Just a Crush

by Tabatha Kiss

  I stop near the front and pat our driver on the back, the hardest working man in the band if you want my opinion. “Thanks, Mac,” I tell him.

  “See you next time, Botsford,” he grunts.

  I smile and look at Bronson in the seat behind him. His head lies sprawled back along the headrest, mouth agape and snoring loudly.

  “Hey, Bronson,” I say. Nothing. “Bronson. Bronson. Yo, Bronson.”

  The others laugh as I tap his forehead but he’s out.

  “Eh, I’ll catch you later, man,” I say, giving the rest of the bus a final wave. “Goodnight, guys.”

  “Bye, Jonah!”

  I step off the bus with my duffel slouched over one shoulder. The door closes behind me and I turn my head up as my eyes climb the thirty stories to the top of the tower once again.

  Home sweet home.

  I walk inside with my hood up and my head down. It’s the middle of the night but that doesn’t mean I won’t be recognized. Especially in a building with my name on it.

  Fortunately, the place seems mostly deserted. There are only a few people scattered throughout the golden lobby, lounging in chairs or stumbling out of the bar or restaurant, either too tired or too wasted to notice I’m even here.

  I pass right by the empty front desk and curl around it toward the bar on the far side instead.

  Please let it still be open.

  I wince as I notice the chairs stacked up on top of the tables but the rope isn’t up yet. I continue forward, catching sight of the man in jeans and a tight, white t-shirt doing all the chair stacking.

  “Hey, Doc,” I greet.

  He spins around and I lower my hood. “Jonah!” he greets me with a grin as he props the last chair on top of the table.

  I drop my duffel to the floor and hop onto a stool at the bar. “Did I miss last call?” I ask.

  He checks his watch as he wanders behind the counter. “Two minutes to spare but I’d serve you either way. What’ll you have?”

  “Just a beer is fine. Whatever you’ve got handy. Thank you.”

  “Easy clean-up. Thank you,” he says.

  I chuckle as he pops a cap off and sets the bottle down in front of me.

  “You just get in?” he asks.

  “Yeah. We played our last show in LA tonight, then I grabbed a burger with Hayden, and now I’m here.”

  “Oh, yeah? How’s he doing?”

  I take a quick sip. “He’s... happy.”

  Doc’s nose turns up. “Weird.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.”

  “Good for him.”

  “What’s been going on back here?” I ask, filling my belly with my ice cold drink. “Have I missed anything exciting?”

  Doc grabs a dish towel and runs it along the bar. “Not really. Been a boring time overall with all the Botsford boys out of the house.”

  “Graham and Jen still in Canada?” I ask.

  “And Ira moved off-site with Towel Girl. It’s been real quiet lately.”

  “Well...” I take a drink, “I might not be around for too long either. Got another gig in a week.”

  He squints. “But your tour just ended.”

  “Yeah, apparently not.”

  “And you have another gig already?”

  “According to Jordan, forward momentum is more important than sleeping,” I say.

  “Burnout’s a bitch, though,” he says.

  I nod, feeling it. “Yes, it is.”

  “You should tell that manager of yours that. Or better yet, I’ll tell her. I am your family physician. A note from me would go a long way.”

  I laugh. “I might take you up on that.”

  “Just lemme know.”

  I pour the last of my beer down my throat and set it down, along with a few crumpled dollars from my pocket. “I’m gonna go to bed. Still need to check into my room.”

  Doc swipes the empty bottle and cash off the bar. “Take care, man.”

  “You, too.”

  I grab my duffel and make my way toward the lobby. It’s even emptier now than it was before. Busy traffic passes by the front windows outside, lighting up the Las Vegas Strip behind me as I walk toward the front desk.

  As I get closer to the counter, a voice touches my ears. She’s a little off-key — okay, a lot off-key — but it’s the lyrics more than anything that catch my attention.

  “Down down baby, all the way

  Down down baby, whadya say?”

