Rush

“It’s not that funny. And I like walking.”

He shakes his head as he turns the car and accelerates back up the long drive. The silver rings on his fingers glimmer against the steering wheel. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m pleased you’re here.”

Meaning he expected me to bail. I glance out at the lawn and the empty fields beyond. There’s nothing around here. I didn’t realize this place was so isolated. We park, and Rush carries my case up the steps and through the front door. Inside, the hall is enormous and tiled with marble. There’s a huge light fitting overhead and antique oil paintings on the walls. If his plan was to intimidate me by inviting me here, it’s working.

Rush takes me through to a sitting room where a man is working on a laptop, and turns to me. “I’m in the studio right now. You’re welcome to come through and listen. The house is yours. Feel free to go where you like. There’s food set out in the dining room if you get hungry. Talk to whomever.”

And then he’s gone.

The man behind the desk smiles at me and introduces himself. It’s Thomas, Rush’s assistant, and he shows me to my room, points out where everything is, and leaves me to it.

I’m too full of nervous energy to stay put, so I head back downstairs, thinking I might take a look at the garden. I pass various people with asymmetrical haircuts, torn jeans and expensive laptops who seem to be fiendishly busy. Everyone’s older than me, dressed better than me and about a million times more confident than me as they talk on their phones and to each other, saying things like, “No, we must have lighter embossing on the record sleeve, Rush was very clear,” and, “If we can’t get Bianchi, we may as well just cancel the whole shoot.”

The house is huge and contains a mix of modern art and antiques. I spend more than an hour wandering into every downstairs room and looking at all the pieces. I critique his book collection, too. Art books, biographies and classic novels like A Clockwork Orange and Mrs. Dalloway.

The sound of guitar chords draws me toward the eastern part of the house. I head down a long corridor to an open door. The room is a studio, incongruously modern in the old house. A sound engineer has his back to me, and Rush stands behind glass, an electric guitar slung over his shoulder.

He sees me, waves, and nods to some chairs behind the sound engineer. There’s a man already sitting in one of them, his long legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded across his chest. I take the seat next to his.

Rush is absorbed in tuning his guitar, his silvery hair falling around his face. He’s got headphones on, one covering his ear and one pushed back. Half the country would kill to be sitting where I am right now.

The man beside me sits up a little and holds out his hand. “I’m Wes.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dree. Do you work for Rush?” I shake his hand, assuming he’s someone else Rush invited here and who doesn’t know what they should be doing yet.

The man stares at me, and then deadpans, “No, I’m no one important. I’m just the fucking bass player.”

I feel myself turning red. I should have done more research. I scramble to apologize, and Wes bursts out laughing.

“Your face. Sorry, Dree, I couldn’t help myself. People never know who I am. I have to get my picture taken next to that handsome fucker and they only want to look at him.” He nods at Rush.

The suggestion that I don’t know who he is because I’m too taken by Rush’s looks makes blush harder. “I’m so sorry. I’m terrible with faces.”

Rush hits a button in front of him and his voice crackles over a speaker. “Quit fucking with her, Wes.”

Wes holds up his hands. “I’m done. So, you’re the one who’s going to be making Rush pirouette and shit?”

Rush swipes his pick over the guitar strings, and a heavy chord sounds. “We’re still figuring that out. I’m ready for the take, Mike.”

We fall silent while the sound engineer hits a few buttons and nods at Rush. He pulls his headphones on and starts to play, picking out a melody in between strumming and sliding his hand up and down the fret board. It sounds pretty good to me, even without the bass and drums that will go with it, but Rush does it again. And again. Every take sounds perfect, and I glance at Wes in surprise. Wes just smiles and sinks further into in his seat, getting comfortable.

At one point, Wes heads out, but he’s back a few minutes later with two plates of salad, and he hands one to me. “May as well eat if we’re going to be sitting here all goddamn day,” he grumbles, but I can tell from the way he closely follows everything that’s happening that he wouldn’t be anywhere else.