PROLOGUE

PHOENIX, AZ

January 2004           

            “Dad! Rhiannon’s been in my room again!”

            “Mommy! J.C.’s a moron!”

            My wife intervened, yelling over one shoulder. “Don’t call your brother a moron, Rhiannon.”
            “At least she didn’t call him an asshole.” I finished my coffee, dumping the cup into the sink.

            “Don’t say that too loud.” Season rushed out of the kitchen to attend to the impending sibling smackdown. “Or she will. It’s bad enough she’s as much like Rikki as she is.”

            “Just without the swearing, I know.”

            My son, thirteen, passed by his mother. “She’s got my brushes, Dad. She’s trying to do some kind of Harry Potter magic wand thing…”

            “I am not!” My daughter, her topaz eyes flashing, was struggling against her mother, who was trying to rally her into the kitchen so she could finish fixing her hair. “You were just trying to beat me with them!”

            Brother and sister continued to howl, the whole “was not, was too” thing. 

            “Hold it!” I threw out my arms like a referee. “We’ll take care of drumsticks later.”
            “But Dad, we’ve got jazz festival this weekend…” J.C. sat down on a barstool with a thump, his thick, highlighted brown hair falling over his eyes. “I need them for the Sonny James tune.”

“What makes you think Rhiannon has your brushes?” Season sat Rhiannon down on the other barstool long enough to get the nine-year-old’s long black hair secured into a ponytail. She then disappeared into the pantry, its entrance just behind J.C.

            “She’s always taking my stuff,” he began. “Last week she took my Evanescence CD…”

            Season reappeared, holding a pair of wire drum brushes. I suppressed a laugh behind one hand as the boy, humbled before his mother, took them gingerly from her hands. Rhiannon stuck out her tongue at him. I poked her in the shoulder and shook my head.

            “Oh,” said J.C.

            “Yeah, oh!” my wife retorted. “You left them sitting in there while you and Tor were eating all the food in my house.”

            He grumbled under his breath. “Sorry, Mom.”

            “Doesn’t his mother feed him?” I asked.

            “No, because he’s always over here.” Season rechecked the contents of Rhiannon’s backpack sitting on the center island. “Tell him he can’t come back until his bass playing gets better.” She smoothed back the unruly shock of hair covering J.C.’s brow.

            “Daddy should give him lessons,” Rhiannon said, squaring her shoulders, proud of the fact that she wasn’t the one in trouble for the missing drumsticks. “Because he’s the best bass player in the whole world.”

            I just rolled my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I’m glad someone still thinks so.”

            “They’ll also think so again after this reunion concert.” Season approached me, sliding her arms around my waist and kissing my neck. “The whole world again will see what a sexy rock and roll beast my husband still is.”

            The real rock and roll beast was starting to emerge just below my belt buckle, even after almost twenty years of marriage. I placed a firm hand on her curvy backside. “You sure you don’t wanna skip this thing and stay home all day?”

            My children groaned with embarrassment. 

            “C’mon, how do you think you two got here?” I joked.

            Rhiannon wrinkled her nose, not quite understanding, (I hoped), and J.C. turned as red as his t-shirt.

            Season pulled away from me and escorted Rhiannon out of the kitchen, knowing her ride to school would get to the house before J.C.’s. 

“Did you finish your homework?” she asked the young girl.

            “Yes, ma’am. Is Ted Nugent really a predator?”

            “Dad, can I go with you and Mom? To the rehearsal?”

            “No.” We’d already had this discussion. “You’ve got a Spanish test today. ¿Estudiaste para el examen?”

            He grimaced. “Uh…”

            “Vas a contestarme?”

            “Dad…”

            I tried so hard not to laugh.

            “How do you know that stuff?” he asked, sliding off the barstool and hoisting his backpack over his shoulder.

            “I only grew up twenty miles from the border,” I reminded him. 

            He was still downtrodden. “I can make it up tomorrow.”

            I shook my head. “No way. You’re not missing school because I’m getting one last shot at reliving the past. Forget it.”

            The doorbell rang, and I headed off to answer it. Bright lights blinded me when I opened the door, coming face to face with the lens of a television camera.

            I caught the swear word that erupted in my head before it was out of my mouth, and hoped I looked okay. And not too…old.

            “I guess I’m gonna have to get used to having a camera crew following me around again,” I said.

            Carter Walsh, the host of Vh-1’s Ultimate Tours, greeted me with a handshake. “Jon Warren! How’s it goin’ this morning?”

            “Typical.” I almost didn’t want to let them in, but I had agreed to participate in this reunion show, which included all five members of Tarax leaving behind their boring, mundane, normal lives for a while and reuniting as one of the ultimate “hair” metal bands of all time. I wasn’t into this “reality” show stuff, especially when it infringed on my boring, mundane, normal life. 

