1 Chapter 1
1
Jest had almost forgotten his real name. It had been that long since he’d used it. Maybe he’d done a little too much coke and certainly way too much cheap whiskey, although he was off that stuff now. Oh, he still wore his spiked hair in rainbow colors and still played drums like a mad man, but gradually he’d gotten clean, gone straight. Well, as straight as a guy could be who’d known he was gay since he was twelve.
Marcus Jestyn Ballard III was much more name than he needed these days. He’d lived by his wits and will from the time his parents discovered him in bed with a buddy and threw his sixteen-year-old ass out to fend for himself. He’d done a lot of crazy things to survive before fate—or fortune—led him to Tom Holden and his rag-tag band.
It had happened at a low-end bar and grill in Atlanta the night Swamp Rats did their first gig there. Jest had been washing dishes in the place for about ten nights. Bussing and washing in a joint like Bubba’s Beef and Beer was about as low as you could go and still call it a job, although he’d done worse. He’d quickly discovered being party boy for the night to anyone who had a dollar or two just to get food to survive sucked a lot worse than any job. Even without skills and references, he wasn’t afraid of work.
Once he’d dreamed of being a drummer in a big name band. He’d played in middle school and two years of high school before he left home. Even if everyone said he was good, nobody wanted to hire a skinny, scruffy teenager, not even groups barely making it. Tom’s crew was one short step above that bottom rung.
Caught up with bussing/washing/drying the glassware and dishes as business slowed just before the night’s live music began, Jest heard a commotion in the hallway behind the makeshift stage in the bar. Someone was yelling and cussing. He could only make out a few words, among them “drummer,” “late again,” “stoned,” “out of my fucking mind” and a disjointed string of very colorful profanity. Curious, he stuck his head around the corner. A lanky man in worn denims holding a beautiful black Telecaster was in full rant.
“We can’t fuckin’ do a gig worth hog shit if we haven’t got a drummer. Where’s that worthless turd tonight?”
No one had an answer. That’s when Jest got the wildest idea he’d had in donkey’s years. “Need a drummer? If you’ve got the drums, I can play ‘em.”
The tall, dark-haired guitarist swiveled on his worn cowboy boots and shot Jest a sharp glare. “You? You really play drums?”
“Damn straight,” Jest declared, with way more confidence than he felt. “I’m just—Well, kinda between gigs right now.”
“Humph. Let’s hear what you can do.” The man waved at the partly assembled drum set and hit a couple of chords on his guitar before he launched into a Creedence standard. Jest dropped into a folding chair and reached for the sticks. For a few seconds, his heart stopped. Then he felt the beat, picked it up and began to play. He played his soul out, scared to believe this was not just some weird, dope-fed hallucination. Afraid to hope, yet daring to dream, he pounded away.
When the piece ended, the tall man looked at him with a new respect. “No shit. You can play. Awright, I hope you pick up most songs as fast as you did this one, or you know a shitload by heart. I’ll give you a chance tonight. Not that I have a choice. Still, you’re way fucking better than nothing.”
That was how it began. Swamp Rats struggled, traveled, barely hung on when Tom Holden got called up in the National Guard and went to the sand box, but they kept going. By the time Tom got back, they’d settled in Las Vegas and had found a couple of regular bars to play in. They lived out of an old bus for a while…the one that broke down just when they hit Sin City. They’d lost some members and gained some more. Through it all, Jest stayed with them.
Once back, Tom renamed the group Taken By Storm and from then on, things got better.
They cut a record, they opened for a couple of big name acts, and they gained an amazing chick singer who put the cherry on their sundae. Stormy Alcott had been a cross- country trucker before she picked Tom up one night when he was coming back from his tour overseas, trying to catch up with his old band. She sang like a whiskey-voiced angel and provided just what the band needed
The rest, as the saying goes, was history. They’d gone full country now instead of the swamp rock mix they’d started with. Jest didn’t care. So long as he could beat those drums, he was happy. Life could only get a little better—if the right guy came along and they hooked up. He didn’t think that was going to happen, not really, but he told himself he’d be okay anyway.
