Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"He lives! The prodigal guitarist returns."

Jack forced a smile as he stepped into the cramped office that doubled as a green room in the back of the bar. His old bandmates were lounging on a threadbare couch that was the color of split pea soup after it was left in a bowl in the sink for two months.

Brad was still on drums like he'd been since day one, Mark had taken over as lead singer when they ditched Steve, and Trevor was still the keyboardist and still a controlling asshole, something Jack should have figured out much sooner than he did. One was missing - Ash, the chick who took over lead guitar after Jack was shot, was MIA and probably hooking up with a random guy in a dark corner somewhere.

Brad was the one who made the announcement when Jack walked through the door, leaping up to give his old friend a hug. "Been way too long, Jack," he said, patting him roughly on the back.

"Yeah," Jack said, suddenly wishing he was anywhere but there at that moment. It wasn't anxiety attack in the bathroom bad, but he definitely could use a cigarette and a drink at that moment.

"When we heard what happened …" Brad took a deep breath, his eyes sort of glassy and Jack took an involuntary step back, a little afraid that the guy was going to start crying on him. Brad had been his friend almost as long as Steve. They met in gym class, hanging back and avoiding as much actual gym as they could, plotting their escape so they could grab a smoke before the period was over. The fact that Brad had a drum set helped them seal their friendship. The drums had been a gift from his absentee dad, who probably intended more for the drumming to annoy the hell out of his ex-wife than for his son to actually learn how to play them.

"Would have been nice if Bobby had thought to call sooner than two weeks after it happened. We thought you'd made a wrong turn and wound up in Mexico or something crazy shit like that," Steve said as he took a seat on the coffee table in the center of the room, pushing an empty pizza box out of the way.

Jack wanted to point out that they had all grown up in Detroit and it wasn't like they couldn't have picked up a phone and called the house – the number hadn't changed. His brothers had been distracted at the time and his friends … part of him was convinced they had forgotten he existed. That wasn't entirely true, Jack supposed. Steve had visited him in the hospital, keeping him company and bugging the hell out of Bobby. The other guys sent him a card and a strip-o-gram a week after he'd come out of the coma, but that was it.

"Whatever. It's over, man. I'm fine. Water under the bridge and all that shit." The words sounded lame to his ears, but everyone seemed to accept them. Well, everyone except Steve, who mouthed the word "Liar" at him. Jack rolled his eyes and discretely flipped him off as he ran his hand through his damp hair.

"You're going to get a cut of each song you wrote, Jack. I promise you that," Trevor announced in that cut through the crap and get to the point way he had, which was why he got laid way less than any of the rest of them but managed to have a well paying day job and a nice apartment. The dude wasn't an idiot, just a complete jackass. And he wouldn't know a decent arrangement if it bit him on the ass. Jack was still smarting over the way they'd butchered the songs he'd worked on perfecting for years.

Jack just nodded. Money didn't matter to him, but Trevor saw everything in green and white. It was probably how the band had lasted long enough to actually have a record deal and shot at something big. Hell, using Jack's injuries as an excuse and filling his spot with Ash proved he wasn't stupid and Jack wondered just how long the guy had been plotting to kick him out of his own band. Probably that first day he walked into Steve's garage.