by Peter Styles
“I’m just anxious.” Jordan sighs, winding up some loose cables. “This is our halfway mark. We’ve had some people show up to multiple shows but if we don’t keep the momentum up, we risk losing our audience.”
“We’re not going to lose our audience, Jordan. You know how much hype we’re getting, now? Look—you’re always busy with driving and planning that you don’t have time to really look. If you did, you’d know we already have a following. And it’s getting bigger.”
Am I too busy to see it? Part of him wants to believe Jace. He definitely trusts his cousin. It’s just that sometimes his worries are greater than the tiny possibility that they could actually be making it big.
“It would just be nice to have more help without having too much interference, you know?”
“Don’t worry. Three Seconds is going to get more than three seconds in the spotlight,” Jace grins, the familiar joke putting Jordan at ease. “Why don’t you take a nap? You’ll feel better and the show will be a lot more fun if you’re not constantly thinking of bed.”
“It’s not even a bed. It’s a sad sofa-thing in a moving vehicle.”
“Well, we have more than enough time to spend a day here. We won’t leave until the morning after tomorrow, so relax.”
“But—” Jordan starts to protest, startled at Jace’s knowledge of their timetable, but his cousin silences him with a wave of his hand.
“No buts. We all need a break. You know better.”
“Unfortunately,” Jordan grumbles, watching Jace deposit his guitar before leaving.
Jordan is left alone in the empty venue. It’s pretty much a glorified garage—someone’s startup, made with a wavy metal roof and poured concrete floor. The ‘stage’ is made from heavy risers, wheels tucked up against the side for safety when they aren’t being moved. The bar is barely there, plywood heavily papered with a multitude of flyers for bands and posters for local restaurants. Take-a-number strips dangle like skeletal fingers from the printouts, multicolored and in various stages of fading. There are tiny lights strung up around the high ceiling, the generic brand that college students and newlyweds decorate with.
He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Something about small towns and close-knit places makes him feel connected. Like he could reach out and feel the stickiness of the webs connecting everybody. He makes his way to their tour bus—another haphazardly renovated relic—and makes himself comfortable, curling up after replacing his jacket with a heavy hoodie.
Just a few hours, he tells himself, already feeling the heaviness of sleep beginning to drag him down, just a nap and then it’s back to playing. Back to living. The crowd. Before he can think of preparing things for the show, he’s out like a light, the switch flipped and all worries gone.
“…an. Jordan. Jordan.”
A voice jolts him from sleep violently, the deathlike embrace of nothingness shattered into tiny pieces. Jordan grunts, instinctively throwing a hand out. He hits something—or rather, someone—and retracts his limbs cautiously, blinking wearily to adjust his vision. The bus is dark now, the dim evening light all that’s left of the day.
“Thanks,” Jace says dryly, shoving his hands into his jeans. He’s wearing something different, Jordan realizes.
“How late is it?” Jordan’s words come out half-panicked and he throws himself off the couch, fumbling towards the tiny closet where his clothes are packed.
“Relax. You have two hours till we go on. Time for dinner.”
“I should get ready,” Jordan argues weakly, putting his suitcase on the table by the window so that he can look for a shirt. Like it takes me more than five minutes.
“It doesn’t even take you five minutes,” Jace says, rolling his eyes. “Weak argument. Come on, I found a bar with burgers. You like burgers.”
He has no excuses. He does like burgers. Jordan tosses the new shirt over his head, shrugging his leather jacket on before following his cousin out. He barely glances at his reflection before they leave—he can’t do anything about his perpetual stubble and his hair is just short enough that it doesn’t look wild when it’s messy. At least I’m able to pull off ‘scary stranger’ pretty well. It’s good for intimidating stupid drunk people. Not that he has anything against bars. It’s just that he prefers his drinking to be in private, where he can confine himself to a bed or bathroom when he feels himself getting too tipsy.
