by E. M. Moore
Finnick takes the toast and bacon in while I carry the eggs to the table. Realizing there’s nothing to drink, I head back into the kitchen and load my arms up with five waters. Honestly, I’m going to have to go to the grocery store. I have no idea where the eggs and bacon even came from because I hadn’t seen anything like that yesterday when I grabbed the water, but Finnick must’ve had them in the house somewhere because he cooked them this morning. I head back to the table, putting a water bottle next to each of their spots and then pull my own chair out and start to sit.
Ian’s head jerks up. “What are you doing?”
My stomach tightens. “Um, eating?” I look around the table, my eyes doing all the questioning for me. “That is what we’re doing, right?”
“That’s what we’re doing,” he says, voice frigid. “That’s not what you’re doing.”
My mouth unhinges. I want to laugh like he’s making a joke because any other person would be, but it’s apparent Ian isn’t. He’s dead fucking serious. “I can’t eat with you?” I ask, making sure I’m hearing all this clearly.
He shakes his head. “Finnick makes breakfast for us. Not you. We don’t even know you.”
I force my mouth closed. The others have just started eating. They look at me passively as if Ian hasn’t just been a tremendous dick to me. Even Finnick is eating away, not bothering to spare me a second glance.
Okay...
My face flushes as I pick up my plate and fork along with the bottle of water I got myself, and then I walk over to drop everything in the kitchen sink. I stand there for a moment, dribbling my fingers against the black countertop. Small specks glint like stars all throughout it.
I keep telling myself not to say anything, but I’ve never really listened to myself when it came to doing the smart thing. Behind me, they’ve already moved on. Sean’s telling a story about something I haven’t picked up on yet, but I can’t let this go. I turn from the counter. “Just what am I supposed to eat then? Nolan didn’t give me any explicit instructions, so maybe we should just get everything out in the open.” Feeling a little braver, I come out from around the kitchen bar and stand in front of the table. They continue to fork mouthfuls of food into their mouths, and I can’t keep my stomach from growling even deeper. I’m starving. I didn’t eat last night because I didn’t want to be around them, and now I’m being refused food. There’s no way I’m living like this for as long as it takes for them to fucking write their next album.
“That’s a good idea,” Ian says around a mouthful of eggs. He unscrews the cap on his water bottle slowly, taking his time before he takes a swig. His throat moves in slow, languid movements like he has all day. He probably does. They probably don’t even have any plans to work on the album today. I didn’t see any work going on yesterday from the moment I got here until the moment I went to sleep either.
“Here’s the thing,” Archer says, speaking up. His voice is low, baritone. He has his blond hair pulled back into a short ponytail at the base of his skull. The few strands around the front of his face have fallen out of it, but they frame his face perfectly as he speaks. “We don’t want you here.”
“You made that clear yesterday.”
“So,” Sean says, picking up where Archer left off. “You’re going to do your thing. You know, getting things for us when we need them. And we’ll just, you know, let you know when we need them. We’re not eating together or hanging out together or—”
“Okay,” I say, seeing where they’re going with this. “I get it. You don’t want me around.” I bite the inside of my cheek, second-guessing revealing this to them, but I really have no other choice. I have to make them see reason. “And that’s fine. I won’t bother you. But I need to do well at this job. I’m sure there’s something you can give me to do that will be helpful other than to just stay out of your hair and get you things.”
Sean shakes his head. “Nah. When you got me that water yesterday?” he asks, lips curving into a devilish grin. “That was perfect.”
“Oh, and calling in that pizza?” Ian says, his mouth curving up. “Even better.”
“So, you want me to get you water and pizza? That’s it?”
“But only when we want it,” Finnick says, finally speaking up.
I might explode. My fingers tighten into fists at my sides. They’re really not going to make this easy, are they? “I thought maybe I could help you guys arrange a schedule,” I say, throwing that out there. This is something they should be thinking about. Something they should be worrying about.
“A schedule?” Ian mocks, his face twisting. “You think we work off a schedule?”
“I think you should,” I challenge, placing my hands on my hips. “It sounded like Nolan meant business yesterday on the phone.”
Ian growls. “Nolan can eat a bag of dicks.”
I look off to the side and sigh. This is what all this is about, isn’t it? Nolan hired me so they’re not going to like me. “Nice. You sound so grateful toward the person who signed you.”
“Nolan didn’t sign us,” Archer muses harshly. “He’s just our handler.”
Handler? Of course, these guys need handlers. I’ll need about three more of me to get through this. “Okay, so he didn’t sign you. That’s not really the point,” I say. “The point of this is to figure out what I can do to help.”
The guys all shift back to eating at the same time, like I’m not standing here trying to have a conversation with them. The fuck?
I run my hand through my hair. “I can be a sounding board,” I say. “I have a bit of music experience.” I look at them, watching for their reaction with my throat closing at my admission.
“Christ,” Ian says immediately. “You’re still here?” He drops his head back dramatically. “What part about us not wanting you around did you not understand?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Thoughts race through my brain and threaten to spill out. I’m about two seconds away from telling these guys exactly what I think when the sliding glass door opens and Rex walks in. “You guys started without me?”
