by Max Henry
“We can start here.” I will myself forward and drop my tote onto a soft leather sofa. “You can show me around afterward if you want; I’m not taking photos.” Although, I could have a few for the personal collection. Huh.
“Suit yourself.” He drops into a wide, armless chair. Not quite a chaise lounge in length, but the same idea. “How was the flight?”
I swear to God, with the way that man stretches out like a cat, I forgot I flew in for a moment there. “Yeah. Fine.” I busy myself with my bag. “First class was nice. Thanks.” Although what I look in here for, I don’t know. Notepad, Jeanie. Get your fucking notepad out.
He was in my apartment. Sitting down to talk with this guy isn’t anything new, so why the hell do I feel so out of sorts? I flick open a new page and stare at the blank lines. It’s when the jackass chuckles under his breath that I realize I don’t have a pen. For the love of God.
“Are you sure today is a good day to do this?” Toby props both arms behind his head. The asshole does it on purpose; I damn well know it.
“As good as any.” My head clears long enough for me to remember I prepped for this last night, and I flick back a page to my list of possible topics. “So, since you outlined what’s off-limits last time we spoke, I jotted down a few things to run by you.”
I also spent most nights thinking about the guy, which is probably the reason for my current state of disarray. After the news from Devon, I’ve needed something—anything—to make me feel better. Musing over Dark Tide’s enigmatic drummer seemed as good of a distraction as any.
Toby leans forward, holding out one hand to wiggle his fingers for the notepad. I get stuck staring at the text on his forearm before relenting and giving him my pages.
“What does that mean?” I gesture to the tattoo with my chin.
“Si vis amari, ama.” The words flow from his tongue with ease. “If you wish to be loved, love.” He settles back in the seat; knees bent to rest my notepad against while he reads the subjects that I’d bookended with question marks. “Pen.” He holds an expectant hand out, his focus on the page.
I reread the scripted ink, a new appreciation for the layers this man contains. He doesn’t seem like an overly loving guy, but I suppose it could be reserved for the people who mean most to him—like Rey. With a little luck, I’ll find out after our meeting today.
Toby’s hand flies back and forth, the unmistakable sound of the nib scratching over the paper driving me madder by the second. I narrow my gaze when he holds out the notepad, pen clipped to the top, for me to see.
“You crossed out the whole list.” I let the offending pages hang lax in my right hand.
Asshole nods. “Didn’t like any of it.”
I traveled for hours to get here. Forewent a morning coffee so I wouldn’t arrive busting to use the bathroom and navigated a town I don’t know to get this? Heat envelops my face and neck, heartrate rising for an entirely different reason. “Why am I here?” I flop back on the annoyingly comfortable sofa and ditch the notepad so I can fold my arms.
Toby shrugs, arms folded as well.
“You want me here for an interview, but you deny me the ability to ask you anything. How am I supposed to do my job if you keep cutting me off at the ankles?”
“I never said this was an interview.”
I’ve had about as much as I can stomach of his goddamn evasiveness. “What am I supposed to talk to you about if I can’t mention your band or your music?”
He stabs a finger toward me and narrows his eyes. “That’s why you’re here.” A smirk settles on his pouty lips. “Figure it out and write about that.”
“You could save us both the time and just tell me,” I snap.
“I would if I knew what to say.” A little of his staunch smugness slips. “All I am is Toby Thomas, Drummer of Dark Tide. I don’t know who I am when you take away that title. If you want to write about me, about my side of the story, then you need to discover that guy.”
“You want me to psychoanalyze you?” I lift one eyebrow.
“I want you to reorder my chaos.” He leans forward, folding his legs before him, elbows rested on knees. “My true nature is a puzzle so elaborately crafted that even I don’t know how I look when complete.”
Jesus. The guy doesn’t expect much, does he? “Shouldn’t you ask someone who knows you to do that?”
“Why?” He tilts his head, blond locks sliding off the left of his face to hang in a waterfall to his cheekbone. “They know what everyone else knows. I need an outside point of view, somebody who isn’t biased by our history to be able to figure out what it is that I can’t see.”
“You honestly don’t know who you are outside of music?” I don’t buy this bullshit. It has to be another test. Another riddle of his.
“Nope.” Toby rises, making easy work of the massive room with his long legs. “I don’t want a fucking interview, Jeanie. I want a conversation. Somebody to sift through the clues and help me piece the story together.”
I study his profile where he stands at the doors to the courtyard, arms folded over his chest. At face value, he’s a tower of strength. Read any of the dozens of articles about him and the band, and they reveal the same. He’s the one who holds them together. When the wheels threaten to fall off their joyride through fame, he’s the one who pulls the guys in line. Perhaps there is an element of truth to what he says? Maybe he does live and breathe the band every waking hour of his day?
Out of anyone, I think I’d know best how destructive that can be—workaholism.
“What do you do to wind down?” I ask. “Hobbies outside of touring and recording.”
He shrugs, back partially to me. “Jam. Compose. Forward plan.”
“Nothing else?” I lean forward in my seat, much as he did before. “Nothing unrelated to the band?”
Toby stays quiet a while. “I read.”
