Michelle Mankin: Irresistible Refrain

“Your mom and the girls go back to Seattle last night?” His barbell piercing rose as he lifted his brow.

I nodded. I’d hated saying goodbye to my family, but even worse than that was the thought of sticking around to see the lovey dovey morning routine with Lace and War. Watching the two of them play house within the tight confines of the bus was pushing the limit of what I could take. She and War had disappeared last night right after the show and though I tried not to, imagining what they were doing in that back bedroom with the door closed made me almost physically ill. It was just as bad as it had ever been. I didn’t know how I was going to get a handle on it.

“You must’ve been at it really early. You were gone before I got up.” Eyes the same whiskey color as his sister’s narrowed suspiciously. “You been working out for two whole hours?”

“Yeah.” I slanted a brow. It hadn’t been near long enough.

“Trying to avoid War and my sister, huh?”

My head snapped up.

“Wish I could,” Dizzy shrugged out of his trademark black leather jacket and lowered his head down over his Ibanez RG, completely oblivious to my telling response. “When I left this morning they’d already started arguing at the top of their lungs. It was just like old times.”

“She tell you anything about what happened with Martin?”

“No.” Dizzy ran his tongue over the silver loop in his lip. “She doesn’t do heart to heart chats with me anymore. Besides, that always used to be your territory.”

“Hmm.” I grunted noncommittally. That came to an abrupt end two years ago. “I’d like to kill the son of a bitch for what he did to her.” I stomped down on my pedal board so violently that it bounced off the black hardwood surface.

“Me too, man. I wish she would’ve taken my advice and stayed away from him in the first place. But the way I hear it, the dude’s days are numbered anyway. Word is he’s gotten himself into a real tight spot. Owes a lot of money to higher ups and doesn’t have the funds to cover it.”

Before I could pimp him for more information, the sound of War’s raised voice reached us.

“What’d I tell you?” Dizzy’s chin lifted as War and Lace came into view. “They’re still going at it.”

“No, Warren Andrew Jinkins. I don’t want to.” Lace looked beautiful with her hair pulled back from her face in a messy bun, loose tendrils curling all around her neck, but her blond brows were drawn together. “I haven’t sung anything in over a year.” Her sexy lips pressed flat into a tight line. “Not in public anyway, and your label sure as hell won’t like it if I get up on stage during your set.”

“Come on, Lacey. Just do a number here at sound check.” War blocked her path, his tone turning coaxing. “I wanna hear that sexy voice of yours over the speakers.”

She shook her head, sidestepped around him, dropped down into an abandoned folding chair, and threw her coat on the floor.

Hands on his hips, War continued to glare daggers in her direction as King and Sager came strolling in side by side, the same height, though King weighed about twenty pounds more than Sager now, all of it muscle. He’d taken to drinking protein shakes and lifting weights with a religious fervor since his dad had the heart attack. He had his cell held out in front of Sager, the screen turned sideways. Sager bent his head to watch, his brown eyes hidden beneath unruly strands of inky hair. The bassist snickered at whatever King was showing him. Probably some YouTube video. Whenever he found something funny, he couldn’t wait to share it with Sager.

Smiling widely, Sager clapped King on the shoulder before they separated to get set up.

“War, come on, dude,” I cajoled, pulling his attention away from Lace. “We gotta get outta here by one, so they can change the set up for BS.”

“Alright,” War muttered after lobbing one more loaded glower at Lace. “We’re not through discussing this,” he warned her.

“Yeah, yeah.” She shot him the finger.

I hid my smile.

“You guys haven’t changed a bit. Two of the most stubborn people I know,” Dizzy observed. “Can’t you compromise?”

“Not when I’m right, and she’s wrong,” War explained with his usual arrogance, grabbing the center mic and turning his head back to look at me. “‘Truth.’” He dipped his chin. “Hit it, Bullet.”

I fingered the three string riff repeatedly to set the pace for the frenetic opening. Hips swaying back and forth to the beat in a serpentine pattern, War began the opening lyrics at the same time that King came crashing in with the drums, Dizzy with the rhythm, and Sager with his steady bass line.

I moved to stand between Sager and Dizzy, all three of us leaning back as a choreographed unit, instruments held pelvic level, jamming away together.

Except for a couple of interjected echoes by me during the chorus, ‘Truth’ was a vocal showpiece for our lead singer beginning to end.

“Holy shit!” Lace exclaimed after War let out the last primal yell. “Why didn’t you guys do that one in New York? It sounds even better live than it does on the recording.” She stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her black tunic top, and walked over to me, gesturing at my Les Paul. “How the hell do you do that?”

“Bullet’s pretty fast with his fingers.” Sager chuckled.

“Ah, so that’s how you got the nickname.” Lace smiled. “Faster than a bullet on the frets, huh?”

“Uh, sort of.” King shoved Sager. “Even faster to get a woman off. One time he even…”

“Shut it.” I cut in and glared at King.

Lace’s smile warbled, but she managed to right it.

“What?” King shrugged. “It’s Lace. It ain’t like she never heard that shit before.”

“If you bitches are done joking around,” War interjected. “I wanna have a serious word with you, Lacey.”

“Stop pushing me,” she said firmly, her hands fisting on her narrow jean clad hips. “And leave me the hell alone about it. I’m not changing my mind.”

“I’m thinking you will.” War angled closer. “Babe, you wasted way too much time and talent when you were with that asshole Martin.”

Lace’s eyes narrowed under the criticism. “Yeah, well, I’m not wasting any more of my time with you today when you’re acting like such an authoritative jerk.” She scooped her coat off the floor and stomped down the stage right stairs.

“Lacey, come back. Don’t be that way,” War called out after her, but she didn’t stop. Her angry strides took her quickly up the aisle past the rows of empty seats. She’d finished buttoning her coat by the time she disappeared through the double doors at the top. “Bryan.” War turned to me. “Keep an eye on her, will you? You know she won’t talk to me when she gets like this.”

“Alright.” Dizzy was right. This was just like old times. I unstrapped my guitar, placed it in the stand, and jogged after her, catching up to her at the other end of the mezzanine. “Lace. Hold up.” I grabbed her arm.