“The only thing keeping my breakfast down right now is that I know you’re kidding.”
We both grabbed our towels to wipe off some sweat.
“You should’ve seen what my golden ticket almost landed Saturday night.”
“Almost?” I tossed my towel on top of my bag.
“Almost,” he grumbled. “I change my mind. ‘Almost’ is a much better title for my autobiography.” He shook it off—literally and figuratively. “But enough with the jealousy, loser. It just makes you seem more pathetic.” He didn’t even try to hide his sarcasm. “I posted a pic of Almost-girl on Instagram. If you knew what Instagram was, you could check her out and be suitably impressed. Or if you’d, say, actually still been at the club when I needed you, things could’ve turned out differently, and I would’ve invited you to have Sunday brunch with us. You’re a shitty wingman, you know that?”
“Sure, because me just being there would’ve guaranteed she went home with you.”
“Fuck, you’re probably right. If you’d been there, she definitely would’ve wanted to go home with someone. Except that someone would’ve been you, not me.” He finally put down his towel so we could start playing again. “Must suck being so damn good-looking. I can’t imagine how tough it must be to have to pick out which of your fangirls to take home. How do you do it? Oh, right—you don’t.”
I let him laugh. We’d been in these roles since we were teenagers. He made fun of my looks. I made fun of his intelligence. He was one of the brainiest people I knew—he just preferred to not let it show. At some point his brain had turned off just long enough for him to have the backwards realization that being seen as fun was better than people finding out he was smart.
“Where’d you disappear to that night anyway?” he asked.
“I grabbed a drink on the way home.” With an amazing woman who liked me so much she didn’t give me her number.
Trevor and the boys had stayed at the club after our set was done, enjoying the low-hanging fruit that came with being what the San Francisco Examiner had called “a promising new sound on the Bay Area music scene.” Bizarre, since we were actually from Southern California and had never officially lived in this area until two weeks ago. If anyone doubted that, they could read the apartment subletting contracts we’d signed for only three months because we weren’t sure how long we’d be here. Staying in the city had been our new manager’s idea. Booking gigs was easier for him because this was his home. Plus, San Francisco had enough live-music venues to give us exposure while not being as jam packed of up-and-coming indie bands as cities like New York and LA were. Or at least that’s how he sold the idea to Trevor and the guys.
Since landing the new manager, Self Defense was now touted as “a mashup of Green Day and The Kinks.” The praise was both bullshit and nerve-wracking. No way were we that good, and no way would we ever be as huge as those bands. Honestly, being internationally known was pretty much my worst nightmare. I was already uncomfortable with people recognizing my face or my music. I never thought it would get this far, let alone far enough to be compared to two amazing bands that’d broken records, relationships, and lives.
“Heads up.”
He was staring at his phone when I tossed him the ball, so it bounced right by him. I took the opportunity to disentangle Kitty from the pole I’d tied her leash to and let her explore more of the terrain.
“Seriously, did you take someone home or not?” Trevor asked, eyes still stuck on his phone. “Because if you bailed on us to go home and cuddle with your mutt I’m going to be unhappy.”
“If that’s what determines your level of happiness these days then you should be very, very happy right now.” I wasn’t trying to gloat, but I had a lot of confusing thoughts floating around my head, and it might help to hear what he thought I should do. And then do the opposite.
Kitty and I jogged over to get the ball, and I lobbed it back to him one-handed. Again, he didn’t even reach for it.
“Nice.” From the way he drew out the word and the slightly lecherous expression on his face, I knew he was referring to me getting laid, not my NBA-quality pass. “From the club we played?”
I shook my head. “I stopped by a little place just to check it out, you know, on my way home to cuddle with my mutt.” I glanced down at Kitty and grimaced, so she knew I wouldn’t have chosen that word if I weren’t quoting him. “I met her there.”
