My Rockstar's Secret Baby by Jamie Knight (read me like a book .TXT) 📕

gain before self-recording, we’d have to work twice as hard, and outshine everyone else in a crowded field. Not as crowded as some, with metal still largely seen as a fringe kind of music, but there was more than enough competition to make existence difficult for those who didn’t stay aware.

We were never going to beat the classics. Sabbath, Metallica, even Mayhem, would always have fans and outsell us by miles, what we had to do was make ourselves look like a viable option among those who were left with when the giants of the genre were already considered. But we could do well enough.

If there was one thing Seth knew how to do it was taking worthy bands, who really had something from the garage to glory. The very reason we decided to send him our demo.

The gang was already gathered when I got to the space. I still wasn’t completely confident with the buses but could get where I needed to be. If a few minutes late, though usually no more than forty-five. Sixty on the outside.

“The prodigal returns,” Stig snarked.

“Bus trouble.”

It was bullshit of course, but the mood was not right to go into the whole Stephanie situation. The tour was great news, as was the record, the fact it was fast tracked nothing but good news.

Everything we’d been working so hard for was finally coming to pass, and the guys were over the moon about it. I’d honestly never seen Varg so mellow, at least not since he hit puberty, and anything that could do that had to be a good thing.

Yet elated was not my state of mind. I should have been thrilled, but the thought of being away from Stephanie, even for six months, physically hurt, like sawing off a limb. Still, there was a job to do, no matter how averse the circumstances. Let it never be said I shirked responsibility.

“What’s the set list?” I asked, taking the stool behind my kit, referred to only half-jokingly as my ‘seat of power.’

“Same as on the tour. Seth wants us to be a sharp as possible for our world debut.”

Stig set a print copy on top of the bass drum, held down with a rock to avoid slippage on account of the heavy vibration. Even more than usual, the tumultuous feelings raging through me turned my drumsticks into the hammer of Thor.

There was something about being away from Stephanie, or even the threat of it, that could turn me into a berserker. Luckily, I kept lots of spare drumheads, just as a precaution. Sadly, my vocal cords weren’t so easily corrected.

“Is there something you want to talk about?” Stig asked.

We’d just finished “Immortal Territory,” a song written especially for the Norway show, and I had somehow reached down into the darkest pits of my soul and my usual soft growls were guttural snarls of rage.

“No,” I replied, extracting the end of my stick from the middle of my snare drum.

I changed my drumheads, and we kept going through the list, Varg and Stig exchanging looks on occasion. They seemed to know that something was up, most likely with my secret lover, but didn’t seem to think it was funny anymore.

My wrathful ire was direct as much at myself as anyone else. I was usually smarter than that.

There was no way it could have worked with Stephanie. We were both far too involved with our work, with almost no time for lie, let alone love. That was what logic said. Unfortunately, everything else in me disagreed.

“Take five guys,” Seth said.

Hesitantly, Stig and Varg left the practice room, as I checked for further punctures in my drums.

The rest of the practice was a blur. I did my best to tone things down a tad. Not least because I was running low on new drumheads. Before we could run ourselves into the ground, Seth called time, and we were allowed to relax a bit before the rigors of sound-check.

There seemed to be a notion, particularly among aspiring musicians that being in a band was all sex, drugs, and rock and roll. The reality was closer to the description often given of combat. Hours of boredom and preparation, punctuated by brief moments of intense action.

It was an odd sort of procession as we went to the van, parked in a trident point alongside Seth and Sven’s cars. Like pallbearers without the coffin, bits of my kit distributed between us, the guitar and amps already packed.

“Ride with me,” Seth said.

It wasn’t really an order. There was so much demand in his tone, which wasn’t his normal style, even if I knew full well that it would be best for everyone concerned to do what he wanted.

“I’ll see you guys there,” I said, setting my bass drum into the confines of the van.

Silence rang as I parted ways with my childhood friends. Something was coming. The question was what.

Seth had always struck as the calm and patient sort. I’d never even heard him raise his voice, which was surly enough to think him a gentle soul. That was a mistake often made; it’s usually the quiet ones you need to watch out for.

“How are things with Stephanie?” Seth asked, once we were out on the highway.

“Complicated.”

“I recall the feeling.”

“How so?” I asked, interest piqued.

“Jonna and I didn’t have the easiest start. Not least because of our shared, if unspoken fear, that it was just a fling. Not quite a fear on my end to be fair, I’d honestly thought that was what it was, at least a first. It wasn’t long before I changed my tune.”

“Did you have issues with the age gap?’

“Partly, though there were other considerations. In the end, we just couldn’t live without each other, so we found ways to deal with it,”