by F. X. Scully
Paula lets out a belt of laughter that sounds freaking bells and then hands me a cigarette. I'm still so stunned this poised, beautiful woman knows me that I take it, watching her every move.
"I manage The Yard," she says. "My twin brother's the lead singer."
"Oh, my god. You're Roland Yard's sister?"
She nods. "The honor and the torture is mine." Paula lights up her cigarette and leans toward me offering the tip of hers.
I shake my head. "Oh, no. I don't smoke." I squeeze my eyes closed. "Sorry. You just caught me off guard. Here."
She takes it back, blowing a white cloud into the air. "So this is your first rodeo, huh?"
I nod.
"Your boys are good. Really good. And I mean that. Roland and the guys have a talent, but Roscoe Gold." She raises both eyebrows. "Those guys are another level."
"Really? You think?"
"Don't you?"
"I mean, yeah. I just...I thought maybe I was a bit biased. I'm a huge fan. I have been forever, but I always thought they could do more than play at the little bar back home. Being out here on tour with them is like bigger than even my biggest dream."
"How old are you, Sheila?"
"Seventeen. Eighteen in June."
Paula's mouth drops open and she sits up straight, outing her cigarette and turning to face me. "You're shittin' me."
I shake my head.
"I mean I knew you were young when I saw you back in San Antonio, but I was thinking twenty-one, maybe even twenty-five. You're seventeen-fucking-years-old."
I laugh. "I am."
"And you're managing a band?"
I nod. "I'm tour manager, but yeah."
"Can I give you some advice?"
I shrug. "Sure."
"Lose the nice girl act."
"What?" I'm totally confused now. Maybe even a little offended.
"Anyone of these guys get wind of how young you are, they'll eat you alive."
"Oh, they know how old I am. When Roscoe hired me—"
"Not the band, honey. The fucking industry. You need to grow some melon-sized balls and fast. You can hide 'em under your skirt, but you better be able to whip 'em out when you need them."
My heart is beating so fast, I'm tempted to splay my hand across my chest. But based on the words coming out of her mouth, I struggle to hold my composure. "I don't understand," I say.
"Like I said, Roscoe Gold is hot. There will be assholes coming out of the woodwork and you need to be ready. Anyone of them will have a better deal than you could possibly ever have at this stage in the game. The band may have hired you, most likely based on your pretty face and hot body. Maybe even because you've got a little crush and believe in them or some shit like that, but don't think they won't jump ship if the offer's right."
I swallow hard, my head buzzing.
"Tell you what. I'll give you a tip. You need to make a grand gesture."
"Grand gesture?"
Paula nods. "Something so fucking big, they can't deny it was you. You need to own your position, so that if they ever get stupid enough to think they can make it without you, you have it to throw right back in their faces."
"Um, okay."
She reaches over and tilts my chin up. "Confidence, honey. Exude that shit like your life depends on it."
I nod. "So, what do I do?"
Paula presses her lips together, then takes out another cigarette. She lights it, smokes for another minute or so, then turns back to me and says thoughtfully, "Machete."
"I don't understand."
She nods. "They played the set after your guys back in Dallas. That band's a fucking mess. Like coming apart at the seams. Yet they're playing more shows than your guys will ever play. Their manager's ready to drop them, they cause trouble wherever they go and, you didn't hear it from me, but the only reason they even got a shot on this tour is because they know someone higher up. And good god, you heard them perform. Like fucking monkeys on chalkboards."
"So..."
"So make your case. Show Bill Fiennes that Roscoe Gold deserves more."
"How the hell am I going to do that?"
Paula shrugs. "Resources, baby. If you've got 'em, use 'em. If not. Get creative," she finishes with a sparkle in her eye.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you're young. You're cute. Still kinda innocent. You remind me of a cleaned up version of myself at your age. Wish I woulda had someone steer me in the right direction. I might be doing a lot more than managing my brother's garage band. Not that it isn't paying off."
"So you just want to help me?" I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms.