The place they go to is a typical small-town restaurant. It’s cozy without being small, the walls striped red and white. The smell of salt and grease hangs in the air, a grill somewhere sizzling loudly as cheery servers weave their way through the people. Sam is already waiting at a table with the road crew—two of his high school friends and another guy that Jace picked up when he was in college. They’re a skeleton team but they always get the job done.
“You look more alive,” Sam notes, drinking his dark soda from a striped straw.
“Gee, thanks.”
Sam smirks at the answer, but there’s nothing particularly malicious in his manner. It’s just the way he is. Jace and Sam are the same age, which never ceases to amaze Jordan. Even if Jace seems more put-together and mature, though, Sam is just as capable. His general devil-may-care attitude and smirks aren’t an act but they certainly aren’t the whole picture. After all, he’s put as much time and effort into getting the band off the ground as anyone else.
“Hey, what’s the name of the place, again?” Jace interrupts, thumbs flying across his phone keyboard. Sam snorts.
“The Backyard,” Jordan supplies, smiling and nodding as a server inquiringly points at him with her pen. As she walks over, he continues. “The guy who runs it is Eric Eastman.”
“How’s that for a superhero name?” Sam grins.
The woman takes their orders and Jordan has to bump Jace out of his phone trance—the woman forgives him, of course, because Jace has a small smile that can stop traffic and outshine the sun.
“How’s your tweeting going?” Jordan asks once the woman disappears with their orders in hand.
“Great. Just watching the numbers rise.”
“I can’t understand how you manage to keep track of everything at once. What do we even have? Facebook, Twitter—”
“Tumblr, Instagram, Snapchat,” Jace continues, his smile turning mischievous. “Sometimes I create treasure hunts so that people have to check all of them and put the story in order.”
“Evil.”
“Evil genius.”
Somehow—although it shouldn’t be a surprise; he was exhausted—Jordan feels much better than he did in the morning. All of the pressure has drained away, the only thing left behind a calm certainty. One of the only things he can count on these days is the band. None of them would leave, he knows—the trio of road crew might, he thinks, given a lucrative offer but Jace and Sam are in it for the long haul. No matter what city he’ll go to next or what the state of the venue will be, Jordan at least knows he’ll never be lost. Not while he has the two people in life that keep him grounded.
Jace laughs suddenly, the sound one that Jordan hadn’t realized he’d been missing. It’s light and punctuated with snorts that are somehow not unattractive, despite their imperfect sound.
“What?”
“I spotted Jordan’s good twin.” Jace smirks, taking a milkshake from the server that has reappeared at their table.
“Where?” Sam asks gleefully, practically bouncing on his seat.
“Nine o’clock,” Jace replies, wiggling his eyebrows as he starts to drink his sugar soup.
Jordan rolls his eyes. Part of him doesn’t want to look—he’s had jokes made before, Jace comparing him to a cactus with sunglasses at one memorable Mexican restaurant. They’re all in good fun and he doesn’t take them to heart. Just look. Can’t be that bad, right?
It isn’t bad. It is, in fact, the very opposite of bad. The man Jace is referring to is, surprisingly, actually a little like Jordan. He’s got the same scruffy look and worn
appearance, clothes a little rumpled. That’s where the similarity ends, Jordan thinks. The stranger’s hair is reddish in the light when he shifts his head, sticking up in a thousand directions as if it hasn’t been cut in a year. Somehow, Jordan thinks, beautiful is the word that fits. A slightly upturned nose, sloping cheekbones, flushed cheeks.
Jordan’s chest constricts with a jerk, painful heart thumping in his chest, and his only delirious thought is oh, no.
“Very nice. Oh—look, he’s taking off that gross denim jacket,” Jace muses, plucking a slice of pineapple off his milkshake glass. “Very, very nice. Jordan—”
“No,” Jordan says immediately. Despite his sudden outbreak of nervousness, he’s aware enough to recognize that Jace has a plan in mind. A likely terrible one that will end with Jordan glad to flee the city for the rest of the foreseeable future.
“Come on. Get a drink with me,” Jace says easily, tugging at his arm. Jordan opens his mouth to protest and then Sam interrupts.
