October 4th, 2016
Munich, Germany
"IS JÄGER HERE?" The haze clouding Søren's mind vanished the moment those mesmerizing hazel-green eyes fixed on him.
"T-that'd be me," the woman replied with the initial shock slowly disappearing from her features. He was used to all kinds of reactions, but calmness wasn't one of them.
"Oh." His expression remained stoic as his eyes trailed over the light freckles covering her nose and cheeks.
All he knew about this Jäger guy after finding Woodverse's Instagram among his suggestions was that he was a great artist. The engravings, the details, the combination of colors and materials, the smoothness of the finishes. Everything looked beautiful.
I do what I want. 😼🤘 If you're interested, drop me an email—I don't answer DMs.
Weirdo. What kind of business presentation was that?
Anyway, the metalhead didn't care if Jäger was an old fart living in his mother's basement. He could turn plain and boring, and sometimes destroyed, instruments into real masterpieces. And that Gibson displayed in their feed a few days before... it had to be his.
Søren didn't like to typecast people because he hated being a target for those kinds of easy—usually wrong—judgments himself. You know, tabloids only cared about the juicy details to sell, even if it were lies. But he had never met a woman who was so good at such male-dominated handiwork. Much less one so gorgeous.
"I hope it's not a problem that I arrived earlier than we agreed?" He gave her a half-smile, trying to seem approachable since most people found him intimidating at first.
"No, of course not. Come on in, please." She stepped aside to let him in, her eyes falling to the floor as she gestured with her right arm. She had her sleeve half rolled-up, which gave him a glimpse of the dark reddish-pink lotus flower over black brushstrokes inked on her inner forearm.
Wondering if that tattoo held a specific meaning, Søren walked into the apartment, looking around. It reminded him of the first one he lived in with Alex and Astrid when they moved to downtown Oslo. Exposed brick walls and pillars giving the open-plan space an industrial feel. Big windows with black frames, high ceilings, a wooden rustic coffee table, a couch and an armchair that didn't match. Modern yet cozy. Then he saw them. Two guitars on their stands and a couple of amps beside a shelf that held close to a thousand music albums.
"Do you want anything to drink?" she asked from the kitchen.
"Do you have Monster or something like that? If not, a glass of water will be fine," Søren said as he turned to her.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah." He nodded, taking off his bomber jacket and leaving it on the armchair.
He needed to rehydrate his system. After receiving a gut-twisting phone call, and a party that lasted the entire weekend, he woke up with soreness even in his eyelids. I've definitely gotten old. The next couple of nights, before traveling to Germany, were full of old nightmares. Confusing. Disturbing.
"I have Coke," she said as she peeked her head from behind the fridge door.
"Water then." No way was he going to drink that bubbly poison that reminded him of other times.
He looked at her as she tiptoed to get a glass from one of the cabinets. She wasn't very tall and didn't seem to have exuberant curves hidden under her baggy t-shirt, but she was gorgeous and he had to admit she had a nice ass.
"Want some ice?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Intrigued, Søren watched her as she opened the freezer. He was used to the squeals, the clingy groupies and anonymous fans wanting to get to know him. Most women were flirty or nervous around him even if they didn't know who he was, but she wasn't doing any of that. It had been a long time since someone made him feel so disconcerted. It was strange. Not unpleasant, just unknown.
"You can sit wherever you want," she said, snapping him back to reality as she approached him. "There's not much left to do with your guitar, but I still have to restring it," she added, pointing to the door behind her.
"Do you mind if I watch while you finish it?"
She handed him the glass with swirling ice cubes. "S-sure," she replied, a soft wrinkle between her brows, gaze still not meeting his.
Artists could be weird, eccentric even. He, for example, needed to lock himself in a room and not be bothered while composing—got ultra-frustrated when interrupted. But what the fuck was that? She could have said no if it unsettled her in any way.
Without another word, she turned towards the double black door and slid it open, letting metal music swamp the space surrounding them.
"You can use that stool." She motioned to her right.
While she strode around the table placed in the middle of the room and crouched down to get something from one of the drawers of a storage cabinet, Søren scanned the place. Pencils, sandpaper, pliers, screwdrivers, and a lot of other tools he couldn't name were scattered everywhere. There was an acoustic guitar and a bass hanging on the cork paneled wall, both in different stages of their restoration.
