illusion. It won’t matter how well you play . . . you turn the clock forward just by being you.”
I can picture my mothers going to one of their concerts and complaining about how there’s a baby up onstage where he doesn’t belong. It’s probably why they never mentioned there being a replacement for Keith; they figured if they said it, it would make it real. They can get really weird about Red Hot. I made fun of one of the band’s album covers once, and I got sent to my room for half a day, and was only allowed out when I apologized to all three of my moms for being disrespectful.
“Maybe.” He’s studying his fingers as he rubs his knuckles. He doesn’t sound convinced.
It’s possible he sucks. That could explain why people aren’t excited about him being there. “Are you good?” I ask.
He looks up at me. “What do you mean? Good about what?”
“Not good about something. Are you good at something . . . playing guitar? You must be, otherwise they wouldn’t have hired you.”
“I think I am.”
Maybe it’s a genuineness issue. “Are you a fan? Were you a fan before you got the job?”
“The biggest.” He sounds very confident about this part of his story, and his mood becomes more animated. “I’ve been listening to their music since I was a kid. I know every single one of their songs backward and forward.”
I smile at his silliness. “I think I might like to hear one of their songs backward.” This situation is obviously bugging the hell out of him, but at least he can joke about it.
His smile disappears. “I wasn’t kidding. I really can play them backward.”
I laugh. “Why on earth would you want to do that? Their songs are boring enough going forward.”
“Boring? Are you kidding me?” He sounds offended now, like my mothers would be if they heard me say that.
I’m taken aback by his strong reaction. “Are you also the president of their fan club?”
He looks confused, which softens his angry expression. “I don’t get it.”
I smile to put him at ease. “Your feathers got a little ruffled there. I was starting to think you’ve been running the fan club since high school or something.”
He shrugs, relaxing back into the couch. “I am a fan. Hardcore. I have been my whole life.”
“Well, I’ve been listening to the music my whole life too, but I have to be honest . . . I don’t get it.”
He throws his arms over the top of the couch and drops his head back. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter.”
His comment shouldn’t hurt, but it does. I’m way too sensitive today. “No, I don’t suppose it does.” I look around the room, trying to come up with a conversational topic that will get us past the awkwardness, but I’m coming up blank. I wonder why he’s here when the band can’t see me until tomorrow. I’m also curious about why he’s not with them. But knowing that he’s not exactly welcomed by the fans, I figure it’s probably a touchy subject, so I decide not to bring it up.
“So what’s your deal?” he asks. “How do you fit into the puzzle?”
Now it’s my turn to look at him suspiciously. “You must already know that, seeing as how you’re Lister’s errand boy and the lead guitarist for the band.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “If I already knew, why would I be asking you?”
My own words thrown back at me. “Touché.” I guess he is paying attention. “If you’ll answer a question for me, I’ll answer your question,” I say. My curiosity is getting the better of me.
“Shoot,” he says.
“Why did you offer to pick me up at the airport?”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Greg asked me to do it.”
“Why did he ask you and not a taxi?”
“He told me you were a VIP who was too important to the band to trust with a taxi, and I was curious enough about what that meant to say yes.”
I shouldn’t be flattered by being labeled a VIP. I know this, and yet . . . “Why are you here now? Did Greg ask you to come?”
“That’s two questions. No, three. That’s three questions.”
I frown, confused. “What?”
“You said you had one question for me. I answered it, so now it’s your turn.”
“Okay, fine,” I concede. “What’s your question again? I forgot.”
“What’s your deal? How do you fit into the puzzle?”
I sigh, staring at him. He really doesn’t know; I can tell by the expression on his face. “It’s kind of personal.”
“I gathered that.” He’s still waiting, expecting me to answer.
For some strange reason, I have this idea that it would be nice to tell him the Big Secret. Then I wouldn’t be the only one in the city besides Lister who knows what I’m doing here. Besides . . . he’s in the band; he has every right to know their business.
“Well, as it turns out, I may be a love child of one of your fellow band members.” It sounds so weird hearing myself say that out loud. I said it in a joking way, but this isn’t funny. The emotions I tried to keep tamped down come flooding out. I have to grit my teeth to keep from crying over how mad it makes me.
Tyler’s grin slowly dissolves and he lifts his head as his arms slide down to rest at his sides. “Who? Which one?”
I shrug. “Beats me. I have no idea.” My nostrils flare with the effort of keeping my emotions in check.
His hands curl into fists against his legs. “If you don’t know, how can you possibly be making that claim?”
A claim? Oh my god, he thinks I’m a gold digger! “I’m not making any claim. They’re the ones making claims.” I’m fully prepared to be mad at him for his senseless attack on my motivations, when he flops forward and rests his face in his hands, his elbows propped up on his knees.
“I think I had too many beers last night. None of this is making any sense, and I have a monster headache.”
I dig through my bag, dropping the fake Mace inside. A headache I can fix. “Don’t worry. I have a remedy in here somewhere.”
“I’m clean, don’t bother.”
I look up at him. “Clean?” Is he saying I’m a dirty hippie? “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He lifts his head. “It means I don’t take narcotics, so don’t bother.”
He sounds angry, which is nothing but confusing to me. “I’m not a drug dealer, geez. I have homeopathic stuff in my bag.” I stop digging around. “But if you’re not interested, never mind.” Screw him. I’m not going to waste my proven home remedy on him if he can’t respect it.
He’s staring at me like I’m the enemy.
“What is wrong with you? Are you angry at me now?”
He shrugs. “Nope.”
“I guess you’re a moody guy or something, then, because a minute ago you were smiling, and now you look like you want to punch me in the eye.”
He looks over at the wall. “The only one punching anyone in the eye is you.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I think he’s deliberately trying to piss me off at this point, and this New York rudeness is really not my cup of tea. “If you don’t quit saying that, you’re going to be really sorry.”
“Oh yeah?” He looks over at me, his grin a bit on the devious side. “What are you going to do about it? Beat me over the head again?”
I snort. “As if.”
He stares at me and I stare right back. We’re at an impasse, it seems, the conversation played out and the mood . . . confusing. Sometimes it almost feels like he’s flirting and then he turns into a teasing older brother type. I prefer the former to the latter, but he’s decided to be cranky now, so as far as I’m concerned, he can just go fly a kite in the street.
I stand up because I can’t think of what else to do. I let this guy into my hotel room because he was a tiny bit charming and I knew he wasn’t dangerous once I saw him in Lister’s office, but now he’s ruined it. For a few seconds there I thought we could actually get along, but now I know we can’t. He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder, and I don’t have the patience for that kind of nonsense. It does not matter to me how good-looking a guy is; if he’s high-maintenance, I am not interested.
“So, what’s your plan?” he asks.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter. “None of your business.”
“Going to try to cash in?”
I’m not really sure what he means by that, but his tone isn’t nice. “Excuse me?”
He stands, walking out of the living room and heading toward the door without a word.
I’m so confused. “Where’re you going?”
“I’ve got somewhere else to be that’s not here.” His insult is clear.
“Good!” I shout out behind him as he opens the door. “It was much nicer in this room without you in it!”
He looks over his shoulder at me as he’s leaving. “Enjoy your free ride while it lasts.”
He slams the door behind him, and I’m left staring at it with my jaw falling almost to the floor. I was a nice person and invited this guy into my room, engaged in what I thought was a meaningful conversation, and yet somehow he ends up insulting me and I end up being the asshole.
I really, really do not belong in this city, and after interacting with the new lead guitarist for Red Hot, I am now more certain than ever that I don’t belong in the rock ’n’ roll world either.