He goes over to the cupboards, grabs a plate and silverware and then sits in the seat my butt didn’t even dare touch. Finnick hands him the bowl of eggs along with the platters of bacon and toast. I scream internally. He’s allowed to eat with them, but I’m not? Of course, because they think I’m trash.
I calm myself, then walk back over to the kitchen, looking in drawers. I’m intentionally not being quiet, trying to annoy them in any way I can. It works, eventually, because Sean says, “Jesus, what are you looking for?”
“Keys,” I say.
“Keys?” he repeats.
“Yes, I was promised keys when I got here.”
“Yeah,” Rex says. “They’re in the closet in the hallway your room is in. They’re hanging on the wall.”
I shut the drawer I’d been searching through. “Great, thanks.”
Without a word or a glance back, I descend the steps and head right for the keys. There’s no way I’m leaving this house without having a way back in. I’m not going to have a repeat of yesterday, and I’m definitely leaving the house. First, breakfast. Second, the grocery store, so I don’t have to go out every morning to get breakfast since I’m apparently not cool enough to eat at the rockstar table.
I grab my purse from my room and head outside while I bring up Uber on my phone. With a few presses to my screen, I have a car headed my way. In five minutes, a small, silver sedan pulls up and I get in the back. “Hey, thanks.”
“No problem,” the guys says. “So, McDonald’s?”
My tongue is already salivating at the thought of eating some Hotcakes, so I murmur in agreement. When he pulls away from the curb, I ask, “Is there a grocery store nearby?”
“Yeah, right next to it,” he says.
Perfect. I’ll eat to tame my stomach, then I’ll grab the groceries and get an Uber back.
If they’re not going to let me into their bubble, that’s f
ine. But I’m not going to let them force me out of the house either. This is a chance of a lifetime for me.
After I slept on it last night, I knew Heather was right. These guys are in the way of me trying to make a name for myself with the record company. Sure, I’m not writing songs or helping recording yet, but that doesn’t mean anything. Right now, Nolan and any higher-ups just need to know they can trust me, and they can’t do that if I don’t show them I can do what they need here.
6
After loading up the cart with any grocery items I imagined the band might need, I was relieved to have realized I kept the incidental credit card in my purse to pay for it all. When the number flashed on the screen, I had to bite back my jaw dropping to the floor. I’d never bought groceries for five—okay, six if I counted Rex—before. Damn. I didn’t even have that much in my account, so hallelujah for an open line of credit.
When I get back to the beach house, I put everything away. My grocery trip stocks the refrigerator and freezer completely. I even purchased more of the same kind of beer I’d seen in the fridge. Luckily, the cashier never asked to see my license when I bought it. I’m still a few months shy of twenty-one, but I guess age doesn’t matter here.
After pulling out the notebooks and pens I found in the small stationary aisle at the store, I set them on the bar and make sandwiches for the guys. I admit, part of me is trying to butter them up. Finnick said they didn’t get any real food except for breakfast, so I’m trying to do something nice for them. Not because I think they deserve it, but because I deserve it. I can swallow my pride and do this if it means that at the end of the summer, I’m praised by the record company and asked to take on more responsibilities. I have to put blinders on. I have to put up armor because I’m sure they have better insults in their arsenal than just making sure I know I’m the help and nothing more.
When I finish making the sandwiches, I walk over to the intercom and push the speaker button. It’s still new technology to me, but I hope it transmits to every room of the house. “I made lunch. Where are you guys?”
I take my finger off the button and stare at it, tapping my foot on the slate tile at my feet. The silence draws on, and for a moment, I don’t think they’re going to answer, but eventually, I hear, “Bring it up the stairs.”
“I am up the stairs,” I say, pushing the button down again, so they can hear me. I give a quick look around the room, but don’t see where they could be.
“All the way up the stairs,” Sean says, aggravation lacing his voice. “We’re on the next floor up.”
This would be a hell of a lot easier if they’d just given me a fucking tour when I got here.
I take the platter of sandwiches and search the floor for another set of steps. I find the hallway Ian came out of this morning. There are closed doors on each side. Everything in me wants to open the doors. Even though the guys are difficult—and downright asses—I’m still intensely curious about them. Maybe not them in particular. I worry over my lip, trying to figure out what exactly has me wanting to know more about them. Their music. The way they came together on their first album. The way they make me feel when I listen to that album.
I want to know the guys who wrote those songs, who made that music.
The realization makes my skin prick.
At the end of the hallway, I actually find another set of steel steps, so I take them up to the next level. My eyes practically bulge out of my head as I find another huge room up here. There’s another full glass exterior wall, looking out over the waves and the sand. Families litter the beach today. A little guy with a yellow and blue bucket is making a very lopsided sandcastle that makes me smile, but my attention is instantly torn away when a noise brings me back inside. There’s another set of leather couches up here, but that’s not everything. Stands holding guitars frame the room, both electric and acoustic. To the left is a complete recording studio, including a glass wall to peer into that separates the artists from the rest of the room.