His eyes then traveled back to Jäger. Crossing his arms and leaning on the counter behind him, he tilted his head. She looked feminine even with her careless outfit, but she had a badass look at the same time. Something about her expression as she loosened the strings told him she was a woman who wouldn't put up with anyone's bullshit.
He was sure he hadn't met her before—no way he would have forgotten such a beautiful creature—but she reminded him of someone. Though he couldn't put his finger on who.
A few strands of her chocolate, wavy hair fell from her messy bun as she brought all the strings through the tailpiece and up over the saddle. Pale skin and delicate hands with a couple of silver rings and small tattoos adorning them.
Suddenly, the music changed, pulling him from his thoughts as he recognized the notes playing through the speakers. It was one of their old songs. He looked at her, arching a brow. "That's one of my favorites."
Jäger was about to say something, but the string she was stretching broke, snapping, and hitting her forearm. "Sheiβe!" she muttered.
"Thought you made a living out of this," Søren quipped, amused by her clumsiness.
"Thought you made a living from what comes out of your mouth," she retorted with her beautiful German accent.
Surprised by her witty remark, he let out a chuckle. "So, you knew who I was when you opened the door."
"Obviously..." she mumbled.
He didn't know whether she was nervous or just an asshat, but whatever it was, the sarcasm in her tone was thick.
"You could have said something instead of acting so... weird."
"I'm still trying to process the fact that you're here," she began, trailing off as she changed the A string for a new one.
"What do you mean?" he asked, playing dumb.
"I can't believe you're actually standing in my studio." She glanced up at him for a second. "Why are you even interested in what I do?"
"You're talented. Why wouldn't I?"
"Because you're... You." She paused while threading the D string through its tuning peg. "It's not like famous people contact me every day, you know?" She wouldn't look at him, a clear sign for him that she was feeling timid or uneasy, or both. Although her quirked brow and the mordacity in her words told him there was a feisty woman under that reserved attitude. He liked it.
"What? We aren't supposed to have a normal life?" His tone was serious, but he had to clench his jaw and purse his lips to stop the grin from spreading across his face.
"Of course! I didn't mean it like that," she exclaimed as her cheeks reddened and her eyes widened. "I-I mean, you're so famous and I'm a nobody, and when I saw you at the doorway. I-I mean, you—"
Søren burst out laughing. The bad news, the nightmares haunting his nights again, and flying to Munich had flattened him, but her rambling and blunt honesty changed his mood in the blink of an eye.
"I'm just messing with you."
"Th-that's not nice." She narrowed her eyes, holding back a smile.
"But it helped you relax." He smirked. "I can be somewhat famous, but I don't bite, you know?" Unless you want me to.
"It's just so shocking that you're standing here like this." She gestured to him, hand moving up and down.
"Meaning?" He quirked a brow.
"You just want me to praise you."
"Talented, pretty, and smart. I like the combo."
"Whatever." She scoffed, blushing again.
"So, you're a fan, huh?"
"You think?"
He let out a soft snicker as a small smile lit up her face, eyes moving back to the guitar.
"Your compositions have such passion and intensity..." she said out of the blue while winding the G string. "What you do, your lyrics, the way you capture emotions and make those creations yours... And your voice, both the clean and the harsh vocals have this texture and distortion... It's unique."
"Wow... Thanks."
He was accustomed to hearing all kinds of compliments but, in his world, people usually had ulterior motives or used seductive strategies to get a favor in return. Good thing time had taught him to see through everyone right away and could tell she meant what she said.
"Just stating the truth." She shrugged.
"Still, I appreciate it." Søren smiled, staring at her. "So... You coming to the festival this weekend?"
"Of course." She giggled.
That was cute.
"We're only going on Saturday, but my friends and I bought tickets the same day they came out," she said while pulling the next string on the treble side back two frets-distance to measure the proper amount of slack for it. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, but even if I didn't like your music, I couldn't have avoided it since one of them goes all fangirl over you guys, especially Alex."
"Hm?"
"My friend, Marc, plays the bass too, and Alex's always been in his top ten of favorite musicians."
"That idiot's amazing, yeah, but I'm glad he's not listening to this. It'd go straight to his head."
