Page 158 of Ice Me Out

He clicked his tongue. “That girl’s brain isn’t even fully developed.”

I picked up my coffee and finally took a sip. “Vera would resent that.”

“I resent the idea of sitting across from you at Sunday dinner.”

I set my mug down. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t thrilled either but didn’t want to fuck myself over. He was being generous with the information he was sharing. I wouldn’t fuck that up by being a smart-ass.

I checked my watch. “I need to get back to the hotel soon.”

That seemed to knock the wind out of his sails a little. Snoh wanted a fight. I wouldn’t give him another one.

“Heard,” he relented.

“You left off with her relationship with the triplets,” I reminded him.

“Right. Anyway, they were thick as thieves. One summer, Vera gets this insane idea. She wants to be a rock star. She spends all her free time scribbling in a composition notebook. Two weeks later, she has sixteen songs, and she’s pitching them to the triplets. She was twelve, and the shit she wrote was absolute genius. The triplets didn’t need much convincing, but they knew they couldn’t go to Bo with some half-baked plan. They didn’t want to approach him until they had a track laid. They would seclude themselves in the studio at night—Vera on drums, Syrus on vocals, Sylas on lead guitar, and Symon on bass.

“I was allowed to sit in on the final night before they played for Bo. I couldn’t take my fucking eyes off her. I was sitting there wondering what music demon had possessed my sister. She was killing it—playing like it was her fifth tour with stage presence only veteran stars could master.

“The song ended, and my first reaction was to go wake Bo. I ran through the house and woke him out of his sleep like the barn was on fire. I dragged him down to the studio and made them play again. Bo watched—expression completely unreadable. And when they finished, he said one thing: ‘I need to make a call.’”

I went back to tugging at my earring. I didn’t know what the fuck to do with any of this information. I’d listened to Obsydian Trip for years. I knew every song and album. I could tie tracks to specific games, cities, and entire stretches of my young adult life. And apparently, it all started with a twelve-year-old girl at music boot camp somewhere in Washington with a composition notebook and an insane idea.

I tried to picture her behind a kit. Vera with her braids flying, probably too small for half the damn equipment, beating the shit out of those drums while three teenagers followed her lead.

I shook the thought away.

“What happened next?”

Snoh drummed his fingers against the table and sighed. “After that, everything moved quickly.” He locked eyes with me. “Unnaturally quick. Honestly, I was shocked our parents agreed. Mom protested, but she was drowned out. I found it odd that Dad was so agreeable considering all the disagreements about allowing Vera to be a kid. I wouldn’t doubt it if Bo paid Dad off.”

“What about the triplets’ parents?”

Snoh shrugged. “They loved the idea. Initially, the band was under Gray Legacy Records because that just made the most sense. Uncle Gerald became their manager, and at the end of the summer, they had a fucking album, and they were already discussing Obsydian Trip going on tour and opening for some bands. Some local, some mainstream.”

Snoh held up a finger. “But they ran into one little snag.”

“What was it?” I asked, leaning across the table.

“Mom didn’t want the world to know Vera was a girl.”

“Why not?”

“Safety reasons. She knew what would happen if the world knew.”

“She’d be sexualized,” I offered.

Snoh nodded. “Exactly. Suddenly, everyone would want to see her in a miniskirt and fishnets, and the family wasn’t having that. So, she wore baggy clothes and eventually loc’d her hair. She passed for a boy and went by the name VG.”

I sat back slowly.

I’d seen those initials hundreds of times in album and songwriting credits, and message boards full of fans arguing over who the mysterious lyricist of Obsydian Trip had been.

Vera Gray.

My Vera.

The Truth Hurts