At His Fingertips. Dawn Atkins

She’d liked when he’d played for her, though. Of course she’d had those incredible eyes and that great mouth….

      “But you slept with her.”

      “Nah. She was jailbait.” She’d seemed younger than she was—eighteen—and probably a virgin, and he’d been leaving for L.A. anyway….

      “You were a gentleman? No wonder your band never made it.”

      “Yeah. That was the problem.” You will succeed beyond your wildest dreams, she’d said, looking up from his palm. And he’d believed her. He couldn’t imagine he’d ever been that naive. If he’d used the brains God gave him he’d have checked out the “scout” before leaving town.

      “See what you can find out at the workshop,” Craig said. “If it’s bogus, you’re doing a public service. You’ll look good around here, too, if you’re still interested in a job.”

      “I am.” The idea got his blood pumping like when he’d first opened his practice. Something new. Something important.

      They finished the call with a date for racquetball, which lately had been his main social outlet, along with tossing back some brews watching sports on TV with a few friends.

      He liked long hours in the office, despite Maggie’s nagging at him. It got too quiet at his house when Dale was out. Besides, he loved what he did. No regrets. Esmeralda had acted as if quitting music had been some kind of crime against humanity.

      She’d looked at him so strangely, as though he was the ghost of Christmas past or a relative she’d thought lost at sea.

      To be honest, he’d felt an odd vibration, too. Probably just sexual chemistry. Or maybe inhaling all that incense.

      What had she told him? Scientific studies on palmar derma-whatever? Please. Psychics and palm readers were such common scammers, they’d practically earned their own fraud division.

      Mitch didn’t believe anyone’s future rested in the lines of a palm. Now, fingerprints, on the other hand, those definitely said something about your future. For Dale’s sake, he hoped Craig didn’t find Esmeralda’s anywhere.

      3

      AT HOME, MITCH FOUND HIS BROTHER on the couch, clutching a bowl of Cap’n Crunch with a big glop of peanut butter on top. Stoned again. Dale mainlined junk food whenever he fired up a bowl.

      Dale looked up from the MTV reality show he was watching. “You’re early.” He shoved magazines and a Xbox controller to the floor and patted the cushion for Mitch. His gaze returned to the plasma screen.

      Mitch grabbed the remote and thumbed down the sound. He would be casual. Start real easy, no pressure. “So, I stopped by that foundation office—the one you cut out from the paper?”

      Slowly, Dale turned away from the screen. “What?”

      “The place that gives grants? You wrote down that after-school music program idea? Wholesale instruments, remember?”

      “Oh, yeah.” He shrugged. No big deal. That was how he’d acted when the music store had failed. Dale treated job ideas like catch-and-release fishing. There would always be another one. Not so, Mitch knew. Some chances didn’t come twice.

      “So I found out more information for you.”

      “You didn’t need to, but thanks.” Dale was an easy going guy, popular, with lots of women around. Always out and about, distracted from any doubts he had about the way he lived.

      Maybe Mitch should have done the tough-love thing and booted him out, but he couldn’t stand the idea of his brother dragging his cookbooks and guitar from friend’s sofa to friend’s sofa. Mitch had the room and the money to help, so he did.

      “The grant sounds possible. We need a proposal, though, and here’s the deal—there’s a grant-writing workshop tomorrow we need to go to. They’ll give tips.” And maybe hold a séance? God.

      “Tomorrow night? We’ve got a gig.”

      “This is at seven. And it’s a foot in the door on the grant.”

      Dale chewed thoughtfully. “How about if you just cover it for me?” He turned to the TV. “I’ve got a couple of lessons in the late afternoon.”

      “So skip your nap. Come on. This could be great.” He kept himself from saying anything harsh or pushy. Easy does it.

      “It was just an idea, Mitch. No big thing.”

      “It was a good idea. Give yourself some credit.”

      “I don’t know.” He shrugged, but Mitch knew he was just afraid of trying something new. Dale’s band sold a decent number of downloads off MySpace, but it wasn’t enough to make a living, to be independent, to build up any security.

      “The director was encouraging. And you’re good with your students. Working with kids would be great for you.”

      Nothing.

      “Make an effort here.” He took a weary breath.

      “I’m getting on your nerves, living here so long, huh? I can stay at Bailey’s or with Sarah.”

      “No. I’m glad you’re here. I have the space.” And, frankly, he enjoyed the company. “I just want you to—”

      “Become you. Yeah, I get that. I don’t intend to bust my hump six days a week like you.”

      “There’s nothing wrong with my life.” He had rewarding work, friends, a nice home, money in the bank.

      “You need to get laid, bro,” Dale said. “You’re a lot easier to get along with when you’re gettin’ it regular.”

      Mitch rolled his eyes.

      “You don’t even play anymore. Hell, you used to write.”

      “Not interested,” Mitch said. He hadn’t even thought about music in years. His guitar was in his closet, way out of tune. Music used to be everything to him—making it, listening to it, analyzing it—but that came from being young and ambitious and obsessed with making a mark.

      “I’m getting on your nerves. I should move out.”

      “Stay. For God’s sake, I’m just trying to—”

      “You’re mad that I trashed the kitchen making that reduction?”

      “Not at all.” Dale aspired to be a gourmet cook, except he preferred improvising to following recipes. Which worked fine in music, not so fine in the kitchen. “Maybe less salt next time.” He’d choked down some of the glop to be polite. “Meet me at the workshop, would you?”

      “You’re not gonna let up? I’ll try to be there. You hungry? I’ve got vegan chili in the slow cooker.”

      “Sure.” What could Dale do to chili, after all? Mitch followed his brother into the kitchen, which looked like a food bomb had gone off, scattering chunks of onion, garlic cloves, spices and pinto beans everywhere. The counter was littered with grocery bags and Dale’s exotic cookbooks—he had an entire book for braising, one for cooking chiles, another for Mongolian fare.

      Dale flipped on some music and Mitch recognized the Xtent of the Crime demo the band had cut. “What made you play that?”

      Dale shrugged. “A little voice in my head.” He grinned the grin that made him look like a kid again. He was as sunny as Esmeralda. She had a purpose, at least, kooky as it was. Dale bounced around, did whatever felt good.

      He’d stayed in L.A. for six years after the band had broken up, surviving on studio work and band hookups, until he’d come home dead broke. How could he be so aimless?

      It made Mitch nuts. Life was more than just getting through the days undamaged. You had to grow, accomplish things, make a difference.