Count Down

Chapter 1

chapter one

TREY

The sound of shoes squeaking against the tiled floor disturbs my tortured sleep. The door bangs shut and the squeaking grows even louder.

I groan and stuff a pillow above my head, smothering my face into the golden comforter.

Is it possible to suffocate only long enough for temporary unconsciousness?

“Get up,” Francis, our band’s thirty-something manager yanks the comforter and tosses it to the side.

I curl my body into a ball. The material of my jacket scratches against my face. Sometime this morning, I’d made my way into my hotel room and flopped onto the bed.

The white Armani shirt beneath the black sports jacket was a rousing success with my beautiful entertainer last night, I can assure you.

“Trey!”

I peer at his angry expression and shove a lock of hair from my eyes.

I’d grown out my mane since I was a punk kid drummer in Belize. The shaggy ‘do flops right back into my face. “Wow, Francis. Your lovely mug is just what I want to see first thing in the morning.” “Bag it, Johnson.” Francis rages.

I turn on my back and push myself upright, keeping my hands extended on the bed like stilts for my torso.

Our band manager is a tall, burly, no-nonsense Asian guy who used to work for Heartbeat Records as a Public Relations Director.

We stole him from the agency and now he’s our personal manager.

Francis is a cutthroat guy and he’s made room for us in the music industry, pushing more seasoned, more traditional, and more ‘black’ artists to the side to present us with enough wiggle room to do our thing.

And Francis does it all with a grim, placid expression. We have a strict business relationship with him.

To be honest, I don’t think Francis cares personally about any of us.

Second confession of the morning: out of the three of us, Francis hates me the most.

Normally, I banter with him, trying each time to knock back his witty comments with a sarcastic quip of my own.

Unfortunately, I’m suffering from a hangover so strong all I want to do is curl up in bed and dream about quiet things like fluffy baby chickens and mimes.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Francis shouts.

His loud voice is like a cymbal crashing right next to my ears. I wince and hold my head to stop the aching.

“No,” I sigh, since it seems that Francis is not going away until he speaks his due. “Please enlighten me.”

He slaps a magazine down near my hand. I crane my neck to read the words since the clanging in my cranium is reaching a frenzied crescendo.

I close my eyes for a second and when I open them, the words arrange themselves into their proper order.

“DUST, ASHES, AND PUKE”

I think the headline is funny, but one glance at Francis’ face and I figure that laughing would be the wrong move.

It may be racist of me to think this, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Francis turned out to be an undercover ninja.

I wouldn’t be surprised at all.

Francis picks up the magazine and taps at the smoky, grainy picture on the front.

Since I’m squinting my eyes and peering at the page, it sort of looks like me. But to be honest, it could be anybody.

Flipping the book open to the story matching the cover, Francis reads with barely restrained frustration.

“Last night Trey Johnson, drummer of acclaimed band ‘Dust and Ashes’, spent a night on the London town. Seen with two models on his arm, Johnson stumbled out of Luscious Night Club only to lose his chunks in the middle of the road.”

I wave away the accusation in his stare.

“That’s just a trash magazine. No one pays attention to it.”

Francis stones the magazine at me and I catch it in the middle of my chest.

“The American contract is heading for the tubes. If this kind of behavior continues, Johnson, I will make sure your band mates know that it’s you or their million dollar deal.”

With that parting sentiment of peace and joy, Francis storms out of the hotel room, slamming the door vehemently in his wake.

I groan and stretch toward the telephone on the nightstand. After ordering the largest cup of coffee available, I jump into the shower and turn the pipe to the warmest setting.

The water revives me. The banging in my head abates the longer I stand beneath the rain.

After I dress in a warm long-sleeved shirt and jeans pants, the coffee arrives and so do my friends.

Jace Kelly is a tall, blonde-haired and blue-eyed songwriter with the lyrics of an ancient poet and the voice of an angel.

He’s the closest thing to a celestial guardian that I’ve got, since me and the Guy Upstairs don’t really chill much anymore.

His wedding ring is one he flashes constantly to keep the girls at bay, but the fact that he’s a stable, committed guy often paints a brighter target on his back than he desires.

