Voice. Part 8

"You sound different," Quentin said.

"I sound- Oh!" He chuckled. "My singing, you mean? I think the voice lessons are starting to finally pay off. A bunch of stuff just clicked over the last couple of days, you know? I'm flattered that you noticed!"

Quentin stared at him. What else could he say? He didn't have any reasonable explanation for why John's voice bothered him so much. It just felt . . . creepy. That explanation felt lame even inside the privacy of his own head. "Never mind," he said. "Can we just start the song over?"

After the warm-up, Quentin calmed down a little. He still didn't know what was wrong, but he wasn't going to let it get to him. h.e.l.l, maybe John really did finally "get it," like how sometimes you woke up in the morning suddenly understanding how to do quadratic equations or whatever. That explanation was about as satisfying as a hearty breakfast of air, but it was all he had.

They tackled Case's new arrangements next. It was rough at first, but Quentin saw the potential immediately. Case brought a sleaziness, a swagger to the music that had been missing. Quentin had never learned new music very quickly and he struggled to keep up, but he didn't feel too bad about it this time-even Danny was having a hard time remembering the new rhythms and parts to songs they'd been playing in a different configuration for months. They walked through the parts slowly at first, Case laying out the new arrangements, and then, as they learned, they strung them together until it almost sounded like music.

John wasn't holding anything back. The new arrangements had an att.i.tude lacking in the old four-chord beaters, and once John got over his initial, automatic distaste for each new piece, he really tried his d.a.m.nedest to get into it. For the most part, he succeeded, bringing a new ferocity to the music. At one point he let out a primal yell that seemed to come all the way up from his heels. Evidently, John hadn't expected that himself-the look on his face was so comical that Quentin had to look away to keep from laughing.

By the end of the night, three and a half hours of practice, they'd worked through three songs. The songs weren't ready for performance yet, but they'd sparked something, and all four musicians in the room looked at each other with satisfaction. They packed it in for the night with a feeling of new possibility.

"Be right back," John said. "I gotta get a drink."

Case hoisted her guitar case and was almost out the door when Quentin spoke.

"Hey," he said, looking from Case to Danny and back. "You guys think John's okay?"

"Huh?"

"I mean-he went off with that weird old guy the other night, and he's been acting funny. Do you think maybe-I don't know. He's on drugs or something?"

"I don't think so," Danny said, his voice hard.

Quentin felt heat rise to his face. "Yeah. You're probably right," he said. "Sorry to bring it up." He rushed out of the room, head down and ba.s.s in hand.

"That was strange," Danny said. He grabbed his sticks and went to catch up with John. Case stopped him on the way out the door with a hand on his shoulder.

He turned to her. His heart rate seemed to have doubled instantly.

"I don't know what Quentin's deal is," she said, "but he's on the right track. What are we going to do about John?"

His mind was sluggish, and the first answer that came to his mind was he doesn't have to know. What came out was "Huh?"

"You know. He gets f.u.c.king terrified every time he's onstage. The first time I heard him, I thought he sounded like an eight-year-old girl. He's getting better, he really is-in here. The other night onstage, though? He sounded like an eight-year-old girl."

Danny swallowed. She was so close that he could see green flecks in her brown eyes, so close that he could smell her sweat. It was sharp, biting, and yet somehow intensely enticing. He looked down at her hand, then back to her face.

She took her hand away and let it relax by her side, but she didn't look away.

"Yeah," he said, his voice husky. "It's a problem. I'll . . . I'll think about it."

He practically ran to catch up with John.

Chapter 7.

"Ow, s.h.i.+t!" Case yelled and dropped the short stick she'd been holding.

Erin looked at her with concern. "I'm sorry! Are you okay?"

Case grinned. "Yeah, fine. Just surprised. I didn't expect you to hit me that hard." They had been practicing knife disarms, and Erin had chopped down on Case's wrist hard.

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. If you're going to do it, do it like you mean it. Just don't forget that control is important, too." She shook her hand. "Hope I can still play tonight," she said, smirking.

Erin's eyes widened. "Oh G.o.d. I'm really sorry."

"I'm kidding. It's okay. Really." Erin didn't look convinced. "We probably ought to get some arm guards or something, if we're going to keep this up. Let's take five and get a drink," Case said. She went over to the shade near the side of the building, sat on the asphalt, and opened the bottle of water she'd left there earlier. Erin sat next to her.

Training had been going well, Case thought. It had only been a few weeks since they started, but Erin was an avid student, and she had clearly been practicing outside of their informal cla.s.ses. Danielle had gotten bored after the second or third session and stopped. Case had thought Erin would lose her enthusiasm shortly thereafter, but it hadn't happened yet. Erin was tough and had a great att.i.tude, and Case had found her surprisingly easy to get along with.

"You're learning fast," Case said.

"Thanks. I've got a good teacher."

There didn't seem to be anything to say to that. Case drank some water and handed the bottle to Erin, who accepted it gratefully.

"Band practice tonight?" Erin asked.

"Show tonight, actually."

