The Guitarist



 

  The Guitarist

CHAPTER ONE

I straightened my signature Union Jack tie for the night’s performance and stared at the stranger in the hotel mirror.  I didn’t know who I was anymore. 

Sure, according to PlecMag, I was “British guitar legend” Nicholas Trent, a shredder of some renown, sought after by major rock singers such as my fellow Englishmen Billy Farmer, and Taylor Grande, with whom I was currently recording and touring.  I ran my fingers through my longish, brown  . . . well, greying hair.  My eyes had faded more to the colour of washed out denim than the aquamarine of my youth, although they still were fringed by thick lashes.  I lifted my cheeks with both hands in a mock facelift.  When did I get so old?

I shook off the thought with a lopsided grin and a shrug, and stood into my six foot frame, smoothed my shirt over the abs I’d worked so hard to achieve—continued working on to maintain—and pulled on the sport jacket I’d chosen for the night.  I nearly always dressed this way for a show—loafers, jeans, dress shirt, tie and coat.  Sometimes I wore a suit.  It was my “look.”  During particularly long or hot shows, I’d sometimes lose the coat and loosen the tie, but I started each show this way. 

Having finished a photo shoot that afternoon, it’s how I was dressed when I met her.  Caitlin Flynn.  I smiled into the mirror at the thought of her, my teeth gleaming white, back at me.

Was I in love?  I didn’t know what it felt like.  I’d been involved in a misbegotten marriage when I was very young, but once that was over, my guitar, my career, my music had been my life.  I’d been careful to avoid a complication like “love.”  I was no stranger to sweet, meaningless sex, but this was different, there was no doubt.

A knock on the door brought me back.

“Nicholas, you ready?”

I opened the door to the band’s keyboard player, Reuben Gaines, a large black man whose fingers, though the size of sausages, were magic when they made music.

“Yeah.  Let me get my bag.”

I glanced at Reuben as we walked to the lift and couldn’t help but grin.

“Pumped for the show?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Always.”

“Ever been here before?”

“Where are we?”

“Cleveland?  Cleveland, I think.”

“I’m surprised at you, Nicholas.  You always know where we are.”

We stepped onto the lift where our singer, Taylor Grande, our young bass player, Evan Marks and our drummer, Kippy Palmer waited.  We greeted one another.

“Nicholas isn’t sure where we are,” Reuben announced to the others.

“I think our Nicholas is in love,” Taylor said with a grin.

I grinned as well, and studied my shoes.