Off Bass Read online

  “Hey, Dad. How’s your Tuesday?”

  “Alexis, stop with that. What’s the word? What did he say?”

  I sigh and watch as a fat raindrop hits the window and rolls down the glass. “He said I’m fully healed. That I should be back to where I was before the fall. That I’m the one holding me back.”

  “Pshhh. What does he know? You told him how hard you’ve been working? That you’re doing your rehab?” Overprotective dad is present and accounted for.

  “He’s the top surgeon in the city. He works exclusively with performers and athletes to get them back to pre-injury levels in record time. He knows.”

  The sky darkens, and more raindrops slide down the glass, leaving streaks in the constant film of grime. It makes the window look sad, tired.

  “I’m scared. What if I can’t do it?”

  Not a single sound drifts through the phone. My dad is uncharacteristically quiet for far longer than I ever thought possible for him. Loud. Supportive. Gregarious. All of those words describe my father but not quiet.

  “You can be scared, Alexis—that’s okay. But don’t you dare let it beat you down. You’ve worked too hard to get to where you are. Sacrificed too much not to keep fighting. If anyone can find their way back to the top, it’s you. You’ll figure it out. I know you will.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

  “Love you too, baby,” my dad says before ending the call.

  I blink away the threat of tears. It’s times like this that I miss the familiarity of home.

  I have given up a lot—so much—to make this dream happen.

  • • •

  Stepping through the doors of the neighborhood performing arts center is like shifting gears. Sadly, I’m not shifting in the right direction. Before my accident I’d clear the threshold and be ready to go all out. Leave everything I had on the floor. Sweat it out and push myself to the next level every single time. Now, I’m downshifting hard.

  Julie, who works the front desk during the day, peers at me over the top of the blue frames of her glasses.

  “Hey. I, um …” I smile, hoping that she’s feeling a little bit chatty today. “How are things? You got a new kitten last week, right?” If I can get her talking about her cats, I might be able to ignore the dread pooling in my belly.

  “Room three is the only one I have available,” she quips, returning her attention to the stack of flyers on her desk.

  So much for conversation.

  My lips roll into an anxious grin, and I shift the strap of my tote bag higher on my shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll just—”

  “It’s just for an hour. Someone else has it reserved for the rest of the day.” Three quick snaps punctuate the last tidbit of information.

  I turn and force myself down the hallway. I hate room number three. Not for any good reason. I just hate it today. The door creaks as I push through, giving voice to the dread weighing me down. I have to lean heavily on it once I’m inside to make sure it actually latches. The building is old, and more often than not, doors don’t close all the way. The result is a mash-up of music that can be either beautiful or migraine-inducing.

  I stretch the way my PT told me I need to, taking time to organize and address my fears. Can my ankle move through the movement? Will my Achilles tendon fail me? Have I lost everything I’ve worked for?

  Pale pink satin mocks me from where my pointe shoes sit in my bag. The ribbons tightly wrapped around the shoes as opposed to my ankles. I turn my back on them and twist my hair into a knot at the top of my head, light chestnut spirals escaping and springing free almost as soon as I have them contained.

  Classical music pumps through my earbuds, shutting out the rest of the world.

  This is it. Today is the day. I shake out my arms, position my feet, and count out the beats.

  And … nothing. Nothing more than a handful of stuttering steps and half-assed attempts at pushing myself past my fear.

  The clock is ticking. Time sliding away and taking my dreams with it.

  My shoulders sag, and I close my eyes. Grasping the barre turns my knuckles white. I adjust my grip, trying to relax, and tentatively push up onto my toes, keeping most of my weight on my left foot.

  “Good. Now, transfer some of your weight to the right.”

  I gasp, flinching at the voice that filtered through a pause in my music. Leaning against the wall next to the door is Charlie. Hands casually in the pockets of his plaid trousers, his cardigan buttoned, bow tie in place.

  “Jeez, Charlie. You scared the crap out of me.” I drop down to the flat of my foot and pop my earbud out.

