Page 66 of Hot Mess
“Well, Elvis never cut an alternative metal album.”
I snorted. “Jesus, I wish he did.”
“You know who else is king?” She reached over to grab my lighter and cigarette case from the small table between us. “Ashley Player.”
“What, the king of metal? I’m not a metal vocalist, babe.”
“No, but you could be, if you wanted to. Just listen to this gorgeous mess.” We were somewhere in the middle of “A Small Victory” now. “Do you think when these guys were recording this melodic-apocalyptic acid-carnival-freak-show that they gave a flying fuck what ‘genre’ they were in?”
“Probably not.”
“Right. So.” She slipped a fresh joint out of my cigarette case—which was stocked full of them, since I was really trying, again, to quit cigarettes. “I think we should push what you do, and I’m not talking about forming a metal band. I’m saying indulge all your influences, all your musical desires, and see how far you can take it. Go fearless, kid. That’s where the magic will be.”
“We?”
“Hmm?”
“You said, I think ‘we’ should push what you do.”
“Yeah. About that.” She turned the music down even more, then lit the joint. She took a small drag, then handed it over to me. “The Penny Pushers are done, Ash. And you need to get out of this epic funk you’re in.”
“I’m aware, on both counts.”
“Good. It’s time to move forward. Let go of the breakups—all of them. Including the one with your band. I know it hurts like hell. I know you love Pepper and Coop and Janner. I also know you sat right in that chair a few months ago and told me you could never play with them again. You still mean that, deep down?”
“Yeah. I mean it.”
“So then let go. Move on.” She reached over and laid her hand on my arm. “What you need is a new band, Ashley. Someone to play with, create with, vibe off of and believe in. Someone to be on that magical musical journey with you.”
“Yeah.” I met her eyes, which were intent on me. “I know it.” I took a deep hit off the joint.
“And I want to be a part of it.”
“I know.”
I’d known, for years, that Summer’s ultimate dream was to become a music producer, and that she wanted to produce for me. We’d talked about it a lot. She’d sampled my voice a lot, too, worked it into her original songs at shows. I knew she was a fan of what I did, in general, just like I was a fan of her.
But I couldn’t exactly hire a producer to produce an album that hadn’t been written, for a band that didn’t exist.
“I mean,” she said, “I want to be part of your band.”
I stared at her, the words not making sense in my head. Too stoned, maybe.
“Since when?”
She sighed and gave me an exasperated look as she drew her hand back. “Are you dense? Since always. I’ve been dropping hints on you forever.”
Yeah. I knew that. But I kinda figured those hints were like the flirting she dropped on me—friendly, entertaining, but essentially meaningless.
“So?”
“So, you had a band,” she said. “I dropped hints, you didn’t pick up on them. I let it go. I wasn’t gonna pressure you to cheat on your band with me, or to leave them. I knew you were struggling with the Pushers, trying to make it work. But you’re divorced now. It’s over. I’m moving in, and I’m staking a claim on what’s mine.”
I cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Or at least, what I want to be mine,” she amended. “I realize, musically, I’ve never really had any part of you.”
“You don’t sound too happy about that.”