            Season came down the stairs, Rhiannon at her side. “Oh, wow, they’re here already.”

            “Yeah,” I said, trying desperately not to sound inconvenienced. This used to be so easy…

            “Cool.” She shrugged, taking to the media attention like it wasn’t a big deal. “Excuse me.” She politely pushed by the cameraman, the Foley operator, and Carter Walsh to peer through the front door, anxious for the children’s school rides to arrive.

            Rhiannon stood quietly, wrapping her small, delicate hand around my wrist. For all her defiance against her brother this morning, she was as interested in the camera crew about as much I was.

            Carter knelt down, the camera man aiming my rather shy daughter. “What do you think about your dad being on TV again?”

            She moved further behind me, frowning.

            My kids crack me up. “Answer him, Rhiannon.”

            She shook her head, then saw her mother at the front door.

            “Come on, Rhi. Beth’s here.”

            The little girl slowly eased out from behind me and went to her mother, brushing by the camera crew as if they weren’t even there. She turned and waved, “Bye, Daddy!  Have fun!”

            Yeah, right. “I’ll try.”

            Carter Walsh stood back up. “She’s a tough nut to crack.”

            “You have no idea.”

            On the other hand, my son…

            “Can’t I go, Dad? Please?” He was starting to get on my nerves.

            “No.”

            “Dad…” He rolled his eyes, and I had a strong urge to smack him upside the head.

            “You heard what I said.”

            Season called from the front entrance. “J.C.!”

            The camera crew still following our every move, I escorted my disgruntled oldest child outside. “Maybe you can come later in the week.”
            His green eyes lit up, and before he could get too excited, I added, “After your World History test.”

            “Dad…”
            I spoke through a gritty smile. “Have a good day, son.”

            Standing beside his mother, I watched as he climbed into a 1989 Ford Probe that looked like it had just been refurbished after a stock car race. His perpetual buddy, Thomas, aka “Tor,” another shaggy-looking teenager who’d just got his learner’s permit, was behind the wheel.  Thomas’s older brother Roger, eighteen and resembling a young Michael J. Fox, was in the passenger seat, keeping a close eye on the younger boys as they pointed to the film crew perched in our front door.

            “That’s so awesome, dude!” Tor said. “We’re on TV!”

            “I worry every time he gets in that car,” I muttered, as said vehicle pulled away from the tall wrought-iron gate at the end of the circular drive.

            “You think I don’t?” Season asked.

            “You must just hide it better.”

            Ten minutes later we were getting into a luxury SUV.

            Season turned to me before she climbed in. “Do you remember the last time we had a car drive us somewhere?”

            Oh, yes. All too well. At the height of our popularity, we were known for getting a little too excited every time we got into the backseat of a car together.  I laughed, hamming it up for the camera.

            “Well, I forgot to take my Levitra this morning, so I guess we’re screwed,” I joked. “Or not screwed, for that matter.”

            She giggled hysterically, knowing full well I didn’t need any drugs for that. “Get in the damn car!”

            The band was set up to rehearse at Sunrise Studios in Phoenix, where’d we originally recorded our fourth, and last, studio album in 1988. It was weird to be back there, at least in this setting. The studio had four rehearsal halls, and had been updated with new flooring and paint.

            “You crazy, wacko, gray-haired old man motherfucker!”

            Even at forty, his black eyes glowing like a schoolboy’s, stringy black hair cut much shorter, drummer Terry James could still bounce around like a playful dog. He threw skinny, tattoo-laden arms around me in a bear hug that crushed my spine.

            I set my  guitar case down and hugged him back. “Asshole.”

            “And here’s the beauty to go with the beast!” He embraced Season, his six-foot-four frame towering over her. “How are ya?”

            “I’m fine, thanks,” she answered, always entertained by his boisterous nature.

            “You still can’t get rid of him, huh?” he said to her, punching my shoulder.

            She shook her head. “I’ve tried everything.”

            “He’s like a bad stain.” Terry grinned wide, his lower lip piercing gleaming in the light of the television camera. He fidgeted with the many silver bracelets on his right arm. “Like his sister.”

            “Hey, lay off my sister, man,” I said, giving him a shove. “You’re the one who wanted to live with her.”

            “Yeah.” He dug into his back pocket and presented his wallet. “Got new pictures of Santana.” He displayed the latest photo of my niece, taken at Christmas on their last trip to Aspen. Santana, missing one front tooth, straggly black hair falling all about her face, was standing beside what looked like a goth snowman.

            Season laughed. “That’s interesting.”

