Thoughtful (Thoughtless, #1.5) by S.C. Stephens
Chapter 1
All in a Day’s Work
I’d been playing the guitar since I was six. While I’d been with the D-Bags for a few years now, I’d been in one band or another since high school. My childhood hadn’t been the easiest, and music had been my saving grace. From the first time I’d held my guitar, I’d been hooked. It was the feel of the wood beneath my fingers, smooth, cool. It was the toughness of the strings, the reverberation deep inside the instrument. Even when I had been too young to really understand the impact music would have on my life, playing the guitar had spoken to me. There was something meaningful in that simple instrument that was dying to come out. There was something meaningful inside of me that was dying to come out.
My parents had given the instrument to me as a gift, but even back then I’d known it was more for them than for me. It was a convenient way to keep me occupied and out of their hair so they didn’t have to be around me as much. My conception had been an unwanted accident, and my parents had never warmed up to me, never accepted me. I was a mistake that had forever changed their lives, and they’d never let me forget it. Whatever. The guitar kept me out of their way and I loved playing it, so it was a decent present, regardless of the ulterior motives behind it.
They hadn’t bothered getting me lessons though, so I’d taught myself. It had taken forever on my own, but being an only child with no close friends and parents who didn’t want to have anything to do with me had afforded me a healthy amount of free time. My dad had liked to have the radio on whenever he was home. He would generally listen to talk radio, NPR and such, but when he put on music, it was almost always classic rock. I loved trying to mimic the songs, and once I’d mastered the basic chords, I’d played along with every song I could. It had irritated the hell out of Dad. He’d turn the radio up and order me to my room. “If you want to cause permanent ear damage with your god-awful racket, then do it alone so only you have to suffer,” he’d say.
I’d go upstairs, but I’d leave my door cracked open so I could still hear the music. We had a big house when I was growing up, but if I strummed really softly, I could follow along with whatever was playing. For the next several years, “Stairway to Heaven” was my favorite song, but, then again, I think that’s everybody’s favorite song when they’re learning.
For the first time in my young life, I’d found something that gave me complete and total peace, something I connected with, something with similar wants and desires. The guitar needed to be played. I needed to play it. It was a mutual, beautiful, symbiotic relationship, and for a long time, it was the only real relationship I had.
Grabbing my beloved instrument, I closed the door to my house. “Home” was a term I used lightly when I was describing my place. Truly, it was my parents’ house, but they’d died a couple years ago and left it to me. I stayed there because it was a building with four walls and a roof, but I had no emotional attachment to it. It was nothing but wood, brick, glass, nails, glue, and cement.
While I’d been living in Los Angeles, my parents had sold my childhood home and moved to a much smaller house. I didn’t know about it until they died. When I came back, I soon realized that they’d tossed everything of mine. It was confusing. They’d tried to scrub out my existence, but they’d still left me the house, the stocks, the retirement funds—everything. Sometimes I had a hard time understanding why they’d done that. Maybe they’d had a change of heart about me? Or maybe not.
I turned away from their house to see my gorgeous black-and-chrome Chevelle Malibu shining in the late-afternoon sun. I’d gotten her dirt cheap in L.A., and I’d spent a decent chunk of my summer fixing her up. She was a thing of beauty, my baby, and no one drove her but me.
Setting the guitar in the trunk, I headed to meet the guys for rehearsal. After easing my way onto the freeway, my eyes, as always, drifted to the unique cityscape of the Seattle skyline as it blossomed into view.
I’ve had a dichotomous relationship with the Emerald City over the years, both loving and hating it at times. Bad memories lurked around every corner—the loneliness of my childhood, the rejection, the biting remarks, the constant put-downs, the daily reminders of how much of an undesirable burden I was. The emotional poison my parents had injected into me had left its mark, but I had a good thing going here now, and the band was a large reason for my changed attitude toward the city.
Evan Wilder and I had formed the D-Bags together. With only my guitar on my back, a few dollars in my pocket, and dreams of a better life in my head, I’d left Seattle right after my high school graduation ceremony. Hitchhiking a ride wherever I could get one, I soon found myself at a bar on the Oregon coast. I’d stopped in for a drink and found Evan trying to convince the bartender that he was old enough to have a beer. He wasn’t. Neither was I, but I managed to wink my way into a pitcher. I’d shared it with him, and we’d bonded over our mutual love of beer and music.
After spending a little time with Evan’s family, the two of us had headed south, to L.A., City of Angels, to pick up some more band members. We’d found Matt and Griffin Hancock in the unlikeliest of places. A strip club. Well, maybe that wasn’t so unlikely. Evan and I were horny, fresh-out-of-high-school teenagers after all.
The four of us had worked well together, even from the beginning, and were soon rocking bars and clubs in L.A. We’d probably still be there, except I’d dropped everything and rushed back to Seattle after my parents died. Surprising the shit out of me, the guys had followed, and we’d been playing here ever since.