I zip up my jeans, and pull on a pair of heeled boots, then stand before the mirror and smear concealer over the dark smudges beneath my eyes. Jess continues to scowl at me as I work, adding a layer of foundation and then eyeshadow, liner and blush.
Exasperated, she eventually turns away, and swaps her PJs for clothing, pulling on a microscopic skirt and a skinny-fit, home-made Bitch Slap tee.
“We ought to cut you loose for what you’ve done.”
“You what?” I laugh, because it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard her say. “What is it, an hour or so until we play for Mr. Big, and you’re planning on booting me for—”
“High treason,” she says, cutting me off. “It’s still a death offence.”
I just shake my head. This is so dumb. At least Paradise Kiss have genuine problems to combat—Knox genuinely needs help—not ones invented for the sake of drama. Graham Callahan isn’t going to pick us, or if he does he’s going to drop us just as fast, because Jessie’s too bloody high maintenance. “Good luck with that,” I say. “It should make playing interesting.”
She fluffs her hair, and sighs huffily. “I didn’t say I was going to do it, only that I should. If it wasn’t for this deal…” She lets the thought trail off. That’s all right, I don’t need her to say it. I get it. I really do. I just happen to wish this argument had something to do with music, and wasn’t just about the wound Jessie is still carrying about because Dane Darke dared to put his band before her.
“Did you dump him, or did he dump you?” I ask. She’s spent so much time mouthing off about him it’s weird that I don’t know. Telling too, in so many ways.
“What?”
“Did you dump Dane or did he dump you?”
“I’ve always wondered that too,” Ives pipes up. She’s been curiously silent regarding all of this so far, but that’s Ivy, determined to play the role of Switzerland in any conflict. “I know everything else about him, including his shoe size.”
Jessie’s face turns puce. “What does it matter?” she blusters. It ended months ago. He doesn’t mean anything to me now. She joins me by the mirror and jabs a finger into my chest. “In any case, stop changing the subject. How do we know you haven’t told them everything?”
“Everything, Jess? What everything would that be?”
“What song we’re doing,” she says.
That’d be difficult since we haven’t even discussed options amongst ourselves yet, and as if it’d make a damned bit of difference anyway. Actually, I do know what we’re playing, and not because it’s the best choice, just because Jessie can’t see anything outside of her own little bubble of hurt. “You really think Perverted Tit Fucker is going to win us the deal?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes go wide and round as if she’s astonished I don’t agree. “What else would we do?”
I think back to what Darke said about my voice being stronger than Jessie’s, and how he knew they had competition when he heard me play, Slow Sweet Burn. That’s the song we ought to be playing for Graham Callahan, but Jessie’s never going agree to it. It’s too important for her to be front and central, hogging the limelight, and sticking two fingers up at Dane. So I just hold my tongue, same as usual. It’s pointless arguing with her, she never backs down.
“Callahan wants a group that can warm up a stadium crowd. PTF always gets them going.”
“You don’t think he wants something he can turn into a number one hit, perhaps?”
She cocks her head to one side as if mulling the possibility. “I think he’d consider it a bonus, but nothing more.”
She’s always has an answer. God forbidden anyone else attempting to have the last word.
I smear on more lipstick and pull a brush through my hair. It’s even more flyaway and bushy than normal after my tumble with Darke. Nothing ever tames it.
“You guys know I’m not going on tour, right?” Ivy says, sitting up in bed to break the uneasy silence Jess and I have fallen into.
“Don’t be stupid, Ivy,” Jessie immediately barks.
“I am serious.” An enormous yawn stretches Ivy’s mouth wide. She raises her arms and stretches, then climbs out of bed and adopts a yoga pose. “I don’t want to play for ginormous crowds. I don’t want to make records, or meet Black Halo. I just want a house with a nice big garden where I can grow stuff, and have—”
“Twenty three kids running about. We know,” Jessie groans. She rubs at her temples, then raises her hands in defeat. “Fine, we’ll let Dane win. We’ll tell Graham Callahan we’re not interested. Thanks, but no thanks. Will that make everyone happy?”
