Happily Ever After

Happy chimes signaled Sage’s entrance into Charlie’s Music Store, an obnoxious noise that would have pissed her off had she not taken the time that morning to mope around her home. But she was done sulking in solitude. She ventured into the world, donning her “minimal disguise” sunglasses and grappling onto her guitar case, to do something she enjoyed, something to raise her spirits. Altering her guitar was always exciting. Getting a Floyd Rose bridge put in was even more exciting.

Granted, she was putting the floating vibrato unit into her favorite guitar, the guitar she performed most often with, and she wasn’t certain her guitar tech could tune or change the strings of a Floyd Rose. But they were inherently difficult to maintain. Her guitar tech would learn even if he had to spend hours doing so. Such was the nature of the beast.

Guitars lined the far wall of the shop, electric and acoustic separated by a wall of amps and amp accessories. Basses were on the opposite wall in a section far less diverse in merchandise. Sage could see a glimpse of cymbal stacks in the far back, separated from the rest of the instruments. A few classical instruments sat behind the counter next to her.

And no workers were around to greet her.

Maybe they were closed for lunch and forgot to lock up the store. Maybe Sage accidentally broke in. Maybe she should leave.

No, no, she wouldn’t leave. She was being irrational. There had to be workers somewhere, probably in the back doing inventory or instrument repairs or eating lunch. She needed her instrument order placed today and she hoped the lack of customers didn’t reflect the quality of work.

Her friend, another popular-enough guitarist who knew far more about guitars than her, recommended Charlie’s, and from the reviews Sage read online, they sounded better than just competent.

“Hello,” she called, removing her sunglasses

A crash, then shuffling, and a man in a blue polo and slacks appeared from the concealed drum section. His long hair, tied back in a ponytail, and tattoos lining his arms didn’t convey professionalism. But Sage found trusting the professional looking workers of other shops, the ones that sported a snotty attitude on top of looking like they’d never played an instrument in their life, difficult. They didn’t have the passion for music. An instrument was just an instrument to them, not an extension of a musician’s soul.

“Hey,” the man said, gravely voice full of unprofessional warmth. “What can I do for you?”

His nametag, worn crooked on his polo, read Lee. Just Lee. In black, block, capital letters. A suitable name for a musician. His last probably added more depth to the simplistic first name.

“I was looking to put a Floyd Rose in my guitar,” Sage said.

“Sure thing. Need it by a certain time?”

“I’d prefer it get done in the next couple weeks.”

“Alright, give me a second,” Lee began typing information into computer behind the counter, putting her into the schedule, Sage assumed.

She glanced at the items littering the counter as he typed: picks, printed spread sheets with lists of abbreviated item information, straps, a few screws, and magazines in a rack. Her eyes focused on the magazine displayed in the front, a local music magazine whose cover was a picture of Say Goodbye, minus Reese. Their first band interview without Reese was hidden inside, the interview they’d done right before Sage went on her trip. A wave of anxiety hit Sage. Reese was leaving her. He wouldn’t be there in the studio, slaving over a record, or on tour, goofing off and drinking beer, or at band practices, getting in arguments over how to format a song or a set. He would be gone.

And Sage would be stuck with Cadeau.

Lee’s voice destroyed her dreary thoughts. “Okay, let me get Barbie for you, so you can talk to her about alterations.”

A woman? Shocking. Sage rarely saw women employed in music stores that catered to those not interested in classical music and the women she did see certainly didn’t know how fix instruments.

They didn’t even know much about instruments.

Before Sage could question the less-than-respectable name for a female musician—Barbie, like the plastic doll? Really? She wouldn’t get taken very seriously with a name like that—Lee yelled, “Barbie!”

The blonde devil of Sage’s brooding popped out from the back of the store, packs of picks in her hand. Sage’s jaw dropped, her body stiffened, and she swore she felt her eye twitching.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect body. Cadeau, that stupid fucking drummer, was Barbie.

Sage should have known.

Cadeau didn’t notice Sage immediately, her irritated gaze on Lee, and, for a moment, Sage considered darting out of the store. She could run still, Cadeau wouldn’t realize she was even there.