  I wrote that.

  She’s singing one of my songs.

  I stop in front of the desk and pause, craning my neck forward to find its source somewhere behind it.

  A young woman sits cross-legged on the floor with her back to me. She holds a dust cloth in her hand and a bottle of cleaner in the other, gently wiping off the wooden shelves as she quietly belts out the familiar song.

  “The lights are low

  and the time is right.”

  I smile to myself and fold my arms on the counter. Based on the shoulder-length red hair, I already know this is Marla, the night desk girl. She doesn’t talk much, at least not to me, so hearing her sing is little... mesmerizing.

  “Down down baby—”

  “We’ll go all night!” I cut in and finish the line with her.

  Marla instantly goes silent before the line is over and her head spins around so fast I think it might fall off. She stares at me, her chin dropping wide open as she realizes who I am.

  “Uh…” she squeaks. “I…”

  “Hey, Marla,” I greet.

  She swallows hard. “H-h-hey,” she stutters.

  “That’s an old song.”

  She scurries off the floor and stands on her short, wobbly legs. “Yeah, well, I know, I, uh... it’s still one of my favorites, so...”

  “It’s one of mine, too.”

  Her head stays down, beady little eyes barely looking at me between her blushing face and fire-red bangs.

  “I need to check in,” I say.

  Her throat clears. “Right. Yeah, uh...” She tosses the rag and bottle away beneath the counter before smoothing out her blue blazer. “Of course, sure.”

  I fiddle in my jeans pockets for my wallet as she stands in front of her terminal. Her hands hover on the keyboard in front of her but she doesn’t tap any keys for the longest time. A little shock wears off after a bit and the Botsford employee training kicks in.

  “Just need to swipe a credit card for the room and you should be good to go,... Mr. Botsford.”

  “Eh, Mr. B’s the big guy,” I say as I set my card down. “Jonah’s fine.”

  She smiles politely. “Jo-nah,” she repeats, her voice soft and low.

  I stand still and watch her work, silently admiring her seamless shift into professionalism but her full cheeks stay lit up bright red.

  I smirk. “You have a nice voice,” I say.

  Her smile deepens, bringing out a few dimples on her chin. “Thank you,” she says as she quickly turns toward the printer behind her.

  She gathers the contract and the room keycard and sets them down in front of me. “Just sign here, please,” she says.

  “Can I get a pen?”

  “Uh...” She fidgets for a moment before grabbing one from the cup directly beside her. “Here.”

  I take it and sign the line on the bottom. “Thanks again, Marla.”

  “Enjoy your stay, Mr...” The edges of her mouth twitch. “Jonah.”

  I flash her one last smile, enjoying the rush of blood in her cheeks as I turn away. With my room key in hand and my ego firmly stroked, I walk to the golden elevators across the lobby.

  “Down down baby,” I sing to myself, purposefully loud enough for her to hear across the empty lobby. “Down down baby with red lips, a red skirt—”

  I tap the call button and the elevator doors open. I step on, hit 25, and glance back at Marla. Her face instantly turns down, her lips pressed together in a failed attempt to hide her smile.

  “—and bright red
knees,” I finish as the doors close.

  Two

  Jonah

  A loud rattling noise jolts me out of my sleep. I groan loudly, hoping to quell the bastard sound, but it continues on anyway.

  Vrrr. Vrrr. Vrrr.

  After a few moments of semi-consciousness, my brain puts two-and-two together and I realize it’s just my phone.

  I extend my arm toward the bedside table and knock my knuckles against the bedpost instead.

  “Dammit,” I say, cringing as a light pain fires up my wrist.

  I raise my head off the pillow and look forward to aim my hand toward the rattling phone.

  Mom, the screen reads, flashing a smiling photo of the two of us from earlier this summer.

  I hit accept.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say after tapping speakerphone and letting it slip back onto the table.

  “Hello, my fourth-born,” she says, her velvet voice loud and sharp. “Where are you?”