She sweetly smiled. "Okay... what do you think?" she asked, putting the instrument upright to show it to him.
He walked closer to her and took the guitar in his hands. Even when it had been all worn out, it was beautiful, but after the restoration, it was perfect. The varnished mid-wooden color was stunning with its greyish shade and all the natural grain on full display, contrasting amazingly with the black fretboard and pickguard.
"Spectacular," he breathed out as he looked her in the eyes.
Though it was subtle, Søren noticed their proximity made her feel uncomfortable when she moved away, crossing her arms over her chest. "Once I scratched all the old TV yellow paint off and saw how it looked, I loved it. I added the black details to make the natural color shine," she pointed out, avoiding eye contact. "I don't know how they could have this beauty in such a shitty state. It should be illegal."
"Well, you've done an amazing job with it," he said as he admired the 1956 Gibson Les Paul Special. It looked so unique compared to the other guitars in his collection.
"Glad you like it. The man who sold it to me said it's from the eighties. I'll give you the certificate of authenticity he gave me."
"Sure." He nodded, not worried about that. "Can I try it?"
"Of course!"
Grabbing the six-string, she walked out of the studio and into the living room. After plugging in the amplifier and the guitar, she handed it to him and sat on the armchair right in front of him.
Since he didn't have a strap to hold the guitar in place, he put a foot on the amplifier and rested the instrument on his leg. Then tuned it—after so many years playing, he could do it by ear—and soon his left hand moved along the fretboard, entire body throbbing when the strings vibrated under his fingers.
Everyone knew him as Søren Wolff, the music prodigy. Most thought he had the best life as the frontman of one of the biggest metal bands of the moment, swooning females as he pleased, surrounded by money, praise, and admiration. But these cliches were so far from reality. He was nothing but another mortal creature, a reclusive human being trying to escape the ghosts from his past.
However, as lonely as it could be to live in that world where he was just what people made of him; even if he could go back in time and choose all over again, music would always be his path. It was one of the few things that helped him stay sane. He would die without it.
Letting one last note fly and vanish into the air, he looked at the woman sitting in front of him, falling into the deepest and most silent conversation he'd ever had.
Before he could completely lose himself in that forest of intense browns and greens, his phone rang, forcing him to break eye contact. Clearing his throat, he picked up, laying the guitar on the couch as he turned his back to her.
"What's up, fuckface?"
"Hey, fornicator!" Ian, Dark Omen's lead guitarist, laughed, his voice rumbling on the other end of the line. That old nickname didn't match him anymore, but whatever. "We're already at the suite. Are you joining us for lunch?"
"Yeah, I'm almost done."
"Great."
"Where are we going?" he asked as he grabbed his jacket, moving the phone to his right ear when he slid his left arm in.
"We're staying... Alex... He's moody."
"I'm gonna pack this for you," Jäger told him in a low voice, patting the guitar.
"Thanks." He nodded. "What happened?" He shifted to Norwegian again and clicked his tongue.
"Had a fight with Mikael over some pills."
That was all he needed to know. "I'll be there in thirty minutes."
"Good." Søren could sense the relief in Ian's voice.
As he hung up, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, a heavy puff of air falling from his nostrils. He was so tired, of everything.
"Here," the hazel-eyed beauty told him as she held the guitar out to him inside a neoprene bag.
"Thanks," he said, taking it. He put it on his shoulder and took his phone out of his pocket. "Four grand, right?" he asked as he typed his bank account password.
"Yeah."
"What's your full name?"
"Leah Jäger. The name's spelled with an h at the end, and the last name has an umlaut over the a."
He wrote her name, the amount of money, and the description for the transfer. In those kinds of transactions, one would usually pay part of it beforehand, but she told him that wasn't necessary because if he didn't show up, she would just keep the guitar. And now, what seemed like a dry answer made sense. She was so fucking snarky.
"And the bank account number?"
She grabbed her phone from the coffee table and, in a few seconds, she was reading the numbers out loud for him to type in.
"Done," he said after confirming all the details and pressing the accept button. "I'll get going."
"Okay."
"Again, thanks for this." He patted the guitar hung on his shoulder as they walked towards the entrance.
"Sure." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Don't forget to show off the guitar and tag me on whatever you upload." She shyly smiled.
