Chapter 1: NO STRINGS ATTACHED

STORY TITLE: NO STRINGS ATTACHED

Haunted by the past, can a legend & a single mom find love? 

Hope you enjoy the story.

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Alex POV

I stood at the doorway watching her. I don't like kids. I don't dislike them either, they simply don't exist in my day-to-day life so I don't really think about them much. But, something about the little girl was compelling. She was talking to a woman who was clearly her mother. They could have been twins, separated by 20 years and a few hundred dollars' worth of tattoos. The woman was shaking her head and the little girl was looking up at the acoustic guitar.

Walking over, I took it off the wall. "Hey, I'm Alex. Did you wanna see the guitar?"

The woman smiled but shook her head again. "Oh, no, thank you. She's just... Well, her uncle plays and she wants to. She, uh, gets excited."

"Honestly? It's more of a prop than anything else. She's welcome to fool around with it. Worst-case scenario, we'll re-string it."

"That's really kind, she'll be careful."

The girl was careful as she took it gently from my hands. Speaking over her shoulder, she addressed her mother. "Mom, I can talk for myself." She looked up at me. "Thanks! My uncle has electric guitars, but he said he'd teach me how to play one like this."

"That's great. Have you started yet?"

"No, he's sort of busy."

I smiled down at her. "I'm sure he'll find the time." I looked around and they were still setting up so we had some time. "Wanna try something real quick?"

She nodded her head. C Major was probably too difficult for her small hands, so I wracked my brain for something that would be workable for her. Maybe some simple open chords to shift up and down? We could just use three strings instead of all six and she'd at least get a feel for playing.

"Mister?"

I smiled. "Sorry. I was lost there for a second just thinking. You know 'Happy Birthday', right? Why don't we give that a try? Three chords should be doable and people have birthdays all the time, right?"

We worked through it as people around us set up the studio to help look like a precise, arranged photo was actually impromptu. They worked and left us alone and I enjoyed the joy in her eyes when she mastered something. Her mother looked both happy and concerned.

"Are we in their way? I don't want to get anyone in trouble."

Her mouth twitched a bit, her worried tone kind of endearing.

"Nah, it's fine."

"You work with these people?"

"Sort of." I looked down at the little girl. "So, you know 'Shake it Off'? The Taylor Swift song? Wanna try that?"

She was soaking everything up like a sponge. Her smile was contagious and some of the studio employees and photographers' assistants would smile along or pat her on the head, which was sort of obnoxious. She was a kid, not a pet.

We got through the whole song once and were trying it a second time when the star of the show arrived. He was the rock star of the moment and came in with the requisite rock star attitude. He was ignoring some people while berating others and had a bottle of Jack in his hand, wearing an 80's throwback leather jacket with no shirt.

The only thing that gave him any redemptive value is that he dropped everything when he saw the little girl.

"Uncle Jimmy!"

"Hey, there's my munchkin. You doing okay?"

"Yeah, Alex was showing me how to play guitar!"

"Was he?" He turned to me. "You Alex?"

I smiled up at him from the stool I was sitting on. "Yup."

"Well, Alex, you know who I am?" He didn't give me a chance to answer and just kept talking. "I'm Jimmy Reilly. Maybe you heard of me? Cover of Guitar Player? Three top 20's in the past 12 months? Why don't you go back to pushing pencils or a broom or whatever you do and I'll teach my niece about the guitar."

"Look, dude..."

"You deaf, Alex? I don't have time for a conversation. Want an autograph, see me as we're leaving. Pick up your little acoustic, get out and hope that you didn't get her started on any bad habits."

I looked at him for a minute before he continued.

"Should I be using sign language? Get the fuck out."

Shaking my head, I left. Sitting down in my office, I turned on my laptop. The studio was live and I could hear everything going on through my speakers. Big Mike was talking.

"Reilly, get in the control room."

"What?"

"Get in the control room or get the fuck out."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Co-owner of the studio. Leave or come talk to me in the control room."

A few seconds passed and I could hear them again, this time without the ambient noise.

