Page 117 of Torch Songs

Guthrie snorted. “Of course it could,” he said dryly.

“Tell you what,” Seth said. “Kelly and I will drive with you to put the truck in valet and clear out all your stuff, and I’ll arrange for the recording company to pay the ticket, and after I get you checked in, we’ll eat on the company dime for lunch.”

“Ooh,” Guthrie said, appreciating Seth’s strategy. “Who’s all mister practical now?”

Kelly rolled his eyes. “He knows how to live on the company dime, believe me,” he said. “But part of that is the company is always stupid excited about paying for him.” Kelly’s smile was all pride. “I’m pretty excited about not having to pay San Francisco prices, and no amount of ‘Oh, but we’ll buy your tuxedo and pay for your town car’ is going to cure me of that.”

Guthrie chuckled and scooted over, opening the cab so they could both scoot in and he could drive to the hotel. “They pay for your town car?” he asked, legitimately impressed.

“It’samazing,” Kelly said, ignoring Seth’s blush. “It’s like he’s avoided getting a driver’s license his entire life so the symphony could feel all badass by getting him a car. We both nod our heads like, ‘Yeah, okay, sure,’ like town cars were even athingwhen we were growing up. I mean, until we went back East, the best thing I ever rode in was Seth’s dad’s restored caddy.”

“It’s sweet,” Seth said, and Guthrie laughed some more, because Seth said that with all sincerity when the caddy was probably the only vehicle Seth knew from the entirefleetof cars on the road.

But that was Seth and Kelly, and Guthrie relaxed into their company as he pulled around the block and into the hotel’s valet parking. As he grabbed his guitar and his knapsack with his computer—and Seth and Kelly took his drum set—and he realized this was really all he owned in the world besides the truck, he tried to take the lessons Seth and Kelly had learned in stride. Nobody but Guthrie had to know he had two hundred dollars in the bank,maybe, and the only people who did know would love him for who he was anyway.

TWO WEEKSlater, he, Vince, Amara, and Seth sat in the studio and listened to the final notes of the final song fade plaintively away into the silence, and then everybody—Seth’s agent, Adele, their sound engineers, the grips who’d helped arrange and care for the instruments—everybody—took a deep, shuddering breath before erupting into applause.

“My God,” Adele said through a suspiciously tight throat. “I can’t… I can’t even believe what you kids did here. Did you hear that?”

“Yeah, baby,” Vince said, low-fiving Kelly, who had stayed in the engineering booth through the entire process, probably picking up pointers through osmosis. “You bet your ass we did.”

Guthrie, it appeared, was the only one nervous about the album. “Are you sure?” he asked again. “That was an awful lot of… you know.Meon that album.” In fact, six of the ten arrangements were penned by Guthrie Woodson. Adele had been breaking her back trying to write and rewrite the contract, making sure particularly that Guthrie would be on the receiving end of bonuses if any of his songs broke big.

“Oh baby,” Adele said, her throaty smoker’s rasp a comfort. “You’re going to break that album wide open. ‘Road Like a Ribbon’ is going to go nationwide, you have no idea. This is going to be….” She held her hands to her chest. “Wow. This must be what Travis Ford felt like when Outbreak Monkey cut their second album. I might even be in a place tocall himand ask. You… guys, this… this is gonna behuge.”

Guthrie smiled weakly, overwhelmed. “I’m… I don’t know what to do with huge,” he whispered. The last two weeks had been, as he’d suspected, a sleepless whirlwind. The band—they’d decided to rename it the Hot Crustaceans—had practiced, jammed, fiddled, tweaked, and delivered on that tipsy Christmas promise to make music together they could be proud of, and to enjoy the hell out of each other while they did it. Guthrie had called that first text to Tad pretty much right. He hadn’t had much time to eat, much time tobreathe, once the band hit the studio. One of the things the four of them had in common besides their young college years together was an absolute work ethic. For every one of them, the final decision was “What’s best for the song.”

Nine times out of ten, the answer had been “More Guthrie.”

Guthrie, caught up in the tide of creativity and excitement, hadn’t thought to contradict his friends until now, when he realized what “More Guthrie” might mean.

But now, in the breathless hush following what Guthrie had to admit had been an extraordinary musical experience, it was starting to seep in.

Adele approached him gently, which was probably why she was Seth’s agent, because she could do things like that. “Baby,” she said softly, “we send the rough cuts to the executives digitally this afternoon. Tomorrow morning, before you check out, I should have your signature on the final contract. The money should hit your bank account in a week.” She glanced around at all of them. “That’s not just for him, you know. This is gonna be some serious green. And I know none of you are stupid—you’ve all been responsible with your pay so far, so you won’t let me down now—but I’m saying.” She smiled gently at Amara. “This could be ‘taking a year off to have a baby’ money.”

Amara held her hand to her mouth and looked desperately at Vince, who nodded.

“This could be ‘get your sisters an apartment of their own’ money,” she said, eyeballing Seth and Kelly. Then she turned that tender attention back on Guthrie. “And you. I’ve only known you for a couple of weeks, but I already know what your dreams are. You and your guy, you can live a quiet life while you perform at the local tavern, and every time you get a wild hair, this album is going to be your ticket to making any music you want. This money here—you spend it wisely and this is freedom money, Guthrie. And I’ll help you with whatever you need. But right now, you all deserve a night on the town at some place we need to buy Guthrie a tie to eat at. You need good wine and sparkling chandeliers and some goddamned happy, ’cause every damned one of you deserves it. How’s that?”

The engineers and production crew had to make the cheers, because the musicians were all busy staring at each other in wonder and trying not to cry.

AT DAWN’Sbuttcrack the next morning, they all met in Seth and Kelly’s suite, Guthrie with all his stuff ready to take down to his truck, as they signed the final contracts. Guthrie’s bonuses made spots dance in front of his eyes, and he thought he should send Jock a riding mower as soon as the check cleared.

It was everything he ever wanted; except the one thing hereallywanted was four hours away, waiting on his call.

“This should clear in the next three days,” Adele said seriously. “I wish I could make itright now, kid, ’cause from the looks of you, I don’t know how you’re going to get that death trap of yours up to Colton, but three days is as soon as I can get.” He felt a pressure on his back pocket then, which felt like a grope but couldn’t possibly be, because Adele had integrity like a rock. As she turned to embrace Seth, Kelly, and the others, Guthrie put his hand in his back pocket and pulled out three hundred dollars, with a Post-it on top.

Don’t argue—let me get you home.

By the time he could eventhinkto argue, they were all trooping to the elevators, Kelly manning the luggage rack because—his words—he didn’t trust all the music geniuses not to spill their instruments all over the hotel.

When the valet arrived with his truck—embarrassingly loud, and oh God, was it belching black smoke now?—they all helped him load it up before they called for their town car: Vince and Amara for the airport, Seth and Kelly to go meet their family, gathered in Sacramento for the occasion. Kelly and Seth hugged him tight—so tight—and Seth whispered, “Please, Guthrie, go be happy. For us.”

“For me too,” Guthrie said, pulling away, and Kelly grinned.

“That’s what I like to hear. Now go before your truck just up and fucking dies.”

It was as good an exit line as any.

---