Bingo. “Okay.” I blindly reach for the notepad. “What do you read?”
“Philosophy. Mythology.”
A bit deeper than your average bookworm, but okay. “Anything else?”
“They’re the subjects I read most.”
“I mean past-times.” I flick to a new page. “Any other hobbies?”
He shakes his head and then turns to face me. “What do you do?”
My pen dots the page, hand fidgeting as I think it over. “Shop online. Coffee dates with my closest sister. Game.”
“You game?” He lifts one eyebrow, arms still folded in a way that elicits impure visions in my mind.
“I do. Does that surprise you?”
“I guess not.” He drops his arms and returns to the chair. But he doesn’t sit. Instead, he hovers behind it; hands clamped firmly on the backrest. “What do you play?”
“First person shooter, mostly. I’m not a fan of the classic platform games.”
“Hardcore, huh?” He grins.
And damn it all if I don’t blush. “I guess.” I duck my chin and study the dotted page before me. “What did you do when you were young? Like, before the band got together?”
“When I was a kid?” Toby frowns.
I nod.
“Can’t do that stuff now, can I?” He chuckles, moving away from the seat to pace the room again. “Wrestle Rey. Play shoot ’em up with our cap guns.”
“Um, hello. Shoot ’em up? What do you think I do when I game?”
“Huh.” He rests a flat palm against his collarbone. “You have a point.”
“I’d say let’s try it, but I’m going to guess you don’t have a console.”
He snorts, dropping his arm. “Nope. Emery does, though.”
Does he want to take me to Emery’s? Wrap it in a bow and call this my early Christmas present. “You want to use his?”
Toby’s face twitches, his brow diving for a second, lips kicking up at the corner. “No. Just stating a fact.”
Shame. “Well, if you like to wrestle, maybe you could take up a combat sport?”
“And
I have time for that when?” He returns to looking at me as though I suggested he try ballet.
The guy wants help figuring out who he is when he’s not behind the kit, and—shit, that’s it. Who he is, not what to do. “You’re intellectual.” I scribble the word at the top of my page and underline it. “You thrive through learning new things, I bet.”
“I like to challenge myself,” he agrees.
I point the pen where he stands in the middle of the room, hands in pockets. “Have you ever taken a personality test?”
“Like, one of those things that tell me what I would be if I were an animal?” He snorts. “Sure.”
“Jesus. No.” I slap the side of my hand to my forehead. “Like the proper ones done by the big-name institutions. Myers-Briggs?”
He stares. Mute.
“Hang on.” I dive through my bag and tug my phone free, quickly googling up a free online test. “Here. Just do this. Answer these and tell me what it says at the end.” I’ve got no other ideas on how to crack his shell.
Toby crosses over to where I sit, that enticing smell close enough to provoke my senses once more. I pass my phone off to him and sit back while he stands on the spot to take the test. Brow furrowed, he reads every damn word carefully before seeming to decide if he’ll disclose anything to the page.
“It’s okay. You don’t share anything personal, and once you’ve done it, I can’t go back and see your answers.”
Crisp blue eyes search mine.
“You can trust me on this if nothing else.”
His lips flatten in a thin line as he takes my comment on board and weighs the risks. A wave of relief causes my body to go lax when he brings both thumbs to the screen and makes his way down the page. I take the opportunity to look around the room and translate what I find. His place is sparse with only the bare essentials on display, but then that’s of no surprise when a guy is away more than he is home. The furniture is all made from warm timbers, the few textiles he has natural as well—a cowhide the centerpiece beneath our feet in the space between the seats. I expected perhaps a few awards or sales and streaming milestones lining the wall. Maybe memorabilia. But there isn’t the barest hint that this guy plays music for a living. The enormous marble clock, though, is impressive. I rise from my seat while Toby taps away and cross over to where it hangs on the longest wall, the lines uninterrupted by any windows. To the touch, it seems the piece is indeed solid marble. How he managed to hang it defies gravity, but when mounted against exposed concrete, I guess a person has more options.
“Do you like it?”
I spin to find the man with my phone between his hands, eyes on me. It’s unnerving and flattering all at once. “It’s different.” I let my gaze drop to the striations across his breastbone, an indication of a strong upper body.
“Different, good?”
“I guess so.” I give the surface another touch, my fingertips brushing over the inlaid metal roman numeral. “Actual marble?”
“I’d hope so with how heavy the fucking thing is.” Toby’s gaze is back on the phone, frown deep while he reads.
“Going okay?”
“These questions are hard.”
“Not really.” I head back to where he stands. “All you have to do is give your first answer. Go with your gut. Don’t overthink it.”
“Easy for you to say.” His mumble is barely audible as he taps another answer. I get close enough to see the screen. Toby senses this, jerking it up to his chest. “Get away.”
I lift both hands and back off a couple of steps. “I wasn’t looking.” So was. Also enjoying his smell while I was at it.
“One more.” He taps, chews his bottom lip, and then appears to change the answer before dropping one hand. “The result has four letters.” His frown deepens. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It’s your personality type.” I skip forward and pluck the phone from his hands. INTJ. “I’m surprised with what you like to read, that you haven’t come across this before.”