"I didn't want to call you out in front of anyone and I'm gonna let you finish up, but you're not coming back. You're banned."

"You can't be serious. You're banning me? You think the label's going to let that happen?"

"Yeah, I do. You know why you're here? 'Cause we're famous. Fucking legendary. Everyone wants to record here and all the best have. You really think the label is going to back your play and have some sort of boycott or something? Get real."

"What, cause of some dick who shouldn't have been in there anyway? Whadda ya want? I'll give him an autograph, smooth it out. Not a problem."

"An autograph? You have any idea who that guy is? You're the flavor of the month. Six months from now there'll be another you. Two years from now no one'll remember your name. That guy you were going off on is Alex Franzetti. Fingers Franzetti. He's been one of the greatest guitarists in the world for three decades. Fuck, you're not even talented enough to know how good he actually is. He's also my business partner. You're done. Enjoy the day, cause you're not coming back."

Jimmy started cursing and I heard a door slam. Picking up my phone, I called Big Mike.

He answered and immediately started speaking. "Hey, it's handled."

"Yeah, I heard. Do me a favor. Give the girl the acoustic. Not her fault her uncle's a douche."

"You got it."

I saw the girl and her mother in the parking lot through my office window shortly after. They got in their car and were leaving when the car stopped abruptly near the building. She must have seen me through the window and made her mother stop, as she bolted from the car, guitar in hand and ran over the grass and through some thigh-high bushes and banged on the window.

She mouthed "Thank you!" and hugged the guitar to her chest.

Smiling, I mouthed back "Welcome."

Her mother waved as the girl was more cautious in pushing past the bushes and headed back to the car. She was a beautiful woman. Jimmy was an ass, but he seemed to care about his niece and his sister was hot, if way too young.

Yeah, her youth and my age didn't stop me from noticing that she wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

Sitting back in my chair, I started typing up my article for Guitar Player. I wrote for them under the name Curt Llama, reviewing new albums, talking about the state of the industry or pretty much writing anything that caught my interest. I decided to write about supposed prodigies who cared more about showmanship than craft. Pulling out examples of flash-in-the-pans who were supposed to be the next wunderkinds, it was pretty clear that I was referring to Jimmy.

As I wrote I could hear him getting progressively louder. I guessed that Big Mike's refusal to kiss his ass hadn't gone over well. I left the link on and listened in. He was going off on everyone that might listen and his people were trying to placate him without doing or saying anything that would irritate my partner. The simple truth is that we were bigger than Jimmy was.

Being located in Pueblo, we were out of the limelight of LA or NY. For bands or artists that wanted to remove themselves from distractions and temptations, we were exactly what they needed. We garnered a reputation as the 'go-to' studio for bands wanting to create their masterpiece.

Jimmy wasn't interested in producing a masterpiece, or maybe he was stupid enough to believe that he had. Living in Pueblo, his photoshoot was the result of happenstance and convenience. Legendary studio and an up-and-coming artist that could roll out of bed and be here in half an hour? It wrote itself.

So, there I was typing while he was ranting and the poor photographer tried to get some usable shots. Eventually, Jimmy must have found a guitar. He told everyone he was going to just riff and play whatever popped into his head 'cause he was so incredibly creative. He'd barely begun playing when I realized it was "Caprici di Diablo" by Yngwie Malmsteen. Not the easiest song to play, but not insanely difficult either. I was pretty sure he was directing the music my way, throwing down the gauntlet however he could.

Laughing, I just continued to write. When he was done, he started yelling again. Big Mike had finally hit his limit and I could hear him throwing everyone out. Picking up the phone, I called our security guys and had them help clear out Jimmy and his sycophants. Big Mike was a tough, crotchety son of a bitch, but he was in his early sixties.

Jimmy was stumbling towards his limo, no longer clutching the bottle of Jack, when he saw me through the window. He flipped me the double bird and walked off. His niece was much nicer.

When I was done with the article, I plugged my guitar into the audio interface, played "Caprici di Diablo" and then got his personal email from someone at his label. I sent him the recording with the following message:

Is that what you were going for? Keep practicing.