“Nothing is forever,” Trevor said. “Not fame, not women, not even your pretty face—so don’t worry about it. If you really want to get her, maybe you should send her something romantic yet practical. Like a therapist with a bow on his chest and a big bottle of anti-psychotic meds.”
I slugged him. “Maybe. If I knew where to send him. Except why would it work on her when it didn’t work on you?”
“Fuck you. I’m the healthiest mental patient you know.”
“Considering the people we know, that’s saying a shitload.”
“Forget her, man. You’ll find another soon, maybe even a normal one.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I hadn’t met a sane woman in years, so what was the chance that Sara wasn’t crazy, too? Obviously, she had issues. So, maybe it was better this way, after all. Between mine, Trevor’s, and the other guys’ I already had more than I could manage.
8
Declan
I’d been joking when I told Sara I’d be spending the rest of the week telling myself what a fuck-up I was. It wasn’t as funny on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. And by Thursday it was just sad.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her and wondering what I’d done to make her run away so fast. I considered myself a decent guy, but I’d be lying if I said I’d never slept with someone and regretted it the next day. But it had never been because the chemistry was too strong, or because I was too interested in getting to know the woman better. So, no matter what issues she had, I couldn’t avoid taking her frantic escape personally. I’d thought our connection was deep enough to at least warrant meeting up for coffee…that would lead to another amazing night of getting naked and sweaty with each other...that would lead to a quickie in the shower and then maybe a full week of getting dirty with each other again.
Of course, there was a strong possibility all my woeful pining was because she’d managed to bruise my pride. Since I didn’t bruise easily, maybe my ego was making me remember things that hadn’t actually been there or weren’t as good as I remembered. And the things I remembered were really, really good.
All to mask that what we’d really had was just a really good night together, one she’d been able to easily brush off, one I’d hoped could be more.
Shit, I sounded more and more like my father every day. Next thing I knew, I’d be charging myself four hundred bucks an hour to talk to myself.
Trev, Pete, Sam, and I spent most of the morning with our agent, Doug Blackstone. “The man who’s going to make Self Defense a household name,” as he’d first introduced himself. My response had been to suggest we just change the band’s name to Tide or Sony and save him the trouble.
Today’s meeting involved a lot of hype and promises of six-figure contracts with a big label. The guys ate it up while I just sat there, wondering where on the six-figure scale we were talking. There were a lot of numbers between 100,000 and 999,999. I wasn’t greedy, but a hundred grand after taxes, equipment, and travel expenses the label wouldn’t cover, minus Doug’s cut, and then split between the band’s four members meant we’d all be better off getting jobs at Starbucks. At least then we’d get free coffee.
But music had been the dream ever since Trev got me and two of our friends together in his parents’ garage back in high school. He’d promised an all-you-can-eat buffet of women, pointing to posters of our favorite bands and saying, “Do you think those guys ever have to work to get girls? No way. Music is like crack to women. Something in their DNA.”
Ten years later, he was still spouting the same shit. To be honest, I’d never had to work very hard to get a woman’s attention, and I didn’t think it had much to do with the music. If anything, being the lead singer of a rock band with a decent-sized following made relationships harder. A woman’s naked body was a thing of beauty I’d never tire of, and I had absolutely nothing against two people using each other for sex. But nothing turned me off faster than knowing a woman was fucking me just to be able to say that she’d banged the lead singer of a band. Was it wrong to want someone who hadn’t decided to go home with me until after she’d actually met me? Or even seen me in person?
But Trevor was my best friend, and I knew how much he wanted this. So, I’d stuck by him through a series of other guys joining up, fighting, and walking out before we finally found a group that worked. I’d listened to hours and hours of wrong notes and screeching amps until Trev had learned how to play the guitar. The guy dealt with some serious issues, but once he decided what he wanted, he worked his ass off until he got it.
“I need to call my mom.” Pete shifted in his chair to get his cell phone from his back pocket. “She’s going to fly off the rails.”
“You can’t tell her over the phone, man.” Sam snatched the phone out of Pete’s hand. “It’s gotta be in person. With the rest of us there.”
I guessed Trevor and Sam were doing the same thing I was—imagining the dance Pete’s mom did every time the band got good news. Doug was the only one who didn’t laugh. He’d been our manager for about five months, but he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Lopez.
“Tell her we’re coming to Sunday dinner this weekend,” Trevor said. “We can rent a car and drive down there.”
“I fucking hate you guys,” Pete growled, grabbing Sam’s arm and taking his phone back.
“Why?” Trevor asked innocently. “She’s an awesome cook. Plus, it’s not our fault—”
“Shut your mouth right now!”
“That your mom is such a—”
“Don’t say it!”
I jumped out of my chair and got between the two of them before the inevitable happened.
“MILF,” Trev finished loudly.
“Oooh, boy.” Sam covered his face with his hands but didn’t stop laughing. “He said it.”