“I read philosophy, not psychology.” He folds his arms, taking a step forward to peer over my shoulder. “Although it does seem familiar.”
I bask in the proximity of the guy, reveling in our insane height difference. He’s over six feet tall, and I’m on the upper-mid side of the fives. I could tuck under his chin, nestle into his chest, and be enveloped by his brawn—motherfucker, I need to get a hold of myself.
“So.” I drag in a deep breath. “Each letter stands for a key point in your personality. Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, Judging,” I say, pointing to each letter in turn.
“I always knew I was introverted,” he says, words feathering my ear. “But Intuitive? What’s that about?”
“It means you run on gut instinct.” I turn my head to address him and find his mouth dangerously close. “You rely on your instincts to tell you what’s right rather than logic.”
“Huh.” His massive hand envelops mine as he guides the phone higher so he can scroll the explanation underneath. I stare at the length of his lithe fingers while he reads. “Judging. Says I’m critical of other people and their choices.” His touch falls away. “I suppose that’s right.”
“But being intuitive means that you also know what it is they need, often before they do.” I turn to face him and take a step back in the process to put a safe distance between us. “Probably why you look after everyone in the band, right?”
“I don’t look after them. I make sure they do what they said they would.”
“Would you also say you put your needs before theirs?” I press.
“No.” His brow dives, eyes hard.
“Exactly. You’re a caretaker, which is a trait of an INTJ.”
“How do you know so much about this?” Toby asks the question as he walks away, moving toward the open-plan kitchen.
“My father introduced me to it when I was younger. Said it would help me with my journalism if I understood the people I interviewed.” I scoff. “That was before he learned I wanted to do music journalism.”
“He doesn’t approve?” Toby calls out, head in the fridge.
“Not exactly.”
He emerges with a beer in hand. “You want one?”
I shake my head. “I’ve got water with me. Thanks, though.” I lean my ass against the back of the sofa and fold my arms. “Your parents must approve of your career choice if they let you and Rey do it.”
“You have peculiar logic.” He smirks before lifting the drink to his lips and taking a slow pull. “Our dad hates it. He thinks we’re wasting our talents. Mom is the supportive one, but I think she’d secretly love it if we announced we quit. Touring gives her massive anxiety.” He tips the bottle my way. “Correction: Rey touring gives her massive anxiety.”
I choose not to point out he slipped into a taboo subject. “It’s a mother’s job to worry.” I think of mine, the countless times she phoned with some bullshit reason to check-in. Well, when she did still phone regularly.
“You’ve gone quiet for the one who’s supposed to ask the questions.” Toby takes another mouthful of his drink, studying me intently from his position at the end of the counter. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“Nothing interesting.” I lean over the back of the seat and retrieve my notepad. “Why music?”
“Why journalism?” He ducks his chin, gaze intensifying.
“I told you that already. I want to know what makes people tick. I want to share their humanity with the people who idolize them.”
“To make them more… normal?” he tests.
“I suppose.”
“Don’t you think that strips the celebrity of some of their magic?” He crosses his legs at the ankles, arms folded and beer in hand.
“Maybe. I think it also makes their achievements more relatable.” I mirror his stance; pad tucked beneath my arm. “Again, like I already told you.”
“Sorry.” The single word drips with ire. “I don’t take notes to remember.”
&
nbsp; Ass. Hole. “Fine.” I throw the notepad down. “No note-taking.”
“You shouldn’t need to if we’re having a conversation, Jeanie. No interview, remember?”
I scowl at the jerk.
“So?” Toby’s lips tease the bottle while he speaks.
“So, what?” I zero in on his Adam’s apple.
The barest hint of his tongue as he licks his lips dry. “Who am I, Jeanie?”
TWENTY-FIVE
Toby
“Swing Carousel” - Zola
She fits my décor. It’s a fucking weird thing to notice, but the warm highlights across her auburn hair and gray sweater make her seem like she fits in my house.
“Ten minutes isn’t long enough for me to know.” Her lined eyes narrow. “You enjoy reading, and you appreciate architecture, it seems.” Her hands lift to gesture to my off-the-plan build. “Is that not enough?”
“It gets boring after a while.” I like to stay challenged. I suppose that’s why the rock lifestyle fits. “Tell me your backstory, vulture. What turns a sweet girl from a good family into a leech on the rich and famous?”
“Who said I’m from a good family?” She takes a step forward.
I jerk my head to the right, fist tight on the bottle. “Your parents are still together, and you’re close to your sister.”
“By that measure, you have a good family too, right?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Peculiar logic.”
The woman has me there. A pretty façade can hide a lot of rot. Yes, at face value, our family is good. We stay in touch, and we love one another. But something is missing from our dynamic, and every time I try to pinpoint what it is, I get stuck at respect. We love each other, support each other, but there’s a lot that’s left unsaid.
“My dad is a war correspondent.”
I lift my brow. Seriously didn’t pick that.
“Mom raised us mostly alone, and even then, she was absent more than she was home.” Jeanie lifts her eyes to find mine searching for an explanation. “She’s a research scientist.”
