Page 45 of Echoes of a Muted Song

“Anything homemade is phenomenal after three days of nothing but peanut butter and jelly,” I reminded him.

Rebel just shrugged and flashed me his trademark grin. “At least we had five different flavors to choose from plus all those little packs you shoved in your backpack at Perkins.”

“They have appleandorange marmalade,” I reminded him. “Not to mention triple berry. No one ever has triple berry anywhere else we go.”

“Oh, I can see where this is already going to be an interesting project,” Cyril said. “I can’t promise that I’ll make anything I see on thosepages, but I will be picking up a copy when it comes out.”

“Don’t worry about grabbing one,” Rebel said. “We’ll send a signed copy as a thank you for having us on this morning.”

“I appreciate that,” Cyril said. “And I do have one last question before you go, this one for Rebel, specifically.”

“Hit me,” Rebel replied.

“Several fans have mentioned being at Rocktoberfest and witnessing the shred-off that’s become an annual sensation,” Cyril said. “And they’d like to know why you didn’t take part.”

Busted.

We all wanted to know the same thing, and Rebel still hadn’t given an explanation any of us was willing to buy. Leaning back, I settled in to hear what excuse he’d offer this time.

“Some guys like showing off for the sake of being seen,” Rebel declared. “I only show off when it matters.”

“Are you saying the shred-off doesn’t matter?”

“I’m saying that it doesn’t prove anything about who the best guitarist is, because the best don’t always take part. It’s all subjective anyway and depends on what kind of sound you like. Fast and loose, deep and haunting, we all have our own style. The whole shred-off thing is just an excuse to show off with no meaning and I don’t waste my energy on things like that,” Rebelexplained. “I’d rather spend it chillin’ or checking out amazing, up and coming bands, like Savage Roar. Someone really needs to get those guys signed to the festival scene. Those two guitarists of theirs truly know how to shred!”

Ahh, so he’d gone with splicing the various explanations he’d given us together into a long, rambling thought. I’d let him have that, since we were getting the signal that it was time to wrap things up. But I wouldn’t let it drop, not until he told me why he’d really refused to put his name in and had been noticeably absent in the crowd during the event itself. I knew there was more to the story than what he was saying, and something told me that it led straight back to our early years performing, when Rebel would cling to the edges of the stage and even play half hidden behind drapes and speakers, until he’d finally gotten comfortable being up there with us. It dawned on me then that might be exactly what was at the heart of him sitting out. He’d thrived, once he’d come out of his shell and started interacting with us on stage, but how were we supposed to convince him that he was amazing without us, when he’d never been onstage without the band by his side?

It might take me some time, but I vowed to find a way to show him, even if I had to reach out to a very special friend for a bit of help in that regard. The road to the next Rocktoberfest was ten months long, plenty of time for me toprove to him that he could handle being in the spotlight and winning the people’s hearts all on his own.

Chapter 22

(Draven)

“Hey, you got a sec?”

Seeing Ozzy outside of my hotel room was a bit of a surprise, since Johnny wouldn’t be back for a little while, but I motioned Blissfully Immune’s drummer inside and moved a stack of notebooks and papers off the chair to give him a place to sit down. He was silent at first, picking at a tear in the knees of his jeans while I grabbed my text to speech device. I took the seat across from his at the table where Johnny and I ate most of our meals when we were in the room, and waited for him to tell me what was going on.

“I, um, I’ve got a problem.”

“Okay, that’s what I’m here for,” I typed. “How can I help.”

“I’ve been having some, well, issues with my hands and wrists for a while now,” Ozzy said. “At first, I thought it was just how hard Iwas playing, ya know? I’d take some aspirin, massage them, soak them in warm water and Epsom salts, rub a salve into them, just anything I could do to make sure I was ready for the next show.”

Nodding, I listened, hoping he wasn’t about to tell me he’d moved on to heavier pain killers because I wasn’t sure I was prepared to handle a problem of that magnitude yet.

“In the last few months, the pain has started spreading to my wrists,” Ozzy explained. “And the throbbing in my hands hasn’t been easing in between shows, despite everything I do to try and get some relief. I finally broke down and set up some appointments for February when we were on break, only I got a call this morning to say that they could get me in sooner. That would mean bringing in a relief drummer, though, so I wanted to talk to you before accepting the earlier appointments.”

“When do you need to go?” I typed.

“A week from Thursday.”

Nodding, I stroked my chin, and shot a text to Sully, letting him know that Ozzy would need his guards to be ready to travel with him and that we’d need some relief guards for his replacement. His response was almost immediate and in the form of the thumbs up emoji.

“Okay, I just made sure that your guard detail will be ready to travel with you,” I conveyed. “Do you have anyone in mind for a relief drummer?”

A look of relief immediately softened Ozzy’s features and he stopped picking at the rip in his jeans.

“Yeah, I’m actually going back and forth between two guys. Claude’s from New Bedford like we are, and Kit, he’s from Fall River.”

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