Sean is in there on the drums right now, beating away at them, sweat accumulating on his forehead. I walk closer, trying to get a better view. I can feel his sound right through to my bones. He’s aggressive, and he plays the drums the same way, but there’s something so at peace with him while he does it too. His eyes close as he works his drumsticks into a rhythm that pounds a beat into my very being.
“Aisley,” a sharp voice says.
I start, then look sheepishly over at Ian, sitting in front of the mixing consoles. He looks annoyed like he’s tried to get my attention for a while. “Is this a new song?” I ask. I don’t recognize it from their first album. It’s a lot heavier, angrier than some of their other stuff. That doesn’t make it bad. In fact, I like the beat. It draws me in instantly.
He ignores my question. “You brought lunch?”
I hold the tray up higher. “I made lunch.”
His gaze narrows like he’s wondering if I put Ex-Lax in between the two pieces of bread. Now that I think about it, that’s not a bad idea. It would teach them not to mess with me, but on the other hand, I wouldn’t be winning anyone over then, would I?
“Put it on the coffee table,” he says dismissively, then turns back around again to watch Sean.
I grit my jaw. If I’m not careful, I’m going to ruin my teeth by the time my stint here with The Rowdy Rogues is finished. No matter. I take one of the ham and turkey sandwiches I made and sit on the couch opposite Archer and Finnick, taking a large bite. I’m hungry again. The Hotcakes this morning were good, but shopping takes a lot out of a person. Before I forget, I open the canvas tote I bought at the store and take out the waters I brought up here with me and place them on the coffee table next to the sandwich platter. I didn’t know what the guys wanted, but water and ham and turkey sandwiches sounded like a safe bet. I made them plain but brought up a knife and placed little tubs of mayonnaise and mustard on the platter in case they wanted to add condiments to them.
When Sean finishes the song, Ian puts his hand on a button and says, “I like it.”
I smile despite being ignored. I’m here, watching music get made. How could I not be happy?
It lasts all of five seconds because Ian turns around. His cool, smooth expression shifts into a scowl. “What the fuck are you doing? We said we didn’t want you around.”
I shrug. “Nolan called me earlier. He said he wanted me here.” I’m lying, but I’m trying not to let it show.
I see a flash of something primal in Ian’s gaze. For whatever reason, he doesn’t seem to like Nolan very much. I open my mouth to ask why, but Ian turns back around, his finger going to the button again so he can talk to Sean inside the booth. “Aisley made lunch.”
I lean to the right to see if I can catch a glimpse of Sean’s reaction. He’s distracted. I’m not sure if it’s just a mask, or if he really just doesn’t care right now.
He comes out of the rather large booth and then Ian and Sean move toward me. Finnick and Archer stand at the same time, facing me. All four of them together make me sit up straighter on the couch as I tentatively bite into my own sandwich. “What is it?” Finnick asks, eyeing the tray like it’s going to jump up and bite him.
“Ham and turkey sandwiches,” I tell him. “I didn’t know what you guys liked, but if you want to tell me, I can get whatever you want.”
A fire starts in my belly. I had to swallow a lot of pride to say that because what I really want to do is tell them they need to work on their social skills, but I know that won’t end well for me. These guys have the upper hand here. I have nothing. Just an outsider. Just a wannabe. If I want to be something more, I have to play the game.
The guys sit. Tension hovers in the air over us. They’re quiet. I don’t know if it’s because they’re just not talking because I’m here, or if it’s because their heads are still in the music. Maybe they’re trying to piece a song together. I know that happens to me when I feel like I’m really onto something. I get quiet on the outside because m
y brain is working double-time on the inside. Then, usually, it just all spills out of me into—hopefully—something amazing.
“I also bought notebooks at the store,” I say, gesturing toward the table where I stacked the multi-colored office supplies.
“You went to the store for notebooks?” Sean asks, raising a red brow at me.
“Yeah. When I left earlier. I thought the refrigerator looked a little empty, and then Finnick mentioned this morning that you guys only get breakfast because that’s the only thing you guys know how to cook.”
“That I know how to cook,” he corrects.
“Right, so I went to the store.”
“And got notebooks?” Ian questions.
“For ideas,” I explain. “I always have one nearby in case something sparks in a weird moment.”
“Wow. I wonder why we never thought of that,” Archer says with fake admiration. He points to the sound area and I see a few notebooks already there. They look beat to shit, like they’ve carried them around for a while.
“Well, you can have these when those get filled up,” I say, trying to stay optimistic. Heather would tell me I’m sounding a little too Mary Poppins, but I don’t care. I have to get through to them somehow.
Ian smirks and shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. He just bites into his sandwich again. I chastise myself. Maybe the notebooks weren’t the best idea, but I was grasping at straws to try to help, and when I saw them, a lightbulb went off in my head. I even got one for myself. I’m calling it my Rowdy Rogue notebook. Sure, they won’t be asking me for writing help anytime soon, but I can still get my ideas down while I’m here.
I tried to write using a notes app on my phone once, but I found I was much more creative when I wrote it out long-hand. It’s a time suck sometimes, but luckily songs are relatively short. It’s not like I’m penning a whole novel using a notebook. Just ideas and short glimpses of lyrics that come to me. Then, hopefully, some of them fuse together someday.