  He shakes his head. “You saw your physician today, did you not?” he asks, pushing off the wall and crossing to lean on the barre next to me.

  “I did.”

  “And? What did he say about your recovery?” He faces the mirror and adjusts the cuffs of his crisp dress shirt before meeting my gaze in the reflection. It’s almost as though he knows it’s too much to look directly at me, that the mirror somehow dampens the intensity of his question.

  If there is one person who cuts me no slack, accepts no bullshit from me at all, it’s Charlie.

  “He said I’m fine. He said the reason I can’t dance, that I’m not further in my recovery, is because of me.” I glance down at the scar on the back of my right ankle.

  “You are in your head,” he states simply.

  Charlie Sinclair isn’t my therapist. He’s not a dancer or choreographer. He’s an artist, a musician, but more than that, he’s my friend.

  In fact, through the whole injury and rehab, he’s the one who stuck with me. He listened to my tears of both pain and frustration and still encouraged me through the entire thing.

  “Evidently.” I lift my gaze to meet his. “I don’t know what to do, Charlie. I don’t know how to get past this.”

  “Do you want to dance again?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Do you want to make principal?”

  “More than anything.”

  He turns, facing me, and waits.

  With a deep breath for courage, I shift, making a point to complete the minuscule turn on the ball of my right foot, earning a slight nod from Charlie.

  “Then, you need to find a way to push through.”

  Right. As if it were that simple.

  “I’ve tried. I go to PT. I come here every chance I get,” I say, exasperated.

  One silver eyebrow arches toward the sky. “Seeing your physio is fine. However, there is far more to dance than merely showing up. When was the last time you donned your shoes?”

  Embarrassment heats my chest.

  “When was the last time you listened to music?”

  I tap the white earbud resting silent in my ear.

  “Not that canned substitute. Love, you need to listen to real music. Music that inspires you. Music that you can feel, that pulses through your body. Find that passion. Feel it deeply, so you have no choice but to let it flow through you and speak to your soul of all the things you love about dance.”

  I’ve been hiding, avoiding the reality of my situation. Basically, I’ve been stupid. I roll my lips between my teeth and nod slowly. Every word he said resonates and sounds a lot like what my roommate had said, what my dad had said.

  “Either that or you need to find a nice young man to give you a proper romp and get your mind off it,” Charlie adds.

  And there ends the similarity between Charlie’s advice and my dad’s.

  I snort out a laugh, feeling my cheeks flame. I’m sure my freckles have all but disappeared against the red of my face. “Jesus.”

  “I’m sure he has other things to attend to. And while I’m not about to start any new professions at this stage of my life, I will gladly see if I can arrange something regarding the music for you. Real music.” He glances at the clock above the door and smiles. “Allow me the day, perhaps two. I have an idea to explore.”

  “Charlie, I don’t know that I can,”
I tell him.

  “We will see,” is all he says as he scoops my bag from the floor and hands it to me. “I believe your time is done for the day. We will chat soon.”

  And with that, he walks regally out of my practice studio, leaving me to clear out before the next person comes pounding on the door.

  3

  NO RESOLVE

  NATE

  Sweat pours down my face as I push myself harder than I have all week. Not that it’s helped at all.

  When we come off a tour, I normally relax and regroup, but this time, I haven’t been able to be still for more than a minute. Literally. Aside from time spent asleep, I’ve been running, reaching—searching for answers. Ironically, I haven’t found any in Brooklyn.

  I slow only as much as I have to, so I don’t wipe out as I pivot and take the steps up to my brownstone. Inside, I pull off my t-shirt, wiping sweat from my eyes. I toe off my running shoes and pull off my socks.

  At the laundry room, I ball my socks and shirt before taking a shot at the laundry basket. And miss my mark by a mile. If that doesn’t sum up the past couple of days …

  I make my way to the kitchen, where I grab a bottle of water and a protein shake. Then, I climb the stairs to the master suite, the end of my playlist still pumping through my earbuds. I throw my foam roller to the floor and pull my sweat-soaked shorts down my legs, kicking them out into the hall. I roll out my sore muscles and push through a handful of yoga poses.

