Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
MARSHALL ADAMS – AKA, AMMO
Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles, California
I lean back into the booth and motion to Debra, one of my favorite bartenders, to bring me another beer and shot of Jägermeister, as I glance over at the door.
This is my happy spot. A family-run, Irish pub that’s been here for fifty years. They have fantastic bar food and twenty beers on tap.
I can walk here from my house, and stumble my way back home. Fucking love my life.
“Here ya go, Ammo.” Debra sets a pint of IPA in front of me and a rocks glass full of Jägermeister as I grin up at her.
“Thanks, Beautiful. You still married?” I wink, it’s an ongoing joke I have with her since her husband Dan is a roadie for my band, and a friend.
“Haven’t left him yet.” She gives me a saucy smile, then spins, walking back to the bar area. The crack of the balls making contact on the pool table is rather soothing, much like the loud laughter and chatter from the regulars who are lined up.
My eyes narrow as sunlight spills in the front door. A man dressed pretty much like me, save for his red hair, walks in.
I grin. It’s been a long time since Malcolm and I got into trouble. I set the beer down and reach for one of my fries, pushing the plate out of my way.
“Jesus, can you pick a seedier bar to be a regular in?” Malcolm says as he slides into the booth as Debra turns on the sound system, blasting AC/DC.
“This is my office, brother. I keep trying to buy it, they keep saying no.” Holding out my hand to fist bump, I continue, “Though, they did agree to put up a plaque when I die.” I motion with my thumb to the wall behind me. “Saying Ammo drank here.”
“Christ.” He snorts, taking out his phone from his back pocket, then motioning to Debra for a round.
I arch a brow at him. Clearly, he wants something. Malcolm and I were friends long before I joined The Stuffed Muffins. He manages some talented musicians, and I know he’s incredibly busy. That being said, I haven’t heard from him in over a year.
“You want food?” I grin at his flushed red face. He’s a red head, so when he gets excited or upset his face turns red.
“Nah. Listen to what I just sent you.” My phone instantly lights up as I bring my double shot of Jägermeister to my lips. He must really want something since he’s not bothering with small talk. Don’t get me wrong, I respect that. Nothing annoys me more than passive-aggressive ass kissing before someone finally gets to the point, but he’s not even trying to be casual.
“Why?” I shoot the entire glass, letting the numbing syrup slide down my throat, then hissing out, “That’ll put hair on your chest.”
“I can’t believe you’re still drinking that devil licorice.” He shakes his head, looking around the crowded bar, then back at me. “This is magic. Once you hear it, you’ll never be able to forget it.”
I set down my glass and smile at Debra, who’s carrying the entire bottle of Jägermeister and a beer for Malcolm.
“Hush…it’s just easier and saves me some steps,” she says as she sets down the chilled dark green bottle, then grabs my finished dinner plate.
“Behave.” Her eyes narrow on me, then at Malcolm, as she smirks walking back to the bar.
“Look, Malcolm. I love you, man, but I just got back into town. So before I listen to whatever you just dumped on my phone, what do you want?” Unscrewing the top of Jäger to pour him a shot and refill my own, I give him a pointed look.
He leans back into the booth as we stare at each other. “Fine. I want you to produce this album,” he states.
“Yeah…no, I’m hella busy.” I laugh.
“Listen.” He grabs his glass and shoots his Jägermeister. “Fucckk, this shit really is the devil’s brew.”
“Pussy.” Tossing mine back, I refill it again.
“Christ, the last time we drank a bottle of this shit, we wound up in Tijuana.”
“Yeah, that was a fun couple of days.” I chuckle, my mind instantly going to all the trouble we got into that weekend.
“Marshall?” he growls, and my eyes dart to his, his use of my real name snapping me out of my trip down memory lane.
“I need you to listen to it…then tell me you don’t get chills.” He taps his finger on my phone.
Sighing, I can’t stop myself and ask, “Who is it?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just listen and tell me what you think.”
“Interesting. Why doesn’t the infamous Malcolm want me to know who it is?” I lean back, the bottom of the old booth moving with me. Malcolm not telling me who it is is a bad sign. Producing an album is an intimate thing, it requires trust and respect, from all parties involved.