He rolled his eyes. “He wouldn’t say that and neither would my mom, but it would be easier for them if I was. Or if my friends didn’t think I was a geek. They wouldn’t have to worry all the time. And I wouldn’t have to worry about them worrying, you know?”
“No, I don’t. No one worried about me when I was your age, and believe me…someone should have worried,” I scoffed. “And popular? I’ve never been popular in my life.”
“You are now.”
“Am I, though?” I countered. “I’m just a guitar player who likes his job. Find your thing, Parker. It might take a while to reveal itself, so give yourself a break and stop worrying about things you can’t change overnight.”
“It’s not easy.” His voice was barely audible. If I hadn’t been sitting in front of him, I might not have heard.
“I know. Hang in there. In the meantime, you need new friends. Don’t hang with assholes who ignore you. That’s bullshit. Pardon my French. Sounds like you outgrew them. And that’s okay. Happens all the fuckin’ time. Pardon my French again.”
Parker chuckled as he pulled out his phone. “I have to go. Marta’s here.”
“Who’s that?” I asked, standing to hang the guitar on the wall.
“She’s our babysitter. She mostly just drives us around now.” He put his instrument in the case, closing it just as Bianca reappeared in the doorway to make sure Parker knew someone was waiting for him.
I bit back a smile at his awkward high five. “Let me know if you want to continue or—”
“I do.”
“Cool, then do me a favor…practice.”
“I will.”
“Later, Parker. Oh, wait! Think about a song or two you want to learn. It can be anything at all.”
He hiked the strap over his shoulder and furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I watched him leave the studio, feeling oddly pensive. I wasn’t the type to overthink. I tended to give any situation a cursory once-over before diving in headfirst because, hey…I had nothing to lose. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to change. Between having Parker in the studio, a photo-op “date” this weekend, and my image on a bottle of water, the ground under my feet felt a tad unsteady.
I paused in the middle of the studio and picked up one of the sparkling waters from the crate on the floor. According to the label, it was called Pride Parade raspberry lime. Hmm. I turned the bottle in my hand, inspecting the striped design that was probably brightly colored. There was a placeholder near the word “Sonoma,” where my silhouette would be. I tried to visualize it, but I couldn’t quite get there.
Supposedly, this bottle symbolized a new chapter in Zero’s climb to the top. We weren’t just another LA band trying to catch a break at local clubs. We’d proved we had the firepower and star appeal to be the world’s best. I believed in Zero and I knew I had an important role in our success. I was humbled and honored to be part of this journey, yet at that moment, I felt strangely disconnected. Like this couldn’t really be my life.
It felt more natural to spend an afternoon teaching my lover’s son guitar than it did to contemplate the next phase in Zero’s plan to conquer the music industry…and I had no idea what to think of that.
8
Johnny
Laramie’s Steakhouse had been serving prime rib and filet mignon to Hollywood’s elite since the forties. The walls were lined with framed photographs of Academy-Award-winning actors, actresses, directors, producers, and musicians of all ilk. It was an institution of sorts and one of the last of its kind to gracefully honor the past and still manage to draw younger diners who might not have any idea who Katharine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart were.
It was nice. But in my opinion, it was a curious choice of venue for a date. Not only was the kitsch factor strong, but it was almost pitch-dark inside, and the acoustics were terrible. I had a hard time hearing myself think as the hostess led me past the crowded bar through the restaurant. Dimly lit sconces above high-backed booths and votive candles on every table provided the only real light. Maybe that was a good thing, I mused, blinking as my eyes adjusted. The clientele this evening looked young and a little underdressed.
I smiled at the pretty woman wearing a tiny skirt and a sparkly top with a plunging necklace when she stepped in the aisle in front of me, batting her fake eyelashes.
“ ’Scuse me, are you Johnny Martin?” she asked in a breathy voice, setting her manicured hand on my elbow.
“Uh, yes,” I replied, glancing distractedly toward the hostess, who politely stopped to wait for me near a pillar a few feet away.