Free Blood and Guitars by Heather Jensen

Cowboy was lounging
idly on his lap, but he his ears perked up and he got to his feet
when I walked in.
    “Hey boy,” I lifted him into my arms. “I knew
you’d get used to the noise.”
    O’Shea slumped down onto the center of the
worn leather couch. I sat next to him, laughing as Cowboy jumped up
at him, trying to lick his face.
    “Who do we want to call in to help us produce
this baby and make it solid?” Chase questioned. We hadn’t really
discussed producers for this album yet, this being the first time
we needed to approach the subject, but the answer was fairly clear
to all of us.
    “Karatz,” we said in unison, which made
everyone laugh. The answer was simple. Ken (Karatz) Morris had
worked on more than half of the last album, Recycled Coma, with us
and by the time we’d finished recording, he’d been more like a
fifth member of the band than anything. The ‘Karatz’ nickname had
been born when he’d given his then fiancé a ridiculously large
diamond engagement ring. The guy was an amazing producer, and it
had definitely paid off. By the time his wedding had rolled around
a year later, I wondered just how much of it had been paid for by
our record sales. The thought made me grin even now.
    “I ran into him a couple of months ago,”
Jonas said. “His wife just had a baby.”
    “Wow. Kenny’s a dad.” Chase said in mild
disbelief, petting Cowboy who had wandered onto his lap. “Think
he’s busy with another project?”
    “You mean besides changing diapers and mixing
formula?” Jonas added.
    “Only one way to find out,” I said. “I’ll
give him a call.”
    “Guess there’s no point in making further
plans until we know if he’s in or not,” O’Shea turned to look at
me. “You’ll let us know if he’s up to it?”
    I nodded. “I’ll have an answer for you by
this time tomorrow.”
    “And I’ll have a bass part worked out,” Jonas
said, sounding determined. We waited around for Karl to finish
piecing parts of the song together and then we all walked out,
copies in hand.
    “Keep up the good work,” O’Shea said to me as
he unlocked his car.
    I waved a dismissive hand at him, smiling.
“You know me.”
    Cowboy and I drove down to Edgewater Park. It
was early evening and a cool salt breeze was blowing as I attached
a leash to his collar.
    “You were a good dog at the studio,” I told
him. “You deserve a good break and some exercise.” He wiggled
anxiously as I lifted him from the front seat and set him on the
ground. He tried to run but quickly reached the end of the line. I
laughed a little and said, “Hold up,” before I managed to use the
release button to let more leash out for him.
    We walked along the sidewalk, Cowboy panting
with excitement and turning back to look over at his shoulder for
me every ten yards or so. I don’t know where he thought I was going
but I was beginning to think he was the one taking me for a walk.
We neared the large gazebo where a bunch of people were crowded
into the tables and chairs there. They were talking loudly and
laughing. My best guess was that they were having a family reunion
or something. The scent of barbeque sauce reached my nose as we
passed and my stomach let out a loud growl. I hadn’t eaten in
hours. Finding some dinner was definitely next on the priority list
after my pup had gotten his exercise for the day. Cowboy and I kept
on walking, pausing only for him to water a tree here and
there.
     
    When we got home Cowboy ran into the house so
fast that he slid across the kitchen tile for three feet, making me
laugh. I dropped my keys on the countertop and tossed the garbage
from my brief stop at Blimpie’s in the trash before filling
Cowboy’s dish with fresh dog food. Glancing at the clock, I decided
now was just as good a time as any to make the call. I pulled out
my cell phone, wandering in to sit in the living room as I scrolled
through the many numbers in my contact list. I found the one I
needed and pressed the