Chapter Seven: Soul and Stank
The atmosphere in the music wing was thick with the scent of floor wax and the distant hum of woodwinds. Alex was packing his PRS after a grueling rehearsal with the university's jazz fusion combo when the door swung open. Leo stood there, arms crossed, looking distinctly out of place in his "rock star" leather jacket.
"I heard you're doing a showcase with the fusion geeks," Leo said, skipping the pleasantries.
Alex didn't look up. "It's for a grade, Leo. Plus, the charts are challenging."
"It's a distraction," Leo snapped. "You're the rhythm guitarist for Vibe. That means you strictly play rhythm. None of this complex, wanky chord stuff. It messes with the brand. And while we're at it, no more outside bands. You belong to Vibe."
Alex finally looked up, a slow burn starting in his chest. "Sarah does session work all the time. She's the one who invited me to a blues jam tonight, actually."
"Sarah is an exception," Leo declared, stepping further into the room. "As the Founding Member, I'm making a call. No outsider gigs."
Alex was offended that Leo would say something like that.
"Okay, firstly, you can't decide whether or not I can do gigs outside of Vibe, and second of all, we started this in your garage together, Leo. We're both founding members," Alex countered.
Leo let out a condescending huff. "I'm more founding. I write the songs. I buy the equipment. I'm the one designing our Facebook page to actually get us fans."
"I designed that page," Alex interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. "I spent six hours on the graphics while you were taking selfies for the header."
Leo waved a hand dismissively, already turning toward the door. "Details. I'm the authority here. Don't go to that jam, Alex. If you're not 100% Vibe, you're nothing."
He walked out, leaving the door swinging. Alex stood in the silence for a long moment before grabbing his gig bag. He wasn't going home. He was going to the jam.
The Crossroad was a dive bar that smelled of stale Guinness and history. It was the antithesis of the polished, corporate venues Marcus usually scouted. Here, the floor was sticky, and the audience didn't care about glowing guitar picks—they cared about the groove.
Sarah was already on stage, looking radiant and confident behind a Hammond organ as part of a blues "supergroup." She beckoned Alex up, and he plugged in next to the bandleader, William—a towering man with a voice like gravel in a blender and a harmonica belt slung over his shoulder.
"You the kid Sarah mentioned?" William rumbled. "Tune up. We're doing 'Stormy Monday.' And listen—I don't need fancy. I need blood on the strings."
As they played, the music was heavy and slow. But William was in a foul mood. He kept turning to the band, barking demands. Finally, he turned his sights on Sarah.
"What are you doing on those keys, girl?" William shouted over the music. "You're playing like you're at a tea party. This is the blues! If you can't put some weight behind it, maybe you should go back to playing lullabies for your dolls and leave the stage to the grown-ups."
The room went dead silent. Sarah froze. Her hands hovered over the keys, and Alex saw her lower lip tremble. A single tear tracked down her cheek, shimmering under the stage lights.
Something inside Alex finally snapped. It wasn't the teenage angst of the "Purple Rain" incident; it was the cold, hard protectiveness of a man who wouldn't watch the person he loved be belittled.
He stepped forward to his mic, his voice shaking but loud. "Hey! That's enough!"
William turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"
"I said that's enough!" Alex shouted, stepping between William and Sarah. "She's the best musician on this stage, and she's playing exactly what the song needs. You don't get to humiliate her just because you want to feel big. You apologize to her, or we're both walking off this stage right now."
The regulars at the bar held their breath. Nobody talked back to William.
Then, to everyone's shock, William threw his head back and laughed. It was a loud, booming sound that shook the rafters. He clapped a massive hand on Alex's shoulder.
"Relax, kid," William grinned, his harsh demeanor vanishing instantly. "It was a setup. Sarah and I planned the whole thing."
Alex blinked, his brain rebooting. "What?"
Sarah wiped her eyes, a mischievous smile breaking through. "I told him you had the hands of a lead player but the voice of a shadow, Alex. I wanted to see if you'd finally find your spine if I was the one in trouble."
"I wanted to see if you had a voice," William added, leaning in. "A guitar player who won't stand up for his people won't ever stand up in his music. You got a spine, kid. Use it. Always."
William looked at Alex's PRS. "I'm sorry for the tears, Sarah, but the boy needed the fire. Now, Alex... listen to me. Your playing is clean. Too clean. You need a mix of Soul and Stank. You gotta play it like it hurts. Put some dirt on those notes."
Alex nodded, the adrenaline still humming in his veins. He took the advice to heart, digging into the next solo with a grit he hadn't known he possessed.
At the back of the room, near the exit sign, Marcus stood with his arms crossed. He wasn't tapping his foot. He wasn't smiling.
He had followed Alex to see if he would defy Leo, but what he witnessed was far more dangerous than a school gig. He saw Alex find his voice. He saw the "rhythm guitarist" command a room.
Marcus adjusted his sunglasses, his jaw tight. He thinks he can talk to a legend like William that way? Marcus thought. He's getting brave. I'm not gonna let him talk that way to me.
He turned and slipped out into the night, already planning how to tighten the leash.