“First off, I’ve decided that from now on, ‘cuddling your mutt’ is my new expression for jerking off.” He slowly wandered over to the basketball and picked it up. “Second, since I got nothing but blue balls after you left me wingman-less, I deserve to hear everything that happened with the girl who pity-fucked you.”
“Pity fuck, huh? If that was her version of a pity fuck, I don’t think I could handle her respect.”
“Seriously? You’re such a fucking tease. Tell me everything.”
“I’m not telling you shit if you keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re going to be fantasizing about whatever I tell you the next time you cuddle your mutt.” Knowing he was jerking off to it would ruin all my memories of the best night I could remember having with the most amazing woman I could remember having.
He stood at the free-throw line and took a shot. It wasn’t even close. “Trust me, you’ve never, ever made an appearance in my head when my mutt was in my hand, bro.”
“That’s reassuring,” I muttered. As if I were going to thank him for mentioning a possibility that had never entered my mind before now. I released Kitty’s leash and let her go push the ball around the court a little. “Fine. I’ll tell you. But only because it’s the only way to shut you up about your puny, little mutt.”
“It’s incredible how well you know me. Start at the beginning and then skip to the good part.”
He’d better be satisfied with the PG-13 version. “When I want to pretend like none of this is happening and my life is still a little normal, I go somewhere no one will ever recognize me. So, obviously, it has to be a place that plays different kinds of music—country, blues, jazz, even show tunes. But not rock or alternative because…you know.”
“Because someone might know who Declan Hollis is? Oh no!” He opened his mouth up wide and slapped both sides of his face. “You’re such a freak, man.”
“Thank you, my friend. Means a lot.”
“Just keeping you humble. Okay, besides still not understanding why you’d ever not want to be recognized, I guess it makes sense.” Trevor called Kitty over, knowing she’d bring the ball with her. “Although, you could try wearing a big, furry mustache sometime.”
I got the hint when he took the ball away from Kitty, grimaced at the amount of drool she’d left on it, and shoved it into his bag. Game over. “If you quit this early, you’ll never get better.”
“True. But more importantly, if I quit this early we can get to the donut place before all the good ones are gone.”
I shrugged. “At least your priorities are sound.”
7
Declan
We took a different route back to our building so we’d pass our favorite donut shop. Luckily, the decision about what kind and how many to get distracted Trev from our conversation about Saturday night. Maybe he’d forget about it, and I wouldn’t have to tell him anything.
By the time we got there, he’d narrowed it down to a Boston cream-filled or a bacon-topped maple bar.
“Think I’ll do one of each. You want something?” he asked, knowing I had to wait outside with Kitty.
I nodded. “Big and black.”
“You’re talking about coffee or cocks?”
“Ha.” I took a breath. “Ha.”
“No judgment, Dec. I don’t care who gets your rocks off.” Walking backwards toward the door, he held up his hands and shrugged. “But until you mentioned this chick, it had been so long since you took a woman home I figured you didn’t like them anymore.”
“Wow,
” I said dryly. “It’s as if you can see right into my soul.”
“Must’ve rubbed off from all those sessions I had with your dad.” At least he could laugh at that.
I found it nearly impossible to laugh at anything having to do with my father. The only good thing the man had ever done for me was to accidentally introduce me to my best friend. And sometimes, knowing Trev as well as I did, I wondered if that was actually a good thing.
I couldn’t remember why I’d been at my dad’s office that day, but I do remember his look of annoyance and then-ten-year-old Trevor’s look of surprise when they saw me sitting in the waiting room. They’d just finished a therapy session, and my dad wanted to speak to Trevor’s mother alone. So for the next five minutes the kid and I stared at each other. It was Trev who’d broken the awkwardness, in the way I’d soon learn he dealt with any uncomfortable situation—with a joke. It had actually been an impression of my father and was just rude enough to make me burst out laughing. He kept me giggling until his mom dragged him out, and my dad started his lecture about appropriate office behavior.