  “I’m asleep.”

  “Asleep where?”

  “In my bed.”

  “No,” she says. “In fact, I’m standing outside your bedroom right this moment and you are not in your bed.”

  I roll over onto my back. “I’m in my bed at the hotel,” I explain.

  “Why are you at the hotel? I thought you were going to be staying here.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No, I didn’t. I said I’d be in town.”

  “Oh, I see. So, my house is a good enough place for your manager to drop off your instruments and giant amps and whatnot but not good enough for you to stay in. Am I understanding this correctly?”

  “Mom…” I choose my words carefully. “I just needed a break.”

  “A break? From me?”

  Not carefully enough.

  “I didn’t say that, Mom. You know not you.”

  She drops the sharpness. “From the band?”

  “From the band,” I repeat. “From the world and people and pretty much everything for a little while.”

  “Jordan mentioned something about you leaving. Are you leaving the band?”

  I sigh hard. “I’m not leaving the band. Since when is taking a little vacation to unwind leaving the band?”

  “Well, I figured it was just another one of her dramatic meltdowns but I wanted to check with you first. It’s not true?”

  “No. It’s not true.”

  “Would you like me to talk to her?” she offers.

  “No, Mom.” I laugh. “I’m twenty-four years old. I don’t need you talking to my boss, all right? I’ll take care of it.”

  “Good. And when you’re finished being manly and you come over to pick up your guitar taking up space in my house once again, we’ll have dinner.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  “When?” she asks.

  I rub my tired eyes. “When what?”

  “When should I be looking forward to you looking forward to coming over to get your guitar and having dinner with me?”

  “I… don’t know. Sometime this week.”

  “Can you narrow that down? I’m a very busy woman.”

  I hesitate. “… Wednesday?”

  “Excellent! Wednesday. I’ll see you at seven. Arrive hungry.”

  “Okay, I’ll—”

  She hangs up and I grunt with fatigue. There’s nothing in this world more exhausting than keeping up in a conversation with Fiona Botsford.

  I roll back over onto my stomach and grab the nearest pillow, quickly cuddling it against my chest for comfort. I’m not sure what time it is nor do I care enough to check. Today is Sunday. The day of rest, relaxation, and—

  “Housekeeping!”

  A card slides into my door.

  —and forgetting to put up the DO NOT DISTURB sign.

  My door swings open and a cart full of fresh towels and cleaning supplies plows through the doorway. I prop up on my elbows and stare at the blonde girl shoving the cart in, her voice familiar enough for me to get away with my angry sneer.

  Carly flicks on the light and I squint as my retinas burn.

  “Oh. Hi, Jonah,” she greets with a grin. “Did I wake you?”

  “No,” I murmur.

  “Cool.” Her eyes roam, professionally-trained to focus on certain problem-areas around the room. “Did someone already get this room?”

  “No.”

  “Looks pretty neat.”

  “I went right to bed when I got here last night,” I explain. “Didn’t touch anything.”

  “Ah.” She nods as she grabs a few pillow chocolates off her cart. “Well, can I chill for a minute then? Still recovering from this week’s leg day.”

  I raise a passive hand. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Thank you.” She plops into the armchair by the window and sighs. “When did you get in last night?” she asks, gently rolling her ankles.

  “Uh.” I think harder than necessary. “Three? Four?”

  “You still on tour?”

  “No, it’s over.”

  “Getting some good rest then?”

  “Trying to, yeah.”

  She snorts. “You want me to leave? Or do you want me to stay and… dirty the room up a little?”

  I raise my head and study her passive attempt at seduction through sleepy eyes. “I believe you have me confused with Hayden,” I say.

  Her eyes roll. “Don’t insult me, Baby Botsford.”

  “Don’t pretend you suddenly have standards, Carly.”

  She tosses a chocolate at my face but I tilt my head just in time for it to hit my pillow instead. “We missed you around here,” she says, amused and not at all offended by my quip. “You staying for a while?”