"What kind of music do you play, anyway? No-wait. Let me guess. Death metal." Erin made horns with her left hand, stuck out her tongue, and did a little mock head-banging.

Case made a face. "No way." She took the bottle back. "I hate metal. We play hard rock."

"Like Nickelback?"

Case gave her a look designed to wither flowers and kill c.o.c.kroaches.

"Not like Nickelback," Erin said.

"No. More like the New York Dolls or Motorhead."

Erin tightened her lips and shook her head. "Sorry. Not ringing any bells."

"How about Led Zeppelin? Guns N' Roses?"

By way of response, Erin opened her mouth and belted out a couple of lines from "November Rain." It was horrifying. She was even worse than John on one of his bad days. Or maybe it was just that she didn't have a bunch of loud instruments drowning her out.

"You hate me," Case said. "That's the only possible explanation."

"Sorry, Sensei," Erin said solemnly. Case growled, but Erin ignored her. "I am a humble student, seeking only knowledge. You hate metal, but you play hard rock. I didn't know there was a difference."

"It's all in the att.i.tude," Case said. "I want to play music that says 'f.u.c.k You' to the world."

"'November Rain'?"

Case glared at her. "There are other- You know what? Forget I said Guns N' Roses, okay?"

"Done. But heavy metal isn't f.u.c.k-you enough for you?"

"Metal isn't f.u.c.k-you at all. The whole metal scene is a club for crybabies who want to all wear the same black T-s.h.i.+rt and feel like they fit in somewhere. Metal is where misfits and f.u.c.kups go to feel safe. If you only want to be exposed to your own kind, you play metal, and you never have to run the risk of p.i.s.sing somebody off."

Erin rolled her eyes. "Do you have to overthink everything?"

"I wouldn't have said I overthink anything. Somebody once told me I ought to have 'Poor Impulse Control' tattooed on my forehead."

"Somebody didn't know you very well," Erin said.

Case looked away. "Yeah."

The silence stretched, but Erin spoke up before it got awkward. She was good at that. "So what's the name of your band?"

"Ragman."

"Cool. Tell me when and where you're playing, and I'll drag out all my friends so they can find out what real f.u.c.k-you music sounds like."

For once, Case didn't have a smarta.s.s remark handy. She felt absurdly touched at Erin's offer. "Hey," she said. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet, because I'm about to kick your a.s.s," Erin said, and she got up. "You ready for another round?"

"Are you ready for another round?"

Erin bared her teeth. "Bring it, b.i.t.c.h."

"b.i.t.c.h?"

"You heard me."

Case laughed, drank the rest of the water in one swallow, and stood. "All right. Let's go."

Chapter 8.

John leaned over the table and whispered to Danny. "Dude, we have an audience."

"I know," Danny said. "What's up with that?"

John didn't have any idea what was up with that, and he wasn't sure which surprised him more-that Case was over talking to a group of half a dozen girls that had just come in, or that a couple of Quentin's buddies had shown up. Quentin didn't have buddies. The idea of Quentin slamming back a beer and yelling at the Cowboys on TV with a bunch of guys seemed incomprehensible. Nonetheless, there they were.

And Case . . . that was more than incomprehensible.

"When did Case get friends?" John asked.

Danny laughed. "She's probably had them all along. She's not the Antichrist or anything."

"Bulls.h.i.+t. Case with friends . . . that's an inversion of the natural order of the universe, as far as I can tell."

"They don't even seem to have fangs or anything," Danny observed.

"No, they don't." In fact, they looked alarmingly normal, like any group of young women dressed for an exciting Wednesday night out on the town. "That doesn't freak you out?" John asked.

"Can't say that it does."

"And what do you mean, 'she's probably had them all along,' huh? Like she's been waiting until we're worthy or something?"

Danny gave him a patronizing older-brother look. "You have to admit we've come a long way since she started. Can you blame her for waiting?"

"Hmph." John drummed his fingers on the table. He supposed he ought to simply be grateful to have an audience for once-an audience that was actually there to hear them-but now he was even more anxious. He bounced his leg.

"Don't think about it," Danny said. That was the problem with brothers-they knew you too well.

"Can't help it."

Danny nodded knowingly. "I got an idea about that."

Case walked up before he could elaborate. She was smiling, and John thought she might have been happier than he'd ever seen her, at least when she wasn't playing. "Look at that," she said. "We have fans."

"Don't remind me," John said. He swallowed. "No pressure or anything."

She didn't bother to hide her disdain. "You gotta get over this, John. Even playing to a handful of people is better than playing to an empty room, and they're not going to come back if we suck. So man up."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot. That's a h.e.l.l of a pep talk, Case. They ought to use you to talk suicides down off buildings. 'Would you just f.u.c.king jump already? You're holding up traffic, a.s.shole.'"

Anger flared in her eyes, but before she could say anything, Danny held up his hands.

"Look, I was just thinking about this," he said. "I've got an idea. It might help, or it might be completely r.e.t.a.r.ded, but hear me out, okay?"