I turn my attention to the keyboardist behind him.

William Young is a giant of a man. People sometimes mistake the big guy for our body guard.

Will’s got a weird thing about girls.

He doesn’t like them touching him and until Izzy bounced into Jace’s and consequently all of our lives, having a conversation with him was like pulling teeth.

He’s gotten a lot chattier, which sucks for me because he’s the ‘father figure’ of the band and he always rags me about my lifestyle.

“I step out for one night and you get plastered over magazines, Trey?” Will’s deep voice is raspy and full of frustration.

The guys are dressed casually in long sleeved T-shirts and khaki pants.

“Hello to you too, Will. How was the orphanage?”

I don’t get the guy. He has a problem talking to grown women, but he’s a sucker for kids.

“It was good. We got the kids some instruments and taught them how to play. You would have enjoyed it if you had been there,” Jace says.

I sip my coffee and lead them to the settee where we all sink into the golden-colored chairs.

When those two tag-team me, the wisest thing to do is keep quiet and sit tight. Unfortunately, I don’t often take the high road.

“I gave a crapload of money to them. Ask Francis,” I fold my arms defiantly.

Will rolls his eyes and grunts. He’s an expert at grunting.

“Seriously, Trey.” Jace lowers his tone and talks calmly to me.

I’ve been best friends with that yahoo for years. I know when he’s trying to con me into something.

“What was up with the papers, man? You know how important this contract is for us.” We’ve been doing this reggae gig for years.

It started on the dusty streets of Belize City in my Mom and Dad’s cluttered garage.

Moved from the car port to the shaky platforms in low-down dives in the gang territories of Belize City.

Jace almost lost his life one night when a couple of thugs reminded us that our race was more of a problem than we’d thought.

Since our first contract with Roc-a-Reggae, we’ve been fighting to stay relevant.

Francis has maneuvered an alliance with Reggaepedia, an American label that’s interested in grass roots reggae artists.

This three-year contract will branch our new album into the stream of local shows and radio stations in the US.

We don’t need the money, but none of us want to stop when we’re this young.

“I know, man,” I shake my head. “I know. Do you think I wanted to be photographed?”

“If you didn’t give the paparazzi anything to capture then you wouldn’t look stupid on the cover of tabloids,” Will scolds.

“Hey!” I stand and immediately sit back down when my head insists that I’m not ready for any sudden movements yet. “You’re not the boss of me, Will.”

“Somebody needs to be because you’re obviously not up for the job.”

“Okay, okay,” Jace shoves his hand in the air and purses his lips. “This is ridiculous. Trey,” he stares me down.

“What?”

“We can’t keep getting this kind of bad press. You know what’s on the line here.” I lean back in the chair. “I do.”

“Guys,” Jace glances between the both of us. “I think we should cancel the studio time here.” “What?” I shoot upward, staggering on my feet as the room rights itself around me.

We’ve shelled out big bucks to get the best recording studio and studio manager in London for our next album.

“You can’t be serious!”

Will’s un-shocked face reveals that this statement was premeditated.

“Our studio in Belize can be outfitted for what we need. Reggaepedia asked for six months to make their final decision. We can have the album ready when they reply.”

“If they reply,” Will points out, searing his glare into my skull.

“They’ll reply,” I say.

“So what do you think?”

I huff. “Do I really have a choice?” “Trey, you always have a choice, man.” I roll my eyes.

Izzy’s been changing a lot of things about my friends and though I love her to death, I also fear her power.

Everything changes when Izzy Daniels Kelly enters the picture.

Jace found religion… oh I’m sorry, Jace became a citizen of ‘The Kingdom’. Yeah, they talk like that. It’s kind of creepy. “I guess if this is what you want to do.” Will stands and nods.

Jace comes over to my chair. “This will be good for you, man. You’ll see.”

“Bah,” I flip his hand away. “You’re just trying to get six months free and clear with Izzy.” Jace slaps me across the back of the head and then leaves the room. I sink into the chair.

I am so over this day.

The fluffy clouds outside my window disappear as the plane soars through the sky.