Paula chuckles. "Well at least you're observant." She flicks her second cigarette and turns to face me again. "No, Sheila. I don't just want to help you. I want to help myself too. If I have to deal with those Machete assholes another day I might pierce my own goddman ear drums. But mostly, I want to help you."
With that she gets up from the bench. "It was nice to meet you. Be sure and remember what I said. Own the band, use your resources, get creative. Oh, and don't say I never gave you anything." She blows me a kiss. "See you in Cali."
I return to the bus sometime later to find it full, but quiet. Paula's advice is still fresh in my mind and I'm reeling from everything she had to say. She came in like a guardian angel and I can only take it as a sign. I'm where I'm meant to be. No matter how hard it is.
The more I think about it the more she's right. I need to put my foot down. I need to show these guys who's boss, make them respect me. I also need to figure out a way to make this grand gesture. But I'm saving that for another day. Right now I need to rest and regroup.
As I remove my shoes and shrug out of my sweater, I don't say anything to any of them. Not Ryan who's tapping away at his Gameboy, or Dash who's shooting me an apologetic stare, or even Luke who's plugged into a Walkman. I just head straight to my room.
"Um," Luke's voice stops me in my tracks. "You might want to crash out here tonight."
And just like that, I've had enough.
I practically kick the room door open and the girl,—a brunette this time—who's straddling Roscoe, screams, pulling my blanket over her naked body.
"What the hell?" She scowls at me and looks back at Roscoe who doesn't seem the least bit affected by my intrusion.
"I need to talk to you, Ross." I keep a steady glare fixed on her as I speak, waiting patiently for her to get the hint, climb off him and start getting dressed.
At least she's quick about it. And Roscoe doesn't try to stop her either. It's almost like he's been waiting for this exact moment.
"Five days," I say between clenched teeth.
We're all gathered outside my room and each one of them looks almost fearful of my wrath—except for Roscoe.
"I've had to deal with skid-mark underwear, half-naked girls, dirty dishes, piss on the toilet seat," I wrinkle my nose, "whatever your natural scent is, and now this? Fucking in my bed?" I scream the last part, my voice getting so loud and so high, Ryan cringes.
I take a few breaths, trying my hardest to calm down. "I'm not...I don't expect things to be perfect or easy. I just expect...a little more..." I sigh loudly. "We've got eleven more weeks together. Eleven! How the hell am I supposed to put up with this for eleven weeks?"
None of them even speak and for the first time, Roscoe looks genuinely interested in what I'm saying.
"Sorry," he mumbles. Or maybe it's remorse. "I shouldn't have done that. The bus was empty when I came back earlier. And I figured, what the hell. I didn't know you'd be back so soon."
"Is it possible to not have sex with girls on the bus?"
Roscoe laughs.
"What?" I ask. "It's disgusting. I had to listen to Dash all night the other night. You guys may be used to it. You may have even enjoyed the show, but..." I shudder. "It's gross."
"We're rockers," Roscoe says with a shrug.
I roll my eyes. "Really?"
"You expect us not
to get laid once in a while? This is our home for the next three months. We can't just give up sex."
"I'm not asking you to, but could you find somewhere else to do it maybe?"
I can tell by their blank stares, I'm not getting anywhere fast, so I wave off my request.
"Can you at least do your dishes, pick up your underwear and put the seat down?"
At that I get a few shrugs and a "sure, whatever."
"We could leave her room alone, right?" Luke asks. "That's fair."
Roscoe looks back at him and for a moment they just stare at each other.
"Okay, here's the deal." Roscoe looks to the rest of the guys, then to me. "You're a girl. I respect that. You like things to be a certain way. So we'll clean up after ourselves. I'll wipe up the piss, but I'm not putting down the seat. After all," he says. "It is four to one. But from now on, Carlson's space is Carlson's space. We can respect that, right?"
The others nod and mumble affirmatives.
"We'll stay out of your room. But we reserve the right to have the occasional play date. It's only fair."