"Will do." He chuckled. "Bye, Leah."
"Bye." Giving him a quick nod, she closed the door.
Walking down the stairs of the old building, he requested an Uber while debating between worrying about his friend or continuing to analyze that woman's behavior. She was nervous around him, yet calm. She even dared to talk back to him, something not many people did. How could she keep such a straight face? The first time he met one of his inspirational musicians on a tour, he almost choked on his saliva.
As he mentally laughed at his own awkwardness, a dark car pulled in front of him, license plate matching the one on the app. He got in and nodded to the driver, who barely glanced at him as he gave him a dry hallo. He could have been a thief or a serial killer and the dude wouldn't have blinked. Not a talker—and obviously not into metal music. It was better that way. As much as Leah had brightened his day, he needed some time alone.
Tired of thinking about everything too much, Søren sighed and leaned back on his seat. There, hidden behind the partial darkness of his sunglasses, he focused on the background music and that low but constant buzzing of the city.
Anything was better than being inside his head.
● ● ● ● ●
When he exited the Uber, Søren went straight to the suite. Petri, the one in charge of the tours' organization, had booked the penthouse so Mikael, their artist manager, could watch them, especially Alex, without going nuts until he arrived on Saturday morning. The vocalist hated the bossy supervision, and even though it was their job to worry about shit, he also understood the need for it since they sometimes behaved like preschoolers.
"Hi." Jørn tipped his head as Søren entered the common area. Their drummer was reclining on the couch and didn't even try to get up.
"Hey." Søren left the guitar on the armchair and took off his jacket. "How's Alex doing?" He bumped his fist as he passed Jørn.
"He took some pills and went straight to bed after fighting Mikael over it." Jørn scoffed before drinking from his beer. "Said he needs them to sleep well, that the doctor had prescribed them."
"I bet he took a bigger dose than what he's supposed to." The singer's voice mixed with the metallic clinking of the chain hanging from his belt as he let himself fall on the couch beside his friend.
"Yeah."
Søren blankly stared out the wall-sized window on his left, eyes fixing on the stunning views of Munich. Why the fuck is Alex so stubborn?
"You need to keep an eye on him," Mikael snapped from behind. "We can't afford him collapsing in the middle of another concert," he said, reminding them of their last gig.
Alex had drunk and sniffed so much before playing at Reload Festival that, during the fourth song, the Molotov cocktail palpitating in his veins finally erupted.
He'd passed out, falling and hitting his head on one of the lights on the stage. A bloody mess. It was Dantesque.
They took him to the hospital and, thankfully; the wound hadn't been as bad as it seemed, but he still looked like crap.
After canceling what was left of the summer tour and going back to Norway, they checked him into rehab. Then three weeks later, without thinking twice, the label ordered Mikael to have Alex leave the facility earlier. The incident had also affected them and they weren't going to allow their personal issues to interfere with the promotion of an album, again. And, the band couldn't risk getting sued.
"What did you expect? He's halfway through the treatment." Søren wanted to help his friend, but until Alex admitted he had a problem, there was nothing he could do.
"No one in your crew is your fucking nanny. They can't follow your every move. You need to help on this one," Mikael said.
"You need to relax, dude," Ian clipped while approaching them from the other room. The colorful tattoos spread on his chest and arms were on full display as he was wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. "Wolff, you look like rubbish."
"Have you seen yourself in the mirror?" Søren lifted a brow, offering a condescending smirk.
Ian ran a hand through his dark, mohawk hair. "I'd fuck myself!"
"If I wanted to kill myself, I'd just have to climb up your ego and jump." The singer snorted.
"You'd be dead halfway to the top," Jørn quipped.
"You're just jealous that—"
"Guys, stop the bullshit," Mikael scolded them. "Alex needs your help, okay? He can't do this alone."
Jørn stopped laughing and stared at Mikael. "Is this our manager or friend talking?"
"Look, I hate this as much as you do, but there's nothing we can do. Either you play or ruin your career."
"They forced him in and now they force him out. You know how much that can mess with him?" Søren retorted.
He knew how it was to lose yourself in a spiral of dope just to feel in control of something—anything—and to be out of touch with reality, too. Ashamed of the person he had become but unable to stop the noise inside. Until one night, things got out of hand. Transforming into the same shitty, violent monster he had always hated was the only thing that made him see the light.