            “She’s eight,” I said. “And you’ve got her looking like Billy Joe Armstrong.”

            He shrugged. “She seems to like it.”

            I remembered when Rhiannon came home made up like Amy Lee from Evanescence from a visit to his and Aunt Rikki’s house last summer, and I’d came unglued.

            “Are you insane?” I’d demanded of my younger sibling. “She’s only nine-years-old!”

            “She’s old enough to express her individuality,” Rikki replied succinctly, a Wiccan pentagram dangling from her ear. 

            “Not in my house, she isn’t,” I’d said, not really meaning that, but…  “Clean all that black goo off her face and put her regular clothes back on her.”

            Oh, how I’ve aged.

            My reverie was interrupted by the appearance of another bandmember.

            “Hi, Jon.”

            “Bryon!” Another man-hug. “How’s higher learning?”

            “Oh, your wife can tell you all about that.” Bryon Kinzey, Tarax rhythm guitarist, keyboardist, and monster musical arranger, greeted my wife with a kiss on the cheek. “It’s a gig.”

            “You’ve got that right,” she answered.

            Of the five of us, I think Bryon “looked” the oldest. The only hair left on his head was his gray streaked blonde goatee. “It’s been good, actually. I’ve got a symphony I want you to look at.”

            “Really?” I hadn’t played classically in a while. Or composed, for that matter. 

            “I borrowed the theme from “Star of the Scorpio”.”

            An instrumental number from our “supergroup” album, Menagerie, released in 1991.  “Cool.”

            A slightly heavy-set man, wearing a fedora, wispy strands of white-blonde hair resting on his shoulders, watched quietly from across the room. I just now noticed him. “Steve.”

            Singer Steven Ivey always had a habit of separating himself from the rest of us, but now it was different. Gone was the egomanical, playboy frontman of the past, replaced by an unusually reserved…person. He approached warily, as if he didn’t want to interrupt the camaraderie. 

“Hey, Jon.” He shook my hand, almost like he was afraid to touch me.

“It’s good to see you,” I said. “You’re looking good.”

“Thanks.” He swallowed, tucking his hands back into the pockets of his bomber jacket.  “I’m feeling better, too.”

After two stints in a methodone clinic, I would hope so. I hadn’t seen him in person since…nineteen-ninety…two? Three? There was an odd silence for a moment. 

“How’s Jody and Charise?”

“They’re good, actually.” He took out his wallet and presented photos of his own two children, each from a different wife. Jody, ten, dark and tall, was wielding a baseball bat, and Charise, seven, blonde and blue-eyed much like her dad, was dressed in a pageant gown. “I’m seeing them both this week.”

“Awesome.”

He exchanged a warm greeting with Season, then looked back at me, shaking his head, and smiling for the first time since I’d walked in. “You asshole.”
         “What?”

“You’ve still got all your damn hair.”

I laughed. “It just means I have less testosterone. Like I need less of that now that I’m over forty.”

Terry jabbed Season in the ribs. “Like he’s ever had that problem.”

“Oh, he’s hanging in there pretty good,” she joked.

“If I know Jon, he’s not just hanging!” An all-too-familiar voice echoed from the door of the rehearsal hall, and Randy Blackstone, guitar virtuoso extraordinaire, hobbled in, followed by a young scruffy-looking boy carrying two hardshell guitar cases in each hand. Actually, Randy wasn’t hobbling as much as he used to, having had yet another hip replacement surgery last year.

Still on camera, we all greeted him; an odd, brief shadow of concern streaking across my face as he kissed Season’s cheek. I hung my head for a moment, waiting for it to pass. It would never go away, no matter how much water went under the bridge…his brown hair was even shorter than Terry’s, almost like a crew cut, and he looked more fit than I think I’d ever seen him.

The camera crew raced in for the exchange between Randy and Steve, dying to catch the moment thunderbolts started flying. It was the first time singer and guitarist had spoken in almost fourteen years. Terry and I exchanged glances, feeling the tension, but it was pretty anti-climactic, the two sharing nothing more than the usual “it’s good to see you routine.”

Maybe they could work out their old issues later. Off-camera.

Randy turned to me and slapped his hand on my shoulder, giving me the same kind of look Steve just had.

“Keith Urban wants his hairdo back,” he quipped.

“Fuck you,” I joked.

“All the rest of us are popping Rograine and here you are.” Since he couldn’t smoke anymore, he pulled a pack of gum out of his shirt pocket and put a stick in his mouth.  “It’s not even getting thin on top.”

“Yeah, but it’s gray!” I complained. “I got this George Clooney thing going on.”

Season slid her hand over one side of my ass. “Like that’s a bad thing?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re digging that, aren’t you?”

She just grinned.