“Oh, Mama Lopez,” Trevor mimicked. “Guess what happened!”
Pete reached around me, trying to get ahold of Trevor. “You motherfucker.”
“Not yet, but if we go to Sunday dinner...” And, like always, Trevor had to keep poking the bear. “Does that mean I have your permission, Petey? I didn’t want to say anything, but I think your mama wants me to be her dirty little boy.”
“Knock it off, Trev.” I grabbed Pete by the shoulders, trying my best not to laugh because it would only encourage Trevor and piss off Pete more. But I couldn’t deny the truth—besides being the band’s biggest cheerleader and an amazing cook, Pete’s forty-five-year-old single mom was also smoking hot. And no man—other than her blood relations—wouldn’t have enjoyed watching her celebratory dance routine.
“Are you guys done?” The seriousness of Doug’s tone shut us all up.
“Come on, Doug,” I said, gently pushing Pete back into his seat. “You just told us a couple labels are interested in us. That’s news worth celebrating, right?”
“Definitely good news.” The insincerity of his smile was blinding. “You guys have a funny way of celebrating, is all.”
Not sure what he expected. So, the guys were a little happy drunk. Big deal. They’d just come back to reality after spending the last two months acting out all their teenage fantasies. Being on tour was hard work, especially since Self Defense didn’t have a label to pay roadies to carry our shit around and set it up for us at each venue.
The bright side of having to do everything ourselves was being able to control what we did in our free time. After our equipment was where it needed to be, sound checks were good, and we’d finished doing any local promotion spots Doug had set up, we had about fifteen minutes to do whatever the hell we wanted.
Of course, the second a show ended until we woke up the next day we were truly on our own. That meant a lot of nights involved getting drunk, being surrounded by women who were willing and able, and having no one to rely on except ourselves and each other.
Now, after two weeks of reality in a city we didn’t know, Doug shared his impossibly good news and expected the guys not to get a little slap-happy. While I was the only one w
ho seemed to be wondering just how full of shit our manager was, I couldn’t help but pick up on their great moods.
“So, what now?” Trevor asked impatiently.
“Now, you keep doing what you’ve been doing.” Doug stood up from his high-backed leather chair and went to his “Wall of Fame,” which consisted of large black and white photos of him with other bands he’d managed and some big record producers he’d met. He straightened the picture of him at the Grammys, standing in a small group of other managers and a couple of producers, including Jay Z. “Perform well, give those beautiful fangirls something to talk about on social media and leave comments on YouTube, and start writing a lot more songs to show whoever we end up signing with. Show up”—he turned around to glance at each of us in turn—“on time to the gigs, interviews, and photo shoots I have lined up for you, and stay out of trouble.” His gaze stopped on me. “And get Declan to start posting some damn selfies on your social sites already, would you?”
“What’s a selfie?” I asked innocently.
When his eyes narrowed, I leaned down and slowly retied my Converse.
“If you guys can do that,” he continued, “my team will take care of everything else. My girl has already given a schedule of your upcoming shows to all the interested labels. So, hopefully they’ll all have a chance to see you in person over the next few weeks, maybe months.”
I was the only one who didn’t groan. Probably because I’d been silently groaning since he started talking.
“Months?” Sam whined.
“What can I say?” Doug shrugged. “That’s how it goes. They don’t need you as much as you need them, so we take what we can get. And believe me, you’ll be thankful for that time once the ball starts rolling. As soon as the ink dries on the contract, don’t expect to see your families for a while.”
We all looked at each other. Besides Pete’s mom, we were pretty much all the family each of us had.
“What’s the worst-case scenario?” I asked, knowing the look I’d get from the guys. And I got it.
“Damn, Dec,” Trevor said, rolling his eyes with far more drama than necessary. “Way to be optimistic.”
Doug responded before I could. “Declan’s right to wonder. Even though my gut is telling me that I’ll have a contract in my hand soon, nothing is for sure. Which is why I’ve already told my team to start working on Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“In a couple of months, you go back on tour—more cities, bigger venues, larger crowds, more media, and another round of waiting.”
Pete and Sam shrugged.
“That’s Plan B?” Trevor asked, smiling. “Shit. When I heard ‘worst-case scenario,’ I imagined sore knees and my mouth being stuck in this position”—he made a large O with his lips and pantomimed giving a blowjob—“so I’m good.”
The guys cracked up. They were riding high right now, even after hearing Doug’s timeline. They couldn’t imagine a possibility that didn’t end with a contract, while I was hoping for one.
“That’s Plan C.” It was the first time any of us had heard Doug make a joke, so it took a second for us all to realize it was one.
“Let me know if you need to practice, Trev.” Bouncing his eyebrows in parodied seduction, Pete grabbed his junk.
“Okay, that’s all I have for now. Just do what I tell you to do, and we should be good.” Doug opened the door, stepped back, and motioned for us to leave. “Oh, and keep your noses clean. The last thing we need right now is any press that