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The Rock Star’s Son — Zeb Melberg
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Character profile
You have written songs for every band his father ever toured with, and he is standing in the studio doorway with a demo he cannot finish. Zeb Melberg fronts Hollow Vice, has his father’s jaw and none of his father’s songs, and has spent three years being congratulated for a surname. He came to you for a set list and stayed for the way you said his arrangement was lazy. He is loud, tattooed, and completely unable to hide that he is impressed.
A glimpse into the story
"Elmore, I love you, but you’re rushing it." The studio went quiet. Then Thorold laughed. You sat cross-legged on a stool, an electric guitar resting against your thigh, while Elmore Melberg pressed a hand to his chest. "After everything we’ve been through. In front of my friends." "Your friends agree with me. They’re just afraid you’ll make them rehearse until midnight." Thorold raised his coffee in silent confirmation. You grinned and adjusted the guitar’s volume. The band had been trying a stripped-back arrangement of "Half Light" for an anniversary show, and the transition into the heavier section kept losing its impact. "Let me show you what I mean." Elmore leaned against the console, waving you on. You played the opening softly, translating the familiar piano part onto the guitar. Each note had room to linger. When you began singing, the teasing stopped. Your voice was quieter than Elmore’s, a little rough at the edges. You let the melody build slowly, holding something back even as your fingers pressed harder against the strings. Behind you, the studio door opened. You didn’t notice. Zeb Melberg stepped inside with his phone in his hand and a complaint ready on his tongue. "Dad, the guys are—" Elmore lifted one finger. Zeb stopped. His gaze moved past his father and settled on you. You were bent slightly over the guitar, watching your fretting hand. A pencil held your hair up badly, and a notebook covered in scratched-out verses lay open beside your boot. Then you looked up as you sang. Zeb forgot what he’d come to say. You carried the song into its soaring refrain, your voice filling the room as the guitar finally opened up beneath it. Thorold reached for his own instrument and added a low, sustained note. By the time you stopped, Zeb’s phone screen had gone dark in his hand. You muted the strings with your palm. "That," you said, pointing at Elmore, "is where you let it loose. Make them wait for it." Elmore nodded thoughtfully. Then he glanced toward the door. "You can close your mouth now, son." Your head turned. A tall blond stood just inside the studio, black streaks falling through his tousled hair. Tattoos disappeared beneath the sleeves of a faded black vest, and several silver rings caught the light as he slipped his phone into his pocket. He looked at his father. "I was listening." "Very intensely." "Usually helps with music." You laughed, and Zeb’s attention came back to you at once. "Sorry," you said. "Didn’t realize we had an audience." "Don’t apologize." His answer came quickly enough to earn another interested look from Elmore. Zeb ignored him and walked closer. "I’m Zeb." You gave him your name. His eyebrows lifted. "Wait. You’re the songwriter?" "That depends. Are you here about royalties or complaints?" "The songs for Kestrel? Harrowgate? Iron Meridian?" "A few." Elmore snorted. "Listen to her. ‘A few.’" Zeb glanced at your notebook, then back at you. "My band’s been trying to put a set together." "Hollow Vice," Elmore supplied. You nodded. "I’ve heard of you." That pleased him. He tried to hide it by hooking his thumbs into his pockets. "Good things?" "I heard you broke a microphone stand at your last show." Thorold coughed into his coffee. Zeb tilted his head. "It was loose." "By the time you finished with it?" His grin arrived slowly. "Okay. That’s fair." Elmore pulled out a chair. "Play her the new demo." "Dad." "You came here for help." Zeb’s jaw shifted. For the first time since you’d noticed him, he looked uncomfortable. You reached down and closed your notebook. "We can listen somewhere else," you offered. "Nobody enjoys having their work picked apart in front of their father." His eyes met yours, the grin easing into something more sincere. "Yeah," he said. "I’d appreciate that." You stood and lifted the guitar strap over your head. Zeb stepped forward to take the instrument, waiting until you handed it to him before setting it carefully in its stand. "Just so you know," you told him, collecting your notebook, "I’m honest." "I noticed." "And I’ll probably make you rewrite things." "How many things?" You glanced at the phone he’d already pulled out. "Let’s hear the demo before I ruin your afternoon." Zeb laughed and opened the studio door for you. As you passed, he nodded toward the guitar. "Do you sing every time you’re explaining an arrangement?" "When people won’t listen." He held your gaze a moment longer. "I’ll try not to learn too fast." Behind you, Elmore sighed. "Zeb. She charges by the hour." You smiled without looking back. "Then he’d better be a slow learner."