by Daisy Allen
My eyes narrow at him. He can shove what he wants right up where he doesn’t want it.
“But I know, your job isn’t to please me.”
He’s got that goddamned right.
“But it is to please me,” Phil speaks up.
“So what am I here for?” I try to say lightly, not wanting them to hear my impatience.
“You’re here to accept your new assignment. Six weeks following the band, covering the launch of their new album and their European tour,” Phil says, without a hint of a joke.
“No,” is my immediate response, shaking my head. Over my dead, rotting, stinking body.
“Yes. It’s the kind of assignment you’ve been begging me for,” my editor says plainly.
“Abso-freakin’-lutely not.” My head shakes are double time now.
“Give me one reason why not.”
“Because I’d rather have my intestines sucked through my nostrils and then wrapped around my throat than be a glorified groupie.” I don’t add, “To my ex-best friend slash one-night stand.” It’s probably not pertinent.
“You won’t be a groupie, you’ll be reporting and writing an in-depth piece on the Rock Chamber Boys, music’s biggest stars right now,” Dennis says, seemingly oblivious to the ridiculousness of it all. But I know him. Even eight years ago he was wily as a fox.
“Says you,” I sneer.
“Says the two Grammys they just got, and an album they’re about to launch that’s going to get them their third one.”
I scoff, because it’s the closest thing I can do to show my disgust without having to lie and say they suck. The truth is, he’s probably right.
Fuck. Any other band and this’d be my dream come true. As it is, nightmarish would be the only way to describe it. Why them? Why now?
“Emily. This isn’t a chance I’m going to give you again,” Phil says, softly, but firmly. “This is it. And it’s perfect for you. The kind of article you want to write, about the music you want to write about. You have this unexplained chemistry with the band. Don’t give up this opportunity. I can’t say if it’ll ever come again for you.”
I know he’s right. I take a step back and take Dennis’s spot on the couch. Is there any way I can make this work? Can I just focus on the job for six weeks and then move on? Do I really want to regret not taking this assignment? My phone beeps and I look down. Notifications fill the screen, among them I see news headlines, “Journalist calls Grammy winners glorified cover band”; “Rock Chamber Boys Tainted Love Battle.” I can’t help but feel a thrill at the recognition.
“So. How ‘bout it?” my editor presses.
I know I should be thanking him. He’s been supportive of me from day one. So he should know why there is more than one reason why taking on this assignment is impossible for me.
“Phil…you know why I can’t go galivanting around Europe for six weeks at a time,” I say pointedly.
“I know, and we’ll do whatever needs to be done so you can make it work.”
“But—”
“No, stop thinking of reasons to say no. Just say yes.” Yes. Say yes, Emily, my head tells me.
“Exclusivity?” I ask Dennis.
“Well, we can’t stop other outlets writing reviews and even articles, but you’ll be the only one coming along for the tour.”
“I want total access.”
“Is that your way of saying yes?” Dennis asks, a smile starting to spread across his face.
I take a breath. And hope I don’t regret my answer. “Yes.”
Chapter Seven
Brad
I’ve always felt as if I have two sets of ears. One of everyday noise, and one for music. How my brain decides which is which I don’t know. Because sometimes I find the most beautiful melodies in the most mundane of life’s experiences.
I remember one time almost being late for school because I was riveted by the metallic percussive symphony of a garbage truck going about its business on a cold winter morning—the crash bang clang of its talons clamping around the cans, and then the deep mechanical whirl of its pistons firing as it lifted its cargo into the air.
Rattle rattle rattle like maracas as it shook the contents of the can into its cavernous body, then, with a low, dull thud, like a muted timpani, it placed the can back on the ground, before taking a gas-cloud breath and moving onto its next victim. Over and over, the same musical pattern as the truck lumbered down the street, creating a rhythm against which the rest of the waking neighborhood’s sounds danced.
Music is everywhere. You just have to know how to weed out the noise.
A kick to my shin brings me out of my daydream, and I see the boys are ready. They roll their eyes at my wandering attention and lift their bows in preparation. A nervous shiver runs through me, and I take a breath that fills my lungs and leaves no room for anything but anticipation.
I make the count in my head.
One, two, three, four.
I pull my bow. And then there is nothing else in the world.
The opening to our new album, our four-string arrangement of “It’s a Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World,” has fast become one of my all-time favorite pieces. All four of us playing that sound blast in the very beginning, and then cascading down in a dizzying rollercoaster of notes.
Then we break apart. Jez and Seb’s cellos pound out the strong pulsing beat as Marius’s viola weaves in and out between us, and my violin belts out James Brown’s melody.
We have no vocals, no sung lyrics; the meaning has to come through the soul in our fingers, our instruments, the pauses in our notes, the fluttering highs and pounding lows. I close my eyes and let my fingers do their thing. They know what they’re doing, just get out of our way, I sometimes hear them tell me.
The burn on the tips of my fingers thrills me as we come to the chorus.
Marius throws me a quick look out of the side of his eyes, and I know what he wants. I nod and I see him take a breath as his bow dances over the strings, taking over the melody and I drop back, strumming an arpeggio, bum bum bum bum, the soft driving beat to match the quickening pace of all of our pulses as we race to our finish.