  Have I found my Zen? My inner peace? No, I have not.

  I’ve tried this week too.

  Hot yoga.

  Vinyasa.

  Ashtanga.

  I’ve done all of them and found no peace, nothing.

  I’m totally fine as long as we’re moving through poses, but the minute we hit corpse pose and I have to lie there, still, and try to clear my mind? Yeah, that doesn’t work out for me at all.

  And on that note, the stillness of yoga begins to creep in, so I drop from down dog to a plank and then run through push-ups until I hit failure. The hardwood floor fogs beneath me as I try to catch my breath.

  All of this effort, and I still have no idea what to do. The band’s launch into fame was surreal. A fucking dream come true. But with the way things have been going, with tension rising to epic levels between me and Kane, I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to keep it together.

  The easy thing would be for me to walk away. It would also be one of the hardest things I’d ever done. So, I need to figure something out because with the way things have been trending, Kane and I might just end up killing each other.

  As I push myself up off the floor, my groan echoes, bouncing off the high ceiling. After closing out of my playlist and setting my earbuds in their charging case, I hit the shower.

  I stand under the rainfall head, allowing the water to pour down over me, washing the tension away. Right.

  • • •

  Ian is already seated at the bar of Kitchenne, the restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen, where we always seem to end up. Without a doubt, the food here is spectacular, but I think the main reason we’ve adopted this place is because Gavin’s older sister, Sasha, is the chef.

  Ian throws me a chin lift and raises his beer bottle to the bartender. “A couple more of these for my dude here and me. And if you would, let Sasha Keller know we’re here.” He stands, and we grasp hands, bump chests—that shit guys do. “Hey, man. How the hell are you?”

  A bottle of my favorite IPA from Upstate New York lands on the bar in front of each of us.

  “And who should I tell Sasha is here?” the bartender asks, attitude spilling out all over the place.

  This is how things usually go when Ian and I are out on our own. We’re the back of the band, the ones who lay the groundwork for the songs, but we have none of the recognition. So, Ian developed this little thing to gauge whether chicks were worth talking to or if they were just attention whores.

  “Tell her that her baby brother’s besties are here.” He chuckles at the look the chick gives him and picks up his beer, draining the first bottle.

  Let the interest test commence.

  “You’re …” And sadly, she does what almost all of them do. She looks past us toward the door, searching for Kane or Gavin. For the popular guys in the band, the ones everyone knows.

  Test failed.

  “Yep. But it’s just us, so why don’t you go let Sasha know her ass is requested out here?” Ian softens the bite in his statement with a smile and a flick of the hoop through his lip.

  Because I live with the guy for months on end when we tour, I know it’s his media smile and nothing more. I’m pretty sure this chick just blew her chances with any member of The UnBroken.

  Bar girl scurries off toward the kitchen, and Ian sips at his fresh beer.

  “God, I hate it when they do that,” he says quietly, shoulders rounding with tension. “Someday, I’m going to find someone who’s good with it just being me.”

  “Yeah? Maybe you should stop telling them who you are and see if they want to hang. Let them get to know you before they find out you’re the man behind the band.”

  Honest to God, I think Kane is the only one of us who actually gets off on the groupie factor. It got boring real fucking fast for the rest of us. Not saying any of us are saints—except Gavin, but who could blame him when he’s got Gracyn George lighting up his life?

  I’m saved from whatever excuse Ian is about to give me for star-shining everyone he meets by the arrival of the other Keller kid. Sasha understands what it’s like to be us—the back of the band, the stepping-stones to the real rock gods. People are always sucking up to her to get closer to her brother, and that shit doesn’t fly with her any more than it does with Ian or me.