  I grab the chocolate and set it on the bedside table for later. “Thinking about it,” I answer, not caring enough to lavish her with the details.

  “Well, let me know if you want some company. I have some friends who would be honored to suck your dick.”

  I laugh and make air-quotes as she stands up. “Friends.”

  Carly shoves her cart toward the door, her devious smile twitching up her cheek.

  Hey,” I say, “put out the piss off sign for me, would you?”

  She nods. “Will do. Bye, Jo.”

  “Thanks. Bye, Carly.”

  As the door latches behind her, I listen for the gentle schlook of the sign slipping onto the outer knob before plummeting back down onto my pillow.

  Now, assuming the world is done interrupting me, let’s try and get some fucking sleep—

  My phone vibrates again.

  Goddammit.

  This time, it’s a text message from Knox.

  beer bronson bar tuesday

  Short and simple. I nod and fire a text right back.

  k

  I shove my phone away and it slips off the bed onto the carpet.

  Good.

  What rhymes with before?

  I stare out my window at the Las Vegas Strip down below. It’s shortly before nine PM now and I wish I could say I spent the entire day in a coma but alas, I cannot.

  I crawled out of bed a few hours ago, my stomach screaming at me for sustenance. After a quick dinner of a burger and fries from room service, I settled down here at the table by the window with my notebook and a pencil to get some work done.

  Music, motherfucker.

  Do you write it?

  Apparently not.

  Bore. Chore. Lore. Schlore. Schlore?

  Now I’m just making shit up.

  I toss the notebook down and shove a cold fry into my mouth. This isn’t working. Maybe I’m trying too hard; trying to force something that should come out naturally. I need a change of venue, somewhere I can sit down, zone out, and let the world pass through me.

  And there’s no better spot for that than a Botsford Plaza Hotel lobby.

  I grab my notebook, throw on my hoodie, and bolt out into the hallway. The 25th floor seems mostly deserted but that won’t
be the same downstairs.

  I hop onto the elevator and travel down to the lobby. As expected, the place is vibrant with activity, mostly young folks getting ready for a long night out on the Strip. Perfect. No shortage of inspiration to be found amongst mini skirts and Gucci heels.

  I sit down on one of the empty blue loungers near the far side of the lobby and watch.

  Dozens pass me by in minutes, all immersed in their own little worlds without noticing I’m here. People-watching is a truly wonderful practice which admittedly sounds a little voyeuristic but hey — it works. There are a hundred stories to be told in a single lingering glance between friends or a casual brush of the hand between strangers. Yes, people-watching. Trusted and refined by artists for millennia.

  It’s just not doing a damn thing for me tonight apparently.

  I sigh loudly and sink a bit deeper into my chair, eyes constantly leaping from one face to the next, trying to catch something — anything — that’ll inspire a word. A phrase. A gut-wrenching visual image. I’ll take anything if it means I have something to deliver at this band meeting on Friday.

  Somewhere in the haze of golden nothingness, I spot a wave of red hair.

  Marla.

  She stands behind the counter, just barely visible between two men in front of it but that shade of red is hard not to notice. Her face is bright with a professional smile, though the ends of it dip a little more with each passing second.

  She’s getting uncomfortable.

  I stand up and slowly make my way over there.

  “What are you, some kind of an idiot?”

  “Sir, it’s against company policy.”

  “Listen, lady, I’m a world traveler, mmkay? I stay at these Plazas all the time. I’ve never once had this issue.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot book this room for you with this credit card without the proper authorization form.”

  I pause behind them, staying light on my feet in case I have to intervene, though Marla seems to be holding her own here.

  “It’s our boss’ card,” the man on the left argues. “We’re here for work.”

  Marla nods. “Then, he’ll need to provide an authorization form that allows you to use his card.”

  The one of the right slaps the counter. “That’s bullshit!”

  “That’s company policy,” she says without skipping a beat.