James Brown’s face flashes in my head, the image of him making love to the microphone in his iconic way, looking down at us approvingly, as we make his song our own.
We mirror the beginning, notes cascading over and over each other in a gushing waterfall of sound, and then with our bows pulled in unison, one brilliant note. And then silence.
I freeze, the quiet after the cacophony of music is just as important as the sound.
“Fuck,” I can’t help exhaling, as I drop my instrument. “That was good.”
“Yeah, it’s cool when we all finish at the same time,” Marius quips and we all laugh, the seriousness of the performance broken. And it is serious. For all our banter and joking around, music is our life, and the reason we’re still together after all these years is because we all take it very seriously.
“Good changeover there, boys.” Seb gives me a wink as he throws a bottle of water to me. “Maybe try taking it up a fifth sometime? Just for fun?”
“Fun? You’re not supposed to be having fun!” Dennis’s deep voice booms over to us and we turn toward the rehearsal room door.
“Yethhh mathhhhterrrrr...” Jez drops to the ground at Dennis’s feet in a grovel as our manager enters the room, a stack of papers in his arms.
“Get up, turd for brains!” Dennis swats at his cellist with the papers as Jez reaches out and grabs for his ankles. “Anyway, I guess it sounded decent from all the way down the hall. Keep it up; you’ve got a long tour ahead of you. The longest you’ve done yet.”
His threat makes us turn to each other and grin. It’s all we’ve ever wanted to do—live on the road with nothing but us, our instruments...and a bunch of adoring screaming women. Now we even get to do it in style.
“So. Good news or bad news first?”
“Good news! And then stop!” Marius suggests
.
“Fine. Good news is...” Dennis starts, trying to get through his news before the inevitable happens.
“You’re getting a hair transplant!” Jez interrupts.
Too late.
“Your new mail-order bride from Sweden is coming!” I can’t help but add my guess.
“And she’s bringing her twin sister for Marius!” Sebastian adds to the mayhem.
An empty water bottle sails through the air and lands on the side of Seb’s face. “Shut up, wank-breath! I can get my own Swedish mail-order bride.”
“Are you done?” our unusually patient manager asks calmly.
“Depends, did any of us guess right, or should we just keep going?” I ask him.
“I’m glad to see you’re in such a good mood, Brad. Because you’re especially going to love my news.”
“Oooh, it’s a Swedish mail-order bride for Brad?” Our viola player pokes his tongue out at me, unable to resist taking another dig.
“No.” He pauses. And there’s something in the look of his eyes that makes me feel a little uneasy. “It’s his friend, Emily.”
And all I can see is white.
What?
“What?” My mouth slowly catches up with my brain.
“She’s coming with us. On tour. For six weeks. For an editorial write-up on you guys. She’ll have full access to you. All of you. You’re welcome.”
With that, he gets up and practically runs out of the room, the door slamming behind him.
“What. The. Fuck?” Jez articulates what’s written all over my face. “If that’s the good news...what the hell was the bad?”
***
“Dennis! Wait up! Jeez you run fast for an old man!” I yell, stopping only to grab my splitting side.
He stops but doesn’t turn around, waiting for me to catch up to him.
“What the hell? Emily is coming on tour with us? You know that can’t happen!”
“I don’t know anything of the sort.”
“You saw what happened at the press conference. She’ll eviscerate us.” Not to mention the evisceration that happened after the press conference.
“I saw her stir up interest in you guys if that’s what you mean. Do you want me to remind you how much coverage we’ve gotten over this?” He stares me down, and I can’t help feeling like a diva throwing a tantrum. The truth is, he knows, he knows why. He knows why this is bad for me. Me. But as always, the band comes first. We’ve always wanted him to be that way, begged him in fact. We had one another to worry about each other. His job was the band.
But the news is shocking on two fronts.
“Dennis. I tried to talk to her afterward. She wouldn’t even give me the time of day, and now she’s coming with us on tour for six weeks? What happened?”
“Her editor made her an offer she couldn’t refuse?” He shrugs, his face giving away no more information than that.
“Doesn’t sound like her editor was the one making the offer.”
“Look, do you trust me or not?”
“You know I do, we all do.”
“Then trust me on this. This is going to be a good thing. I wouldn’t put the band in jeopardy.”
“And me?”
“I’m not your babysitter, Brad. Anyway, isn’t it time you sorted this mess out for good?”
He gives me a look that tells me that he thinks I should, whether I’ve realized it or not.
Six weeks. On tour with the girl who broke my fucking heart. Just when I was getting used to not having her in my life.
Chapter Eight
Brad
Eight Years Ago
The squealing feedback from the mic is lost amongst the sound blaring from the speakers. The music from our instruments engulfs everything in this balloon- and streamer-filled ballroom.