Well, she would when the bell chimed and she saw Sage’s retreating figure outside the window and she was told by Lee that Sage had been there. The next band practice would be awkward when Cadeau brought up her panicked flight. And Blake would lecture Sage. About everything. Like always.

“Why do you keep doing this?” Cadeau asked, waving the picks for Lee to see.

He seemed to understand what she was talking about, why she showing him containers of picks and reprimanding them for their presence. He crossed his arms, sniffed indignantly. “I like those picks.”

“No one buys them.”

“I didn’t call you out here to lecture me.” He motioned to Sage. “Customer, guitar alteration, do what you do.”

Blue eyes met her green ones, and a bright, pretty smile spread on Cadeau’s lips, erasing all signs of discontent over Lee’s order from her face. “Hey, Sage.” To Lee, she said, “Stop ordering these” and shoved the picks into his hand.

“Whatever,” he grumbled and shuffled to the back of the store again.

Cadeau chuckled, shook her head, then looked at Sage again. “You didn’t come here to find another reason to hate me did you?”

The blunt question shocked Sage, so much so she had to stop and process what she had heard. Throughout all the abusive words Sage dished out during practice, Cadeau had just taken it. She’d smile warmly, tell her she appreciated the advice, and promised she’d work on it at home if it would make Sage happy. And her calm acceptance of every insult pissed Sage off more.

She wasn’t doing that now. Granted, Sage hadn’t said much of anything that could have been taken as an insult yet, and she had been planning on it the moment Cadeau popped out of nowhere. But Cadeau didn’t greet her with the same motherly warmth she used in their band practice encounters, the way Sage expected her greetings to sound.

And Sage lost her fuel.

“I… no… I don’t… hate you,” Sage stuttered.

“Could have fooled me.”

Silence. Sage stared at Cadeau, floundering under the new bluntness. And Cadeau stared back, lips quirked in a smirk, waiting, watching.

“You… fix guitars?” Sage asked weakly.

“All stringed instruments, percussion instruments, and I dabble with sound equipment now and then. I learned from Lee.”

“Oh.”

Maybe she wasn’t useless. The band could find something for her to do. On tour. As a tech, not as a drummer. To fix instruments.

Who was Sage kidding? She’d heard from Andy the contract was in the works, would be ready in a week, a fact Cadeau must not have been aware of if she was still working in a music store. Cadeau was their drummer and Reese was leaving.

“Did you need me to do something to your guitar?”

The clash of emotions stole Sage’s memory. The anxiety, the sadness, the confusion, the curiosity, all meshed together in a strange muddle that left her with an overwhelming desire to sort through her feelings and made her forget the reason for her trip. Something about her guitar. An alteration. Meant to make her happy.

Oh, right.

“I… uh… a Floyd Rose… I wanted it put in.”

“You want a Floyd Rose?”

She sounded concerned, unsure, questioning of Sage’s decision. Did she not think Sage could handle a Floyd Rose? She already have a few in her collection of “down time” guitars, the ones she played when she wanted to relax.

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Well, no, not exactly.” Cadeau shrugged. “I know you have one, so I assume you know how to tune and change strings. But that’s the case for your performance guitar.”

“So?”

“Does your tech know how to tune one?”

He would learn if he valued his life. But Sage didn’t say that. Instead, she mumbled a tentative “Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then maybe you can tune it on tour if he doesn’t. Maybe.”

It wasn’t a peace offering. Not exactly. Sage was being an opportunist in the process of attempting to accept Cadeau’s position. Because she didn’t have a choice.

She didn’t like her. She didn’t.

Cadeau paused, smirk dropping, eyes widening, then a broad smile broke out on her face. “I can have it done in a week. If it’s done early, I’ll bring it by practice.”

“Okay.”

She hoped nothing bad happened to her guitar while in Cadeau’s clutches.

Still smiling, that gorgeous, victorious smile, Cadeau reached over the counter and squeezed Sage’s hand. Reassurance.

“I’ll take good care of it. Promise.”