A year later, on the first day of middle school, Trev and I met again. From then on, we were inseparable, despite my dad’s disapproval of me befriending one of his patients. I never found out why Trevor had been seeing my dad, or which of his issues had made his mom decide it was worth paying one of the most prominent shrinks in Los Angeles to fix. Eventually, our parents had realized nothing they said or did could stop us from being friends, so Trev had switched to another shrink. Or at least that’s the story my dad guilted me with. Not for the loss of his client, though. Nope, Dr. Andrew Hollis tried to make me feel bad for forcing my best friend to go to a lower-class doctor. Because, obviously, every doctor was lower class than dear old Dad.
“Knock it off,” I said as Kitty shoved her nose into my ass cheek, right where I kept her treats. “You ate them all at the park.” She sat down and pouted until she saw a line of ants on the sidewalk that needed some intense scrutiny.
“Hey, Trev?” I called. “Grab one of those doggie donuts they have while you’re in there.”
“You spoil that drooly mutt, dude.”
“Stop bitching—I spoil you, too.”
“Truth. Speaking of…my belly needs rubbing. But I think I’d rather have a tall blonde do it.” Laughing, the idiot patted his stomach and went into the shop.
Sara’s hair was blond, more pale than golden. Long enough to spread out beautifully across a pillow or fall like a curtain around both of us while she was on top, and we were kissing. But tall? Nope. Far from it. She had to be at least a foot shorter than my six foot two, maybe more. And every part of her was tiny. I loved being able to hold both of her hands in one of mine and use my other to tickle her and then make her moan.
Shit. I needed to stop torturing myself.
Maybe I should’ve claimed Kitty was an emotional support dog—something she’d been since I took her in two years ago—and gone inside with Trev. Because as soon as the door closed behind him, I had nothing more important to think about than that night. And that led directly to the fact that I didn’t get Sara’s number, had no way of contacting her, and would probably never see her again.
That’s why I wrote songs—to do something with all the shit floating around in my head that I couldn’t do anything about. It’s also why I considered Kitty an emotional support animal. She always seemed to know when I went too far down a bad road, and she knew how to bring me back to the real world, back to the here and now.
I ruffled the fur on top of her head. “You would’ve liked her, girl.”
Hopefully, I had some good karma left, and they would have a chance to meet. Right before I took Sara out for dinner and got to know everything about her. Especially how she could leave so fast after what was probably the most amazing night of my life. No way could it have meant nothing to her.
Trevor came out a few minutes later with a greasy bag tucked in the crook of his arm, his finger through the hole of Kitty’s treat, and a gigantic cup of steaming coffee in each hand. He dropped Kitty’s donut in front of her and handed my cup to me. About three seconds later, once all signs of the dog treat had disappeared, we started walking again.
“So, Saturday night...” he said with half a donut in his mouth. “While I was in dire need of a wingman, you met this girl at a...”
“Karaoke bar.” And, unfortunately, she’d told me that night would be her first and last time there. Leaving me with zero ways to contact her.
“Karaoke bar?” He cringed. “Those things still exist?”
“Look around you—everything exists in San Francisco. Even things you wish didn’t.” Ironically, we were passing through a section of the city that offered everything from male burlesque shows to tobacco pipes. Two streets away from some of the most exclusive and expensive mansions in the country, brick walls and shop windows were covered with ad posters for escorts, the revolution, and local music events, including an upcoming one of ours.
See Self Defense Live Onstage. As opposed to seeing us dead onstage, I guess. Actually, that would probably draw a much bigger crowd. Maybe I should float the idea past the band, our new manager, and whoever the fuck else controlled my every move.
“So, you met this chick at a bar that shouldn’t exist and—can she sing?”
“She can, but I’m not sure she should. By the way, calling women chicks stopped being cool at least a decade ago. I think they actually prefer to be called by their names now.” I feigned lack of understanding. “Weird, right?”