“I’m just being honest,” Ivy says, standing on one leg, and bowing forward as if she’s a skater. “You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you? I mean, I’m happy to play for Graham Callahan so you guys have a chance at fame, I’m just saying that I’m not going to sign a contract is all. I’m not interested in money and celebrity and all that stuff.”
“We get it,” Jessie says, and stomps off into the bathroom in a huff. A moment later, I hear the shower start to run.
“You understand, don’t you, Lowdy?” Ivy turns her rather intense gaze on me.
I find it faintly ridiculous having a conversation with someone who has her limbs in such a twist, but I nod. “Sure. I understand.” I pick at my fingernails while she cycles through several more poses, each more perplexing than the last.
“So, are we performing or not?” she asks, staring pointedly at the bathroom door once her routine is done.
“Honestly,” I shrug my shoulders.
“It’s just, I’d like to know what to put on.”
“How about whatever you feel like.”
“Cool,” she agrees, and pulls a tie-dyed smock thing out of her bag.
I’m glad she’s happy. Me, I’m just very, very tempted to leave this room, head back to 423 and offer myself up as a temporary bassist for Paradise Kiss. It might not be a secure position, but at least I wouldn’t have to put up with anymore of Jessie’s tantrums, or Ivy’s ambition apathy. And I’d be part of a band with drive and a future ahead of them, because I’ve realised Bitch Slap are going nowhere.
And like that, all the joy drains out of me.
FOURTEEN
Nathaniel Darke
“I assume you’ve tried sobering him up?” Dane asks, leaning over the tub to take a look at Knox. My brother looks far too good for this hour of the morning.
“A cold shower didn’t fix him, nor has being dragged halfway around the hotel, or punched,” I say.
“That wasn’t a punch, it was a prod,” Joel interjects. He scowls at Knox, who is completely unaffected by the venom being thrown his way. “If you want me to try the latter, I’m up for it.” He climbs to his feet. As do I.
“Punch, prod, they amount to the same thing when he can’t defend himself, Joel. For fuck’s sake leave him alone.”
Lightning fast, Dane slaps us both around the ears. “Quit bickering.” His calm is unnerving. Usually, he’s the hot-head we’re both piling on trying to calm down. He gingerly prods Knox, but gets no response. “So I’m assuming we’re fucked in terms of turning up and playing for Graham Callahan?”
“Yep.” Joel and I respond simultaneously.
At least we agree on some things.
“Finish the song?” Dane asks me. He turns away from the tub and finds himself a perch on top of the vanity unit.
“Nope.”
“Which all means Bitch Slap are going to walk off with our prize,” Joel says, deliberately aiming to incite Dane’s wrath. “All thanks to the chug-monster there.”
Knox hasn’t even thrown up on him.
Astonishingly, my brother doesn’t bite. He’s obviously dropped a few Zen tabs since Callahan stated his terms. Instead, he just scratches at the stubble he has on his chin.
“Bitch Slap aren’t walking off with anything, Joely-boy.”
“Yeah, they are,” Joel grouches. “Thanks to imbecile here.”
“Quit pi
cking on him. He’s one of us, and we swore we’d stick together and support one another come thick or thin.”
“Hm, and how exactly is him being too fucking stoned to play, supporting me or acting in the spirit of togetherness?”
He slams his fist into the side of the bath, denting the plastic side panel.
“It isn’t. I accept that, but just because Knox has forgotten his promises, it doesn’t mean the rest of us are obliged to do so.”
“Useless, fucking, wanker!”
“Why don’t you just shout that a bit louder so the whole hotel can hear?” Dane snaps. “For God’s sake stop whining and use your noodle. We need to put our heads together and think. We’ve less than two hours. How are we going to fix this?”
“We can try and blag it,” I say, “Tell Graham Callahan that Knox is sick with food poisoning or something.”