  “Trish failed the test?” she asks, squeezing into the space between our chairs. Her eyes narrow as her gaze drifts to the blonde bar bimbo.

  “That she did.” Ian wraps an arm around Sasha, pulling her in tight. “Too bad. I guess that means you’re still stuck with us.”

  Sasha placatingly pats Ian’s chest. “I can think of worse things. What can I get you boys for lunch?” she asks. “Aside from a grilled cheese.”

  And I wonder, not for the first time, if there’s anything between them.

  • • •

  With as much as Sasha fed us, I should have walked across Manhattan and through half of Brooklyn to the performing arts center. Instead, I did the sane thing and grabbed a cab.

  I pull my ball cap low over my eyes as I enter the building and give the chick at the front desk a slight nod. I’m not a fan of playing the fame card, but on occasion, that, along with a sound financial donation, will get a guy the same practice studio reserved every day at the same time.

  My gray Chucks let out an ear-splitting squeal as I pivot, turning into my room. But that’s not what stops me in my tracks. No, it’s the perfume hanging in the air. Stronger some days than others.

  Today, it’s maybe the barest hint of something light and floral. Nothing too sweet, not at all cloying, but a peaceful, happy scent. One that reminds me of Virginia, of the best part of my hometown. The part that I take with me everywhere, buried deep in my heart.

  I close my eyes, savoring the images, the thoughts, that scent brings up to me. A riotous halo of chestnut curls and hazel eyes—more green than gold. Delicate shoulders full of strength and grace and the longest legs known to mankind. Jesus, just the thought of Alexis Thompson is enough to practically bring me to my knees, even after all these years.

  But her being here, in the same center as me, would be ridiculous. New York City—hell, even Brooklyn—is too big for that kind of coincidence.

  Memories of Alex swirl through my mind as I pull my upright bass from the locked closet next to the barre. Visions of her en pointe, one foot resting on the barre as she stretched toward it. The filmy little skirt she’d wear, fluttering around her perfect ass.

  For the love of fucks, I need to clear my head. I have eno
ugh shit to work out in my professional life. The last thing I need is to be sporting wood while I exorcise my demons in a public arts facility. That’s the kind of shit that needs to stay safely behind closed doors.

  Not bothering to drag my stuff to the middle of the room, I pull my custom-made double bass from its case and spend a few moments tuning it, running through a handful of scales. Playing with a few bars, teasing at different pieces until finally settling on the one that haunts me to this day.

  Eyes squeezed shut, I launch into my audition piece for Juilliard. My failed audition. Every note, every transition, is burned into my soul. I pour everything I have into it. Anger over missing the opportunity to study music in that elite setting. Frustration over my dad’s raging disappointment. Missing out on those years with Alex because where I flubbed my audition, she fucking rocked hers. She got the dream, and from what I’ve seen online, she’s on target to dance principal. Just like she always wanted.

  Without a pause, I make the switch from classical to contemporary, the heavy bass line of the band’s newer stuff filling the small studio.

  Edgy.

  Angry.

  Vast.

  “Is it work woes or a woman that has you going on like that?” my friend and occasional mentor, Charles Sinclair, asks as he closes the studio door behind him. He pulls a scarred wooden stool from the corner and settles himself on it.

  I reach out and shake his hand, wincing only slightly now that my fracture has had a minute to mend. “How are you, sir? It’s been far too long.”

  He casually drapes an arm along the barre and crosses one leg over the other. “It has indeed. Though you’ll not dodge my question. You seem to be putting a significant amount of frustration into …” He waves a hand at my upright bass.

  With care, I set my instrument in its case and pull up another stool. My shoulders bounce with a chuckle. “Work mostly.” Though I can’t deny there was a woman on my mind.

  Charles nods his head slightly and says, “Share your burdens. We just might find a solution.”

  So, I do. Over the next hour, I unpack everything that went down on tour. Most of it centering around Kane and his complete disregard for everyone but himself. Though, to be fair, he seems to get off on digging at me more than he does Gavin or Ian.