“Hey, move it. I need to go.” Jordan rises immediately to let Sam out of his seat by the wall, standing back, and then before he can do anything, he’s being pushed firmly towards the bar. He glances over his shoulder in shock, bewildered and already planning revenge when he sees Jace laughing into his milkshake.
“Don’t,” Jordan tells Sam, even as he follows along in an attempt to keep a low profile. The last thing they need is to make a scene before they ever get onstage.
“Don’t what? I need a drink and so do you. At this rate, we’ll have another subpar gig.”
“Another?”
“Listen, you’re great at bass, but you’re really bad at stage presence. You need to relax. Enjoy it. I know you do,” Sam adds, guiding him up to the bar. They’re one empty seat away from the stranger.
“I love playing. You know that,” Jordan mutters, glancing around. He can feel his palms start to sweat.
“I know, that’s what I said,” Sam says, unimpressed. “But this band can’t be the only thing you live for.”
Before Jordan can answer, Sam discreetly shoves him and the space between them and the stranger closes. Jordan feels his heart thump in his throat; the stranger glances their way briefly and Jordan vaguely thinks his eyes are brown before they disappear again, fixed on the television screen hanging above the bar.
A minute or two passes and Sam glances at Jordan, something like exasperation settling on his features. It’s almost insulting, being treated like he’s immature. Is this the universe’s way of telling me to stop treating him like a kid? If it is, Jordan has to admit that it’s karmically appropriate. He’s trying to come up with something to say or do when he notices what he’s been avoiding looking at.
Without his jacket, the stranger is wearing only a plain t-shirt. It looks soft, but even that isn’t enough to distract Jordan from the curved muscles of the man’s exposed arms. Not only are they very nice, they are also covered in a tangle of black ink. Beautiful, Jordan thinks, entranced by the mural, and it’s not until the stranger speaks that he realizes he said it out loud.
“Thanks,” the man says, his tone amused as his eyes sparkle merrily. Oh, shit. Talk, Jordan tells himself.
“Sorry. I—my cousin has some really nice pieces and I just…they’re very nice,” Jordan amends, gesturing lamely at the man’s arm. Arms. He really should be able to string together more words; it’s not like he’s never flirted or been successful at it. It’s just…this is new territory. Because no matter how similar their ruffled appearances are, Jordan gets the feeling that this man is nothing like him.
“Thanks, again,” the man laughs, smile wide, and it’s almost perfect. “It took me a while to collect them, so…it’s nice when people appreciate them.”
“Are you from here? Derry, I mean?”
“Nope. Just passing through,” the man says shrugging a shoulder. Jordan’s heart drops a little until he reminds himself it’s not like you’re staying here for the rest of your life.
“Us too. Well, kind of,” Jordan amends, fighting a silent battle. He knows there are two ways it can go when he says I’m in a band. There are people that are automatically excited by the prospect, either in reasonable amounts or scarily fanatic ones. Then there are people that shirk away, as if it’s some sort of black mark. Part of him really wants to know which person this man is, but another hates to risk it.
“I’m Damian,” the man finally says, extending a hand that’s dotted on the backside with a constellation of faint freckles and dark moles.
“Jordan. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” Damian agrees, his smile lopsided in a comfortable way. “It is.”
There is an unmistakable glint in Damian’s eyes. Like he’s seen something interesting and he wants to know more about it. He looks like Jace coming up with lyrics for a song, or Sam chasing a particularly fast-paced drumline. There is magic in his expression, like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
“So, where are you headed, if you’re passing through?” Jordan asks.
“Not sure. I kind of go where the universe takes me,” Damian shrugs, tapping the bar with long fingers. He sounds a little hesitant when he says it, eyes sliding sideways to evaluate Jordan’s reaction.
“I get that,” Jordan smiles. Boy, have I heard it all before. “Most people are about staying in one place. Sticking. It’s easier and probably more stable.”
“Yeah,” Damian says slowly, some sort of secret hidden in his smile. Like he knows something Jordan doesn’t. “What about you, then? Where are you going?”