“Damn. What’ll they want next? Respect?” Trevor had the incredibly rare ability of being able to say something way over-the-top sarcastic without his face giving anything away. Neither of us had figured out a situation where the skill would be beneficial, but we agreed that, as soon we could think of one, he’d be ready to take full advantage of it.
“So, what’s this woman’s name, then?” he asked. “The one with horrible taste in forms of entertainment and even worse taste in men she goes home with?”
“Thanks, and her name is Sara.”
“Sara.” He paused, taking a moment to absorb all four letters, I guess. “And this Sara…she didn't recognize you at all?”
“Not everyone knows who I am, Trev. In fact, most of the time people call me ‘the guy who stands next to Trevor Finley.’”
His face lit up. “Really?”
“Yeah. I think we should change the name of the band: Trevor and a Couple Other Guys. Nice ring, right?”
“Fuck. I’d take anything.” He pointed at the poster-sized ad for an upcoming gig that had been stapled to the building’s stucco. The club’s logo was at the top, the pint glass of beer tipped over so the liquid poured onto an obnoxiously large graphic of our album cover. “You see that little guy behind the huge pic of your ugly mug? He’s way in back with all the other little guys. It helps if you squint.”
No amount of squinting made it any less obnoxious. Unfortunately, I’d been out-voted by our manager and his minions, as if not even my face belonged to me anymore.
“Meh.” I stared at the brooding, miserable-looking version of myself. It might have been one of the first shots the photographer took, or one of the last. Hard to tell since I’d actually been brooding and miserable the entire day. Ironically, most people got a bad boy vibe from my expression, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.
I shook off the memories of the whole unpleasant experience. “That’s just because I have better hair.”
“Wrong. It’s because you have better everything that counts on an album cover.”
Trevor wasn’t an unattractive guy. Neither was Pete. Sam was…not the best-looking guy I’d ever seen, but he was the best drummer I’d ever known. And I’d rather be good than good-looking any day of the week. Supposedly, I was both. Lucky me. Unfortunately, a band’s popularity was more about presentation than performance nowadays. So, my looks were abused at every opportunity, and my skills were rarely
noticed, let alone mentioned. Most of our fans didn’t even know I wrote all our songs. Or, more likely, they didn’t care.
“It’s not complicated.” I tugged Kitty’s leash so we could walk away faster. “Haircut, couple tats, and more outdoor exercise. That’s the difference between you and me.”
“Yeah, okay,” he grumbled. “Sure. Let’s go back to talking about your failures with this chick. I was enjoying that.”
“Sara,” I reminded him. “And it was a colossal failure. Seriously, like the biggest fail to-date—including that girl in sixth grade who kicked me in the balls and then ran off with her friends after I told her I was in love with her. What was her name again?”
“Lisa Burton. God bless that girl and her aim.” He put his hand over his heart. “That’s one of my most cherished memories. I wonder if she’s still cute.”
“She’s all yours, Trev. Neither my ego nor my balls could take another hit like that one. Plus, I’m not looking for anything serious.” I paused to wonder if that was true. Serious was different than real, and I could really use something real right about now. Someone real. Sara had felt real—literally and figuratively.
Fuck, she’d felt incredible, and we’d clicked so perfectly, and so quickly. As if we knew what the other was thinking.
Right up until she walked out. I definitely hadn’t seen that coming.
“I swear, as soon as I realized she was gone, and I had no way to contact or find her, it was as if my brain turned on a neon sign with the word commitment on it.” A neon sign that hadn’t been turned on in a really, really long time. If ever.
“Seriously?”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” I grumbled, shaking my head. A serious commitment was on the long list of shit I couldn’t deal with right now. “Would I like to see her again? Hell, yes. Regularly? Yeah. But we only had one incredibly hot night to get to know each other, so forever seems a little premature.”
Although, the more well-known the band got, the closer forever felt.
Immaterial Defense: Once and Forever #4 Page 5