"Fine," I reply, making a mental note to invest in a Walkman of my own. "But occasional. Only during certain hours. And I reserve the right to request any of your guests leave if you happen to be...disturbing the peace."
It's not the best deal, but it's something I can work with.
Shannon
I settle into the chair, and he whispers in my ear, "You look beautiful."
"Thank you." I'm not sure my response is audible or whether or not my discomfort with this entire situation is evident.
I still can't believe he's back. Obviously, I expected it, but I wasn't prepared for how it would make me feel. Guilty as sin.
Dave sits across from me and rests both arms on the table, clasping his hands in front of him. "I'm so glad you agreed to do this. It's been a long time. And I know things between us ended badly, but I want you to know I never stopped thinking about you. I'll make it up to you, Shannon. Any way you want me to."
Whatever that means.
Other than the kiss when we were fourteen, Dave and I have shared a lot of firsts together. Some I remember much less fondly than others.
"So, how was Texas?" I ask. I've only seen him once since he got back from college. That night in the parking lot with Lucas.
Okay, Shannon. That's the last thing you need on your mind right now. The very last thing. Reel it in.
"Amazing," Dave's smile is so wide I can tell he's about to launch into one of those stories about football or something that will bore the snot out of me.
A waitress approaches our table. My saving grace. But Dave doesn't look away from me, so I take it upon myself to get the ball rolling. Not that I don't want to spend time with him. I'm just not sure I'm ready.
"What can I get you?" The redhead's smile is warm and friendly, almost mischievous. She reminds me of Sheila and for a brief moment I consider asking her to find me a way out of this trip down memory lane.
"I'll have a strawberry margarita," I reply.
It's no surprise when he raises both eyebrows. "I'll just have an ice water."
"Really, Dave?" I laugh. "Three years in Austin and you still don't drink?" I ask, as the waitress retreats. "Please tell me it's because you're pregnant." I snort. But I already know the answer.
He didn't do it when we were underage--he was too moral for that. No one bothered him about it either—well except for me. He was David Baker. Preacher Boy they called him. He always got a pass. He seemed physically incapable of doing wrong. He was too moral for a lot of things. I was the bad influence. My bad influence is what drove him away so quickly.
"I don't need alcohol to have a good time," he says.
And I roll my eyes.
"Come on, Shannon." He glances down at his wrist. "We've been here five minutes. Could you wait at least another ten before you start teasing me, mercilessly?"
"I'm kidding," I pat his hand. "That's good. I mean booze is no good for you anyway. They've got all kinds of calories, plus they make you stupid."
"Exactly," he says. He gets up to remove his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair. And when sits back down, his back is a little straighter. Dave places both elbows on the table. And I swear he starts to flex his arms. And for the first time, I notice the change in him.
He's not the David Baker I used to know. Not entirely.
I hide my smile behind my hand, but my eyes are a dead giveaway.
"What?" he asks, frowning just a little.
"Nothing."
"You've got that look. Like you want to say something mean, but you're stopping yourself." He gestures toward me, dramatically. "Out with it, you little brat. You're going to say it eventually anyway."
This time I can't help but laugh. He knows me too well.
I allow my gaze to rake up and down his upper body. "You're really filling out that shirt."
He really is. His arms are huge and his shoulders broader than I remember. His deep tan is no surprise though, and his pale blue eyes look like crystals in a display case. An extremely fine display case. What the hell happened to the guy I used to know? And how the hell did I miss this breaking news the other night?
I suppose I was a bit distracted.
"That's funny?" he asks with a grin of his own.
"Not at all." I drum my fingers on the table. "Is there something you want to tell me, David Baker?" Or maybe something you're trying to show me.
He shrugs. "What's to tell?"
"Oh, please," I sputter. "What? Were you in the gym every day? You look like a Texan Hulk."
Dave grins, then glances down at his chest. "I put in a few hours."
"A few?"