“Steel City, next. Then Arizona, New Mexico. I mean, I have an actual list, if you want to see it,” Jordan laughs, thinking of the scrawled paper that he always defaults to. His phone is updated, of course, but the feel of paper in his hand is somehow safer. Comforting.
“That’s…specific. You traveling with family?”
“May as well be,” Jordan snorts, glancing back at the table. “All friends, except for Jace. He’s my cousin.”
“I was wondering,” Damian admits, snorting, “brother or cousin. There’s some kind of…similarity. I can’t pin it down.”
“We get that a lot,” Jordan smiles, feeling a flicker of warmth spread in his chest. “We grew up together, basically, and I’m older than him by a year and a half. Our parents say I taught him how to talk. We have similar mannerisms; all of our family do, I think.”
“That must be it,” Damian grins. “Just the way you walk.”
“How long are you in town?” Jordan asks suddenly. He almost worries that he’s screwed things up with the question. This should go slower. The entire process should. But he doesn’t have that luxury. Not when he’s on the road almost three-quarters of the year. Not when he’s only here for the briefest moment. Not when he needs to know more.
“However long I want,” Damian says, his smile a little less innocent and a little more coy.
“Well, we’re staying nearby—”
“Hey. Sorry,” Jace interrupts, suddenly at Jordan’s side. Are you kidding me?! “Food’s here. Sorry. We don’t have much time—”
“Yeah, okay,” Jordan says, on edge, and Jace widens his eyes before walking away, probably making faces at the rest of the group. He tries to pick up where he left off. “I—”
“Nearby. Right. You, uh, clearly have somewhere to be,” Damian says, pointing a finger off towards Jace and the others. “Don’t worry.”
“But—”
“I’ll find you.” Damian winks, his smile white and sharp as he turns back towards the bar.
Oh, I’m a goner, Jordan thinks, feebly making some noise of affirmation before walking away. The table is suspiciously quiet when he gets back, faces turned downwards toward plates, but as soon as he gets settled, the questions explode.
“Who is he?” Jace asks.
“Yeah, what’s he do?”
“Is he gonna come watch us?”
“Did you—”
“Stop,” Jordan hisses, glanci
ng back at Damian, who seems to be occupied. “We need to eat. We’re on in an hour, remember?”
“Did you mess up that bad?” Jace asks, sympathetic. For once, Jordan doesn’t need it.
“No! I didn’t—I didn’t mess up,” he amends, lowering his voice. “…and his name is Damian.”
He has to silence another round of cheers and exclamations, remind them they don’t have much time, but he spends the rest of the time thinking about Damian and fighting the urge to look over his shoulder. He has half a mind to invite the man to the show but he still isn’t sure how well that would go over.
Some people go crazy for rock stars. Those people are always disappointed after a few hours, when it’s apparent that Three Seconds is not a world-touring outfit. Some people don’t like the ‘I’m in a band’ type, either because of past experience or expectations. The ones in between, he’s found, are the most heartbreaking. They’re the people that genuinely want to try and end up sidelined too soon, wanting and needing more than they can get from someone who’s constantly working.
Jordan doesn’t know what kind of person Damian is, but he’s desperately hoping it’s the good kind. The kind that might stay a little longer, even if it means they’ll never see each other again. No matter how much Jordan really, really wants to see him after these two days.
The Backyard is in full swing when the group makes their way to the back entrance. The lights are visible from outside the shack-like venue, sparkling in a brilliant rainbow. Cheers and voices are audible. The music they can hear is clearly not live—some hype tracks, Jordan guesses, to warm the crowd up before the local opener that goes on first. He follows the others into the tiny area that’s dubbed ‘backstage’—a hallway-like place behind the makeshift stage, the doors opening into the backlot helping cigarette smoke drift away.
“Oh, man—hey, it’s so good to meet you guys!”
The enthusiastic kid that greets Jace is probably no older than seventeen, Jordan guesses. He has electric blue hair and a wide grin. He looks…starstruck, almost, which is a little shocking. We’re not that famous. Are we?