My bow is torn to shreds as I pull it back and forth over my strings. In the corner of my eye I can see the sweat streaming down Jez’s face as he takes the solo. His fingers strike like lightning over the fingerboard. Marius is spinning around on the spot, his nervous energy needing an outlet, his viola resting on his shoulder, waiting to be played. Sebastian shouts out to the crowd, waving his arms in the air and they follow. Me, I just take it all in. I could do this for the rest of my life.
Angus would be twirling around in his private school uniform if he could hear our strings-only rendition of “Highway to Hell” right now.
Taking advantage of my break as Jez blisses out, my eyes wash over the crowd. Familiar faces writhing and bouncing to our music, our farewell performance to our classmates. One last hurrah on the prom night stage to catapult us into our adult lives. We’ve learned so much about performing and music on this stage. About each other and what we can create together.
But for all the emotion between me and the other three standing just right near me, there is one more face I want to share this moment with.
Where is she?
I scan the dance floor from left to right, row by haphazard row. I see friends catching my eye and throwing me a wave, but I’m ignoring them. They’re all the wrong face.
Where is she?
“Do you see her?” I shout to Marius.
Without missing a beat, he gestures his head to the right of the room.
And there she is.
Arms raised over her head, eyes closed, completely lost to the moment, to the music. Dressed in a skintight white leather dress, she looks like an angel sent to tempt the most pious of men to fall. Even from here, I can see her tongue dart out to run over her dark red lips, moistening them, making them shine. I hardly need tempting; I’m ready to fall. To jump into her.
Every inch of my skin buzzes, remembering the feel of her body against mine last night. Her hands on my face, my arms wrapped around her. Our mouths, finally quiet long enough from our usual bickering to meet in an epic kiss. God, those lips. Those delectably supple and moist, pouty, gorgeous, lips.
And then she was gone.
Stopping the kiss as suddenly as it had started, she’d run out of there. Leaving me panting for her. For more.
“Let’s wrap it up, boys!” Seb calls over to us, reminding me I’m on stage.
I drag my eyes away for her to join in with my boys in our big finale. The crowd fills in where our instruments leave off, raising their hands and voices. “It’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock ‘n’ roll!” they sing as we go crazy, fingers and bows dancing a crazy jig over our strings.
With one final earsplitting note, it’s all over. The resulting sound is overwhelming as the music dies and the crowd of our friends and classmates continues to roar, almost deafening me. My bandmates run to the edge of the stage, bathing in the adoration. I, however, have other immediate plans.
As soon as I see Marius drop his viola, I throw him my violin and jump off the stage.
I know how tonight’s going to end, and it won’t be by her running away from me. I push through the crowd, even as they try to close in around me.
“Let me through guys, there’s someone I gotta see!” I yell, desperate to not waste another minute.
I push bodies aside until I finally get to her. She stops me in my tracks with a half smile playing on her lips. God, she’s divine. Her skin is radiant with the soft glisten of sweat from dancing, her cheeks glowing with a gently pink flush.
“Butter,” I say, her name sounding different than it did only one day ago.
“Brad,” she says, and then nothing more.
And for once I’m speechless. I can’t find the words to say what I want to, need to.
“Good show. One of your best,” she says. I nod in acknowledgment of her praise, but I don’t want to talk about the band.
“Y-You look amazing.”
“Um, thanks.” She wraps her arms around her body, as if trying to hide it. And all I want to do is rip them from her, along with every trace of material, jewelry, anything that hides any part of her from me.
“About last night…” I start.
She holds up a hand, stopping me. “Yes, about last night. You were drunk, so let’s just forget it ever happened.”
“No.” I shake my head and take a step forward.
“Brad.” She holds her hand out, stopping me from coming closer.
“No, Butter,” I say, taking deep breaths trying to remain calm, when all I want to do is drag her like a caveman back to my cave and make her moan with pleasure and want. “I’ve waited years for last night and now you want me to forget it? Are you crazy?”
“It shouldn’t have happened. I was upset about Silas... and I needed some comfort and you were there.”
“Stop it, Butter!”
“Stop what?”
“Making it less than it was! You came to me last night. Me! And we kissed. Us! Don’t tell me it didn’t meant anything.”
“It meant that...you are my best friend. And that’s what I needed last night. That’s all.” Her hand comes up to her throat, to stop the shaking of her voice.
“Bullshit.”
“Whatever. I stayed just to listen to your performance, and let you guys know you did a great job.” She notices my eyes watching her hands and she moves them behind her back, making her back arch, and her breasts curve tight against her leather dress, her nipples hard against the fabric. I almost moan out loud. Taking advantage of the pause in our argument, she twirls around on her stilettos and heads for the door.
“And you dressed the way you are because?” I call after her.
She stops, her back still turned to me.
I come up behind her, the heat of my chest against her bare back. My fingertips run down the curves of her hips and rest around her waist.
“You look so hot, I think I might spontaneously combust,” I whisper against her neck, feeling the tiniest shiver flutter up her spine. “Are you trying to tell me it’s not for me?”
She sighs and for a moment I feel like her body is giving in to me. She pushes back a little, her ass grinding against my front making me instantly hard, her head falling back to rest against my shoulder. I can see the errant wisps of her hair gently blowing every time I exhale.
