Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty #3)(59)
Wyatt grinned at him. “I figured you could. Now, I need to get going. So if you guys want a picture—”
“That’s okay,” Jace said, cutting off his friends even as they reached for their cameras. “We don’t need one.”
“Uh, yeah we do,” Dylan said, looking at him like he was insane. “‘Receipts or it didn’t happen.’”
“It happened,” Jace said softly. “Besides, when he comes to the show Friday night, you can take a picture with us.”
“The f*ck?” Billy demanded, turning almost as white as Jace had. “He didn’t mean it, Wyatt. He’s just insane or something.”
Wyatt was laughing too hard to answer him. When he could finally speak, he nodded at Jace. “Okay. That seems fair. I show up to hear you play and you take a picture with me that I can post on Twitter and shit and tell everybody that I got to meet the guys from Big Bad Wolf.”
Billy elbowed Dylan, whispered loudly, “He remembered our name.” Dylan nodded like a crazy man, and Jace just stood there grinning.
“It was nice meeting you guys. Have a good day.” He gave them a little salute, then headed up the ramp toward his car.
About a minute later, he heard feet pounding up the ramp after him. He turned to find Jace running full out in an effort to catch up to him.
“What’s up, Jace?” he asked as the kid finally stopped a couple of feet from him.
It took him a couple of seconds to catch his breath, but then he said, “I really do think you’re the greatest drummer ever. I’ve listened to everybody—Dave Grohl, Keith Moon, Phil Collins. They’re great. I mean, some of them are really phenomenal. But you’re better.”
“Dude.” Wyatt reared back a little, humbled by this kid’s support. “That’s pretty serious company you’ve got me in. I mean, I appreciate the compliment—”
“No. You are. I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass. Your drum fills are genius. Pure genius. They make the whole f*cking song, set the whole thing up. Because they don’t just fill, don’t just keep the beat. They get inside the song, mirror the emotions and the tension of it so perfectly. Believe me, I know—I’ve spent years watching you, learning from you, trying to do what you do. It’s the hardest f*cking thing in the world, and you make it look effortless.”
“It’s not effortless—”
“I know it’s not. Believe me, I know that better than anyone. But the way you hit the sticks, the way you beat that shit out, it’s f*cking brilliant. The way you’ve fought to get clean…I’ve been sober thirty days myself, because of you. So I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for stopping to talk to us even though you didn’t want to. Thanks for saying you’ll come to our gig. And thanks for being the guy who made me want to be a better drummer and a better person. If I hadn’t heard you when I was twelve, I probably never would have wanted to play the drums. And if I didn’t have them to bang away at…” He shook his head. “Shit. I probably wouldn’t still be here. So thanks. For everything. The way you drum, the way you got off drugs despite the life…You’re an inspiration, man.”
It was Wyatt’s turn to be speechless. “Jace—”
“Don’t worry about it.” The kid shook his head, grinned. “Have a good rest of the day.” And then he was gone, sprinting back down the ramp toward his friends and leaving Wyatt standing there with his mouth hanging open. He was an inspiration? Not just a sick drummer but an inspiration? What the hell was he supposed to think about that?
When he finally got in his car, he’d planned on going to Quinn’s house. Planned on talking things out with the guys once and for all, so that they understood where he was coming from. Why he had to leave the band.
Instead, he’d driven to his apartment on autopilot, his conversations with Poppy and Jace running through his head on a loop. And now, here he was, standing in front of his drum kit like he was scared of it or something. Like he was some kind of * who’d lost his nerve.
The thought was enough to have him crossing the room, to have him sliding his hand over the cool red aluminum of his drums, the smooth plastic of the skins. He had a few different kits—one for touring, one for home, and one for Quinn’s studio. This was the smallest of the kits, and the oldest, but it was also his favorite. An old school DW Jazz series, it only had three toms along with two crash and two ride cymbals to compliment the core kit of snare, bass, hi-hat and floor tom. The heads were mostly White Coated Emporers because he liked the crisp, yet smoky sound of them and his sticks were 5BXLs with acorn tips because nothing else had ever felt right in his hands.
He’d had this kit since almost the beginning of Shaken Dirty—had scrimped and saved every penny he could for it while he worked two bullshit jobs trying to pay for his stick breaking habit. Hell, he’d even given up his other, less healthy habits for six months back then, just so he’d have enough money for this kit.
If only money had kept being that tight, maybe he never would have developed an eighteen point a day heroin habit…
Shoving that thought out of his head—or at least as far out as it would go—he rubbed his thumb along the edge of one of the crash cymbals. It had been months since he’d played this kit; he’d been touring with his much more impressive and well-equipped Sonor SQ2 kit for a couple of years now, but there was just something about this DW kit that he loved. That took him back to what it used to be like, when life had been all about writing songs and making music instead of pleasing a record label that had crawled so far up his ass he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get them out.