“Chancy, though it’s an option for explaining his absence. It’s not a solution though.”
“If we attempt to play without him, it’s going to sound fucking weird,” Joel remarks.
“So if we’re going to perform we need someone to stand in for Knox. Any suggestions? And I mean decent suggestions. The guy from Bulldozer’s dire, and in any case, they’re all crashed out with hang-overs. They were mixing vodka and champagne last night, and I saw their vocalist in the gents’ lining up coke chasers.”
“Dave Twist can’t go more than a few hours without doing a few lines,” I say. He’s been like that since Bulldozer first appeared on the scene. “What about the two opening bands from last night. Anyone know them? I don’t. I’m not sure I could even pick them out of a line up, let alone tell you who plays what, or if they’re any good, and sadly I don’t have Lemmy’s number.”
“What about Flea’s?” Dane fires straight back. “Or Les Claypool’s. I mean one of them has to be free on a Sunday morning.”
I make a point of retrieving my phone from the counter and scrolling through my contacts list. “Sorry,” I apologise, having failed to find what we were looking for.
“Joel?” Dane prompts him. “You got any great suggestions?”
I look across at Joel and I know he’s just itching to say Loveday’s name. Thankfully, even he has sense enough to realise that Dane will just laugh in his face, probably prior to thumping him. It’s why Joel was seeking my support with the idea first, because Dane’s not going to welcome any sort of association with Bitch Slap.
“We could attempt to alter something or write something new that doesn’t require a bass guitar,” he suggests.
I nod. The idea has merit, and maybe if this was a Sunday afternoon, there was no pressure on us, and we’d all had a decent amount of sleep we’d manage to pull that cat out of the bag. In our present state of grogginess, we’ve zero chance of producing anything ear-worthy.
I shake my head. “There’s not time. Let’s not even pretend.”
Dane agrees. “Then we’re just going to have to roll with the food poisoning excuse and hope that Bitch Slap fuck up, guys.”
“Why would they?” Joel moans. He scratches at his mop of curly hair and gets his fingers stuck in the tangles. “Oh, fuck it! What about their bass-player? Can’t we poach her?”
“To battle against herself?” Dane stops short of calling him an idiot, but the twists and wrinkles in his expression get the message across just fine. “Why would she even consider it? Assuming it wasn’t a stupid idea anyway, and we’d actually want anything to do with her?”
Joel purses his lips and looks at me. “Why don’t you ask your brother, since he’s the one fucking her.”
“Joel!”
“Nate?” Dane rounds on me like a prize fighter. “Since when? Is that why you’re frickin nude?”
I ward Dane’s approach off with my arms. “She helped me get Knox in the bath.”
“You mean she knows he’s in this state?” He stomps around in the tiny space for a moment, apparently speechless. “We can forget using the food poisoning excuse then. Jessie’s going to make sure Callahan knows the truth. She’s probably on the phone to the tabloids already.”
“I hardly think they’d be interested.” We’re a virtually unknown group from the west country, newspaper readers aren’t going to give a shit that our bass-player smokes weed. In any case, you’re making the assumption that Loveday’s told Jessie. She won’t have done.”
I believe that with every fibre of my being, but Dane’s green eyes flair bright with scepticism.
“She won’t.”
“Ever consider that Loveday might have just screwed you to put you off guard?” my baby brother asks.
“His head’s not screwed on well enough for rational thought.” Joel heads out into the bedroom. The creak of a set of mattress springs, tells me he’s crashed out on one of the beds. Getting a few minutes rest seems like a sensible plan given there no longer seems to be any advantage to be gained in staying up.
I stand too, intending to follow.
“You fucked Loveday?” Dane says, through pursed lips. He blocks the exit with his body. “I suppose that explains why you have felt tip all over your arse.”
“It’s my theme tune.” I turn so that I can inspect the writing in the mirror, rather than attempt to wrestle my way past Dane. What I see reflected causes my jaw to slacken and my mouth to fall open.
“What is it?” Dane asks, brows furrowing in response to my astonishment.
