The owner of the raspy voice currently criticizing me sounded as if he’d imbibed his share of alcohol-soaked cigarettes himself. I took a deep drag, then ground out the cigarette under my heel before blowing out a long, slow stream of smoke. The plume obscured the guy’s face for a second before I was nearly blinded by a pair of mirrored aviators.
“Well, about time. Gotta say you look just like the glossy countrified pics I saw online of your last CD cover. Where’s your cowboy hat?”
Flynn paid me no mind as he dropped into the chair across from me. He picked up a menu, ordered black coffee—make that black coffee, darlin’ with an invitational smile for the waitress—and then kicked out his miles-long, jean-clad legs. “You got a chip on your shoulder, kid. Better hope it doesn’t lay you flat.”
Not the first time I’d heard that sentiment, though never delivered in that particular way. “It’s gotten me this far. You’re late. Is that your version of a chip?”
“No, it’s that I couldn’t find fucking parking and traffic was a bitch.” He smiled again as the waitress returned with his coffee and eyed my glass of water with disdain. She’d been flirty with me at first, until I’d declined to order anything with a price tag. This trendy San Francisco eatery was far beyond my current pay grade. Or at least the money I still retained. I’d spent most of my extra cash while with Zoe.
Debts were my goddamn life.
I’d grab an apple and a bag of chips from a deli on the way back to the bus. It’d be enough to fill the hole.
“Sorry. This was the best I could do on short notice. Didn’t realize you’d be in town too. Figured we’d meet up when I was back in LA.”
Flynn shrugged and rubbed his thumb along the side of his coffee cup, his ring making a little click with each pass. “Gotta say, I’m not real sure why we’re meeting at all.”
Best to say it straight out. “You stole my drummer.” I folded my hands over my stomach and leaned back in my chair. “I want him back.”
The last thing I expected the guy to do was laugh. Hard. As if I was the funniest thing he’d encountered all week. “You do realize Scott has free will, right? He can come and go wherever he pleases.”
“Scott?” I frowned. “I thought his name was Deuce.” In fact, I was quite happy I’d even remembered his name, and now it wasn’t even the right one?
Again.
Flynn laughed harder.
“Can you kindly tell me the punchline, mate?”
“This is exactly why Scott,” he enunciated the name, “split. He said you didn’t have a clue how to play well in a group.”
“I’ve never had a band before,” I muttered, oddly chagrined.
Maybe it was because Flynn probably had a good decade on me and had a weathered, lived-in look about him that spoke of being utterly comfortable in his skin. Even his jeans appeared permanently shaped to him.
Or I supposed I could be smartening up enough to learn from my elders. Flynn had been in the business for a damn long time. He’d seen and lived through a lot. I could respect that. Especially since I still felt completely clueless about the world of music. I knew how to sing—though I’d be starting proper lessons soon, so perhaps not—and I was becoming more adept at selling the songs to the audience.
The rest? All a crapshoot.
“I’d say that’s obvious.” Flynn sat back in his chair, coffee cup in hand. “How’d you end up here?”
“You mean here, like San Francisco?”
“No. At Ripper Records. How do you know Van?”
I blinked. “You mean Donovan? He has a nickname other than Lord?” I’d heard that one around Ripper so often that even I’d picked it up.
“Yes, Donovan. Can’t say I’ve ever heard anyone else call him by one. Though I haven’t heard of this Lord business, either.” He chuckled. “Fits him.”
“Too well.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “So, ah, my brother is famous. You might’ve heard of him?”
“Could be. What’s his name?”
That he didn’t know Simon was my relation right off the top lifted him in my estimation. Despite my using Simon’s name to get a leg up, I was growing weary of the comparisons. Perhaps I was even beginning to see why Simon had been so insta
ntly irritated and on guard when it came to me.
A couple of articles headlined “Ian Kagan is no Simon Kagan” had offered me some insight there. I was sure there’d been the reverse as well. At least I hoped. Comparisons sucked, but they damn well had better be going both ways. I was a newbie, but I had some native skill.