Page 12 of Finding Grey
SEVEN
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SEAN
Five years later
Char-grilled to perfection, the premium Black Angus steak was complemented by roasted garlic potatoes, steamed broccolini and baby carrots. As I placed the last perfectly plated meal in front of Benjamin Prince, my free hand itched to push the ageing jazz legend’s face into the red wine and mushroom sauce. “Would you like another glass of merlot?”
“Stuff tastes like piss,” Benjamin grumbled as he picked up his cutlery. “Bring me one of those fancy beers we had the other day.”
“Make that two.” The saxophonist at the other end of the table held a couple of fingers in the air rather than look up from his conversation with the band’s pianist. A few more drink orders followed, before I made my way out of the crowded dining room and back to the kitchen.
My father stood at the sink, scrubbing a saucepan. “How’s it going in there?”
“Great.” I forced a tight-lipped smile. “You know you’re not supposed to be straining yourself.” If I had my way, he’d be at home putting his feet up any time he wasn’t required next door in the recording studio. Taking care of the guests’ accommodation needs wasmyjob.
“It’s a pot, Sean.” He threw an exasperated look my way as he continued to scrub. “I can scrub a pot without keeling over.”
“Just don’t overdo it or Mum’s liable to kill us both.” Giving the drinks tray a quick wipe, I started loading it with bottles of imported beer and a fresh carafe of water.
“Benjamin and his boys haven’t given you too much trouble while they’ve been here?” he asked as he upturned the saucepan and placed it on the drainer.
“No. They’ve been fine.” There was no need to worry my father with Benjamin’s numerous complaints. Over the past two weeks, he’d whined about everything from the water pressure in the showers to the ripeness of the avocado I served at lunch. I’d dealt with some picky buggers in my time, but none who’d gotten snarky over the thread count of the fucking sheets. Thankfully, their stay at my father’s music retreat was about to come to an end. The whole sorry lot of them would be leaving first thing in the morning. I could only hope our nextartist in residencewould have better manners.
Musicians were impossible to predict, especially those successful enough to earn thecelebritytitle. Some were total sweethearts who appreciated everything I did to make their stay more pleasant. Others were indifferent to my presence. They came to the retreat to get work done and that’s where their interest lay. Deep in their creative process, they practically lived in the recording studio next door, only coming to the main house to shower, eat and sleep. They wanted me to do my job, so they could do theirs. I was happy to oblige them and stayed out of their way as much as possible.
Then, there were the fucktards, like Benjamin Prince and his gaggle of jazz fools. Musicians like Benjamin saw everyone who worked for them as minions there to serve their pleasure. If the man died choking on his own dick, I would consider it poetic justice.
“By the way,” my father said as he wiped his hands on a tea towel, “I spoke to an old friend today, Bri McCallister. She’s got a client who’s looking for somewhere quiet to work on material for a new album for the next couple of months. He’s having some trouble getting the old creative juices flowing and Bri thought this might be the perfect place. Get him away from Melbourne.” My father grinned in excitement. “This guy is big news. If he likes this place it could really putThe Bard’s Retreaton the map.”
“As long as he pays the bill on time, I don’t care who he is.” We needed all the cash we could get. “Who is this celebrity guest?” I asked as I started twisting caps off the beer bottles.
“Wait for it.” Pausing for effect, my father held his hands up as he made the announcement. “Dante Sinclair.”
My hand jerked, and the last bottle went skittering sideways across the counter. I managed to grab it before it could roll off the edge, but the damage had been done. The moment I twisted the cap off, it was sure to erupt in a fountain of foam.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” I set the bottle aside and grabbed a fresh one from the fridge, holding on with both hands so I wouldn’t drop the damned thing.
Dad frowned at my lack of enthusiasm. “Of course, it’s a good idea. The man is a household name worldwide.”
“He also happens to be a ticking time bomb.” Dante’s reputation had only grown over the last five years, progressing from spoiled brat to reckless narcissist. Wild parties. Drugs. Alcohol-fuelled rampages through hotel rooms. There’d even been rumours of him being in rehab a couple of times. “All I’m saying is, I don’t want to have to re-carpet the whole house like we did afterDoomed to Destructionstayed with us.” I shuddered at the memory. That band had truly lived up to their name.
His smile was pleasantly benign. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
No. It would not be fine. I was not fine with playing host to Dante Sinclair. After all the effort I’d gone through to evict him from my brain five years ago, there was no way I would let him back in.
One look at my father told me arguing was pointless. “You’ve already set it up, haven’t you?”
“Sure have,” he admitted. “He’ll be arriving late Sunday night.”
My eyes widened. Dante would arrive less than thirty-six hours after Benjamin’s group was due to leave. “I can’t have the house ready that quickly.”
“Your Mum and I will help. We’ll manage.”
I sighed, having run out of excuses. “He’s really that desperate to come here?” I asked with a sceptical frown.
“No.” Dad shook his head. “I think he’s just desperate to be somewhere other than where he is, and we were one of the few places in Brisbane available on short notice.” A sly smile appeared, and he looked pleased with himself. “And I may have called in an old favour from Bri to seal the deal. Think about it, Sean. How often do we rent this place out, withFull-Service, for two whole months to a man like DanteSinclair?”