Jet (Marked Men #2)(11)

My studio was in an old warehouse off California downtown. The acoustics were great and after the band’s last tour, I had enough money to really trick it out.

I knew everyone, and I mean everyone, in this town who had anything to do with music. Granted, Denver isn’t L.A. or New York, but it is right in the center of the country. It has such a huge and diverse population that it really is a destination for bands, some more famous than others, to come and record.

My band was really popular locally, and after going on tour with Artifice for Metalfest last year, we were getting better known nationally. What paid the bills was the studio and putting together tracks for other people. I didn’t care—as long as I got to make music and got to write songs, I was a happy guy. Music was what made me get up in the morning and what followed me to bed at night. Sure, I sang in a heavy-metal band, but when I was younger it had been all about punk rock and the indie scene. The reality was I just liked good music. I didn’t care what color or creed it came in, even if I gave Ayden endless shit about her addiction to Top 40 Country. The truth was, I liked to get her riled up just to see those amber eyes of hers shoot sparks.

Today I was planning on losing myself in work. The band that was booked was good and we had already put together a solid track layout for their new album. What I hadn’t planned on was pulling into my spot by the door to find my old man waiting for me. I couldn’t help the frown that automatically pulled across my face, and it took a conscious effort to uncurl each and every finger from around the steering wheel in order to get out of the car to confront him.

He had on aviator shades and jeans that were too baggy for a guy his age, but that was my pops, refusing to let go of his youth and all the good times, no matter who it hurt along the way.

I sighed and pushed open the door, watching him warily as he came around the hood of the car. “What are you doing here, Pops? I have work to do. I can’t stand around and shoot the shit.”

Sometimes it was better to just cut him off before he got started, but today apparently that wasn’t going to work.

“You got back from tour three months ago and didn’t think to give your old man a call? I’ve been dying to hear about Metalfest. Did you boys get signed by a big label yet?”

It would have seemed like a typical question for a parent to ask his child, if it was any other parent than mine. Dave Keller had lived his life as a professional roadie and had gone on tour with everyone from Metallica to Neurosis and whatever band he could find in between. And now, all he wanted was for his one-and-only son to hit it big. Not so I could take care of him or buy him a mansion in the Malibu hills, but so he could go back on tour and live the wild days of illicit sex and drugs, as if he were still in his twenties. It drove him crazy that I was happy staying local, that I made plenty of money recording and doing an occasional tour, and that the idea of fame and worldwide recognition scared the living piss out of me.

Not to mention he had bailed on me and Mom over and over again and was less than an ideal candidate for husband or father of the year. I never understood why my mom, my sweet, loving, kindhearted, generous mom, stayed married to such a scumbag. But no matter how hard I pushed or how much I pleaded with her, she refused to leave him, which, in turn, made it really hard for me not to hate his lazy, cheating, lying ass.

“I don’t talk to major labels, Pop. I’ve told you that a million times.”

He scoffed. “Do those other guys in the band know that you’re holding their future hostage? What do they have to say about you making decisions like that?”

This wasn’t a conversation I cared to have with him. I didn’t really care to have any kind of conversation with him, but he wasn’t going to go away unless I made him. The band I was recording was going to be here any minute, and the last thing I wanted was for him to act like a middle-aged groupie.

“The guys know where I stand and they know where the door is if they don’t like it. I’ve played with Boone and Von since we were fourteen years old, so I doubt much I do surprises them. Catcher came from a band that already hit the mainstream and hated it, so the last thing he wants is to be in another one that’s blowing up. Stay out of my business, Pop. It doesn’t concern you, unless you’re asking to borrow money—in which case, have Mom call me. I’ll transfer it to her, not to you.”

He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head so that I could no longer just watch myself glower in the reflection. I got my dark eyes and my dark hair from him, but that was where the resemblance stopped. He was lived-in. A life of too many drugs and too many hard nights had taken its toll, and all I could think about when I looked at him was to wonder how someone so awful was able to convince someone as wonderful as my mom to marry his sorry ass. He made me furious in a way I couldn’t express with normal words. The only way I ever got it all out was to purge it on stage, in bleeding vocals and ear-shattering melodies.

“You better watch what you’re saying to me, son. I’m still your father and I go home to her, unlike you.”

There were a million things that I wanted to say to that, but I didn’t; I never did. As much as I loved my mom, there was no way I could stay in that house and watch him tear her down time and time again. It upset her so much when the old man and I got into it over his blatant disregard of her and her feelings that I had moved out when I was barely fifteen. It was either that or put my dad in the ground. Luckily, Nash’s uncle Phil was practically running a halfway house for unhappy teenage boys and hadn’t had any issue adding me to the fold.