"Well, first I wanted to be sure I could keep up with the team. College football's no joke. But then I kind of got addicted. By second year I didn't have much of a choice. College girls are..." He lets out a sigh. "Let's just say I had to work my frustrations off somehow."
I laugh so hard a few people turn our way. Dave shushes me and I cover my mouth again.
He may have the body of a football god, but apparently not much has changed.
I suddenly find myself resenting him, the one my mother has always considered my perfect match. After I helped him tarnish it, he somehow managed to hold on to his halo for three solid years. We were toe-to-toe until the other night. Then along comes Lucas and I'm ready to toss mine over my shoulder. After one night, I did.
"It's okay," he says with a brighter than normal smile. God even his teeth look whiter and straighter. Like they've been re-engineered by the Tooth Fairy herself. Or maybe it's just me. "You can laugh all you want. I've got a system and it works. Plus, now I look better than ever."
I nod. "This is true."
There are exactly seven minutes of awkward silence before the waitress finally returns with our drinks. I mumble a thank you and down the first quarter of mine in about thirty seconds. A dull ache spreads behind my eyes, but it feels more like relief than discomfort.
Dave silently sips his water, before asking, "Are you okay, Shannon?"
I frown. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because of Sheila."
I nearly choke on my margarita. We haven't told a soul. I don't even think Mom told Dave’s mom. They're too embarrassed to admit to a thing. Reverend Carlson's daughter running off into the big bad world at seventeen? I for one thought they'd be more worried. Unfortunately their more worried about how it'll make our family look. Grandma's influence more than likely.
"What about Sheila?" I ask casually.
Dave lowers his voice. "It's okay. I know. Your dad's pretty broken up about it. Sometimes we talk."
"Oh." That, I didn't expect. He's always admired my dad, but I didn't know they were buddies. "Um...no. Not since the night she walked out."
"She's never called you? Not since she left?"
"No." I'm the last person she wants to talk to.
"Wow. That's odd. You guys are pret
ty close. I mean, she tells you everything right?"
"Were pretty close," I say, narrowing my eyes. "Like I said, we haven't spoken in a while." I ease back in my seat, suspicion creeping it's way to the surface. "What exactly is going on here?"
"What do you mean?" Dave waves the waitress back over.
Oh, my god. This is such a set up.
I push my drink away. "I guess I should've seen this coming. This weird restaurant instead of the bowling alley." I shake my head. "I mean, why would you drive me all the way out to Pullman for dinner, unless you were trying to butter me up?" I scowl. "David, you little punk. Are you serious, right now? My parents? Really?"
Dave's face flushes a bright red.
"You're supposed to be a mole. Aren't you?" I'm laughing now. "They think I'm talking to Sheila. Well I've got news for you, David. My sister hates me. She has ever since...that day. And nothing's changed. She's not contacting me in secret. I have no idea where she is and I've spent every day, since she left, wishing she would just call me already so I can apologize for the umpteenth time. But she won't. So I can't. You can tell them that." I jump from my chair and grab my purse. "And the next time they want to ask questions about their daughter, they can do it their damn selves."
Even though I've driven all the attention in the restaurant toward me, I continue my angry promenade toward the exit. I was actually starting to have a good time. And this whole time it was about Sheila.
Sheila. I clench my teeth.
As much as I love her, she's gone too far. You don't walk away from your family like that. No matter how mad you are you suck it up and figure it out. I'm tired of the way this bratty kid is ruining my life. And I'm finished making excuses for her. I'm going to find her and bring her to justice if it's the last thing I do.
Dave turns the radio down and clears his throat. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have agreed to any of this. I feel like an idiot."
"You should."
"I just...this whole thing is really eating away at your parents and I can tell it's doing a number on you too."
I cross my arms over my chest, staring out the window, still refusing to look at him.
"But we were kind of having a good time back there, right?" He nudges me. "It's really nice to hang out with you again. Despite the circumstances. I'd like to do this again sometime. Without pretenses. And, hopefully, as more than friends."