She said it was my theme, that she’d heard it while I was inside of her. It is my rhythm. The damned one I’ve been searching for. It’s the missing bass-line to TL:DR written on my arse in purple ink.
It doesn’t matter if we perform for Graham Callahan anymore because we finally have our bargaining chip.
I look at Dane, and he looks at me.
“We’re sorted,” I say. “The song’s complete. It’s all gonna work out.”
FIFTEEN
Nathaniel Darke
Despite technically being six minutes early, we’re still the last to enter the function room, which looks even sadder in daylight than it did post show. As we cross the carpet, the same miasma of beer and damp, topped off with a hint of beeswax wafts up my nostrils.
We look pretty grungy this morning, Dane, Joel and I, all having pulled on whatever was to hand out of our bags. If Callahan’s looking for polished professionals, we’re already doomed, because it’s relaxed fit jeans and geeky T-shirts all round.
Speaking of the man, Callahan and his two assistants are seated before the stage in a line like we’re auditioning for a talent show. I almost expect him to have a megaphone so he can holler up at us, and yell, “Next!” The guy has definitely been watching too much Saturday evening reality TV. It begs the question, what sort of trial is he going to spring on us if we make it through to the next round? Boot camp recording studio in Borneo, maybe?
Bitch Slap are looking decidedly more sophisticated. They’ve turned up in their performance gear of leather, lace and expensive perfume. They’re currently positioned to the right of the stage, so we form up on the left, and I do my best not to stare across at them. It’s difficult not to seek out Loveday, though, given my heart gives such a kick when I think of her. No one has ever turned my world upside down in one night in quite the way that she’s done, and she doesn’t even know it.
If it wasn’t for her, I’d be contemplating slitting my wrists right about now.
I rub my tired eyes. Loveday has covered the effects of her late night with smoky eyeshadow and a coating of blood red lipstick. The colour makes me think of sex, of her down on her knees with her mouth wrapped around my cock and the lips, of her swollen cunt right after she’d come all over my face.
When I get a chance, I want to thank her in a way that makes her flush that colour all over.
Jessie notices me looking and glowers back. Although, she wears that frown so often, I’m beginning to think her scrunched-up pout is actually her resting expression.
If only this feud between her and Dane cou
ld be set aside, and we could all shake hands and wish one another luck. Just because the pair of them can’t get a handle on their emotions, shouldn’t mean that the rest of us have to suffer.
“Don’t even think of it,” Dane warns, when I put one foot forward. “Don’t think about her. Don’t go near her. Get it together.”
“I am together.” At least mostly, as much as my tired brain will allow.
“I need to speak to her at some point,” I say.
Dane shakes his head. “You don’t have shit to say to her. Not a goddamned thing.”
We’ve been over this particular point umpteen times in the last hour. Dane’s positive we need to keep the fact that TL:DR will include Loveday’s bass-line super quiet. He’s afraid that Bitch Slap will lay claim to the song, whereas my insides are knotted over the idea that by not telling her, we’re stealing her intellectual property. Just because the tune was written on my skin, doesn’t grant me licence to use it, or make it my possession.
And I’m no thief.
Besides, why would I screw someone whose friendship I value like that? Given what one night with her has produced, I’m more than a little eager to see what we can create when we’re not pressed for time.
“Nice of you to join us, boys.” Graham Callahan casts a weary glance at his watch. “I’d assume we’re ready to begin, but you appear to be missing someone. You were a foursome last night, I believe?”
“Yes,” I agree. “We are.”
“Knox. They’re missing Knox,” I hear Jessie’s mega whisper from across the room. I’m just praying Loveday hasn’t said anything about Knox to her. I cross my fingers and offer up a silent plea to whichever supernatural being might be listening.
“And is Mr. Knox joining us?” Callahan asks. He taps his pen impatiently against his knee.
“No.”
The pen stops mid-arch. “He’s not coming?” His beetle black gaze bores into me.
BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds Page 49