We’re flying first class. The guys ditched my idea of buying a private jet.

Apparently, it costs too much for maintenance, storage and gas. There are–apparently– more sound ways to invest our money.

Party poopers.

I pull down the shade blocking my seat from the light and slip my headphones out of my ears.

The best thing about coming to Belize is that people literally don’t care who you are unless you’re Beyoncè.

Dust and Ashes was nominated to win a Grammy for the best Reggae Album. Will, Jace, and I have been awarded at the

International World and Reggae Music Awards and played countless sold out venues.

But you won’t find many Belizeans who particularly care.

Isn’t there some phrase about a prophet being rejected in his own hometown?

I don’t mind. When I come to Belize, it’s just to chill with my family and hang out with my friends.

I try not to mess with the Belizean girls. They’re mighty feisty and since this is our home base, I’d constantly run into them at the grocery store, at the movie theatre, or at the casino.

Not the kind of life I’m about.

We step off first. As I walk into the briskly, hot breeze, I realize that I’ve been missing this weather.

Not all of England is as dark and rainy as London, but the capital has been particularly sorrowful for the past month and I’m a summer all year round kind of Caribbean boy.

The blue sky is cloudless overhead. I slip on my sunshades and walk down the steep stairs behind Big Will, whose lumbering figure casts the perfect shadow from the sun.

We breeze through customs without so much as a hiccup or autograph signing and wheel our luggage toward the exit doors.

“Welcome home, boys!” A shout rings from a crowd of ten people. I spot Izzy’s pretty face instantly.

Jace is a lucky man. I’ll give him that.

I see my parents in the throng and they immediately converge upon me, smelling of lime and body odor.

“Hey, mom. Hey, dad,” I give them both hugs, scrunching my nose as the scent overwhelms me. “Where’s Sophy?” “She’s in Cayo, studying at a free arts school there,” Dad says.

I nod, still gagging on the scent of sweat and decay.

“Mom, Dad,” I cringe. “What’s that smell?”

Mom steps back. Her brown hair is braided into a thick rope down her back. Her skin is light pink from recent sunburn.

My parents are very… different. Their preferred term is ‘free spirited’.

Whatever whim of the age is most popular is probably what they’ll practice until a more promising ‘spiritual experience’ comes along. “It’s our chakras. We’re keeping our bodies pure from all outside influences to clarify our energies.” I do not understand a word of that explanation.

“So… no deodorant?” I clip my nose.

“That’s right.” Mom smiles and Dad nods along with her. “Erica, Steven!”

We turn and face Mrs. Kelly. Jace’s mom is tall and sophisticated, dressed in a white print blouse and black pants.

Compared to my parents, she looks very put-together. I love my Mom and Dad but their behavior is kind of embarrassing.

“Yes, Emily?”

As she draws near, Mrs. Kelly doesn’t shirk back or scorn my Mom.

Which could either mean that she’s suffering from the flu and has lost her sense of smell or she’s simply gotten used to the scent of rotten vegetables.

“Would you both like to come over for a homecoming dinner?” “Will there be vegetarian platters?” Dad asks.

Mrs. Kelly looks taken aback. “Uh, I don’t think so, but I’m sure we can whip something up.” “Thank you. We’d love to join you,” Mom accepts.

“Great!” Mrs. Kelly gestures for us to join the rest of the gang.

Izzy and Jace are making out for the world to see near the line of baggage trolleys.

“Get a room!” I yell at them when I’ve walked a few paces downwind of my parents.

Izzy disengages her lips from Jace’s and sends me a cheerful wave.

“Hi, rockstar.”

“Ehem, it’s reggae-star,” I shake my head saucily at her and then bend over to accept the hug that she offers.

Izzy’s dark brown hair is straight about her shoulders. Her wide brown eyes are expressive so that I can always call her bluff in a game of poker.

She’s dressed in a black camisole and cut-off shorts that perfectly compliment her glowing brown skin.

“You ready to come back home?” Izzy returns to Jace’s embrace.

“Yeah,” I inhale the sweet scent of Belizean rice and beans coming from the nearby vendors. “I’m ready to come home.” And I mean every word.