Søren had been confined in one of those centers for filthy rich junkies, the same sort Alex had just been released from. He knew about the sleepless nights, the nausea, the fear, the lack of confidence, and the cold sweats lasting more days than he was willing to admit. Being forced to face a reality that hurt, voicing all the secrets he had kept buried deep down for so long to a psychologist and to a group of strangers that soon became a reflection of himself, shattered him. But ironically, the had experience put him back together again too, turning one of the most painful moments in his life into something healing.
It had been over three years for him, and he still couldn't help but
think about the high, wanting it back from time to time. Addiction was a chronic disease that, despite the harmful consequences, knew no end. It didn't mean he couldn't control it, but the tendency to crave whatever silenced the voices in his head was real, and hard to fight sometimes. For Alex, who refused to admit he had a problem, anything could push him to the edge.
"I know, that's why I'm telling you to watch him and stop fooling around for once, I—" Mikael's phone rang, interrupting him. "I have to take this. We'll talk later. Just take it easy for now, okay?" he said before walking out of the room.
"Fuuuck..." Søren grumbled, leaning back on the couch.
They were trapped; the situation draining all of them, washing away their motivation, dreams, and strength. It was like watching a ship sinking, helplessly witnessing the inevitable.
When they signed their contract, they knew they were signing themselves into becoming a product. They understood that, as much as the label told them how amazing they were, at the end of the day, they were ultimately just numbers on an Excel spreadsheet—revenue vs expenses. What they didn't expect was to be deceived.
"We'll have to keep him busy when we get back." Jørn sighed. "Anyway, are you going to show us the masterpiece or what?" he asked, gesturing to the guitar, trying to change the mood.
"Yeah." Søren got up, grabbed the neoprene bag and unzipped it, putting the guitar on his lap, neck pointing to the ceiling.
"Wow," Ian exclaimed. "That's a beauty!"
"It is," Søren agreed. "I have the feeling I haven't paid enough, to be honest."
"How much was it?" Jørn asked.
"Four grand."
"It's a special edition. New, it's close to five," Ian noted. "And you said this one was some kind of relic, right?"
"Yeah, it's from nineteen eighty-seven. I told her I'd—"
"Wait." Ian interrupted, a cheesy grin on his lips as he placed both hands on his hips. "Her?"
Søren's mouth tugged up on the side, but he continued, ignoring his friend's remark. "I told her I'd pay more, but she said it wasn't needed."
"You definitely should get her something. That's not even close to what this is worth," the guitarist said as he crouched down beside him, gripping the towel around his waist.
"I might." Søren nodded, thinking about what could compare to getting such an old version of that classic guitar.
"Dude, is it really necessary for us to see your little guy?" Jørn asked out of the blue, scrunching his nose as he pointed between Ian's legs.
"First, it's not little. Second, it's not the first time you've seen it," he joked, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.
"Unfortunately."
"Keep sayin' whatever, but you love it." Ian blew him a kiss as he went back to his room.
"Fucking Irish ass!" Jørn shouted, making the bearded twat show him the middle finger before disappearing in the hallway, chortling.
"But you liked it." Søren shrugged. "That's why you fell asleep beside him that night, snuggling and all," he reminded him while putting the six-string back in its bag.
"I passed out!"
"Yeah, yeah..." The singer laughed and went to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
Distant memories of their wild days flooded his mind. They had all grown older and learned to behave, but the crazy nights out, their first crappy gigs, and the dreams they had when they were younger would remain in their minds forever. And that specific morning, when they found Jørn and Ian sleeping in the same bed—naked—would be hard to forget.
Where did it go wrong?
Bands were like a several-headed monster; disagreements and fights happened. It never got personal in their case, though, but he couldn't determine the exact moment things began to slip through his fingers like smoke. Was it when they realized they had sold their souls to the devil? Or when he got hooked on those fucking painkillers after his car accident?
Søren doubted he'd ever be able to answer that question, and as much as he hated being a puppet, living in the spotlight, dealing with everyone wanting a piece of him as he tried to keep his demons at bay, he could never abandon these guys and what they had built together. They were his family, and nothing could beat the sense of belonging.