Free Deadly Night by Aiden James Page A

neighborhoods that border the less desirable locations.
    It might seem logical that our band would keep its rehearsal hangout in one of the nicer venues, maybe in the better sections of Madison and not nearby Inglewood. Especially with all of the expensive equipment involved…it would be risky otherwise.
    Well, the location is in Madison. But no, the building where my heavy metal band, Quagmire, rehearses is an old warehouse just off Gallatin Road. Anyone local would cringe a little, since the liabilities listed above surround us in abundance.
    So, why do we do it here? There are lots of good reasons, actually. Like the fact we can play as frigging loud and long as we like. And though the building looks really run down from outside, it’s pretty nice inside. The ac and heat work well, and the owners have let us build a soundstage and lay down some plush carpeting from where one of my bandmates works in the daytime. Not to mention the place is really secure, and would take the skills of a Navy Seal or some other special operative to break in.
    “ You’re lucky we heard the phone, Jimmy, or we would’ve gone ahead without your late ass!”
    Ricky Chamberlain, or better known as ‘RC’ in our little music world, was the first one to greet me. Co-founder of the band with me six years ago, he hails from Atlanta. Why in the hell he chose Nashville over L.A., Seattle, Phoenix, or even the Big Apple has always been a mystery to me. But I’m damned grateful he and I crossed paths.
    Yeah, he’s a little pissed with me, but he’ll get over it. He always does, and it’s not like he’s a little late now and then. 9:13 p.m., which ain’t bad considering I didn’t get out of south Nashville until almost nine o’clock. At least I called ahead to let em’ know.
    “ Is everybody here?” I asked, grabbing my bass out of the back seat before running after Ricky as he disappeared into the building.
    “ Yes.”
    I heard the echo of his voice and footsteps moving down the darkened corridor to our room, picturing his shoulder length wavy brown hair bouncing as his long strides carried him forward. Gangly in stature, he bore the classic rocker look, with chiseled Jim Morrison facial features. I’m not the only one who thinks he resembles the legendary Door’s front man, and I must say he takes full advantage of his looks and innate charm, charisma, or whatever the hell it is that keeps a steady stream of females coming and going in his life. It’s the only area we’re polar opposites, since I’ve always been a monogamous kind of guy.
    There are other differences, too, but very slight, since we’ve blended a bit over the years. I guess some folks would call that mutual respect, as with our favorite sports teams and such. Like I’ve acquired a taste for the Falcons and he keeps tabs on the Broncos. Even my interest in the paranormal has gradually become interesting to him as well. Now if I could just get the other dudes to buy in to ghostly investigations…. It’s my assumption that they all respect Fiona’s talent as a gifted psychic, since she’s done at least one reading for each member of the band.
    If they’re telling me the truth, and I have little reason to doubt them on this, she’s been quite accurate. Hell, everyone except our drummer has had her read for them a few times, and they’ve referred her to family members and friends, which speaks to some customer satisfaction. My daytime employer should be so lucky.
    Anyway, by the time I reached our rehearsal room, Ricky had already claimed his Strat and climbed onto the stage. Everyone else gathered their instruments, and Max Racine, our lead guitarist, pointed meanly for me to take my place next to our drummer, David Harris, who prefers the name “Mongo” .
    I removed my five-string fretless from its case and leaped up on stage to join everyone else, hoping I’m as graceful at our upcoming gig, set for the weekend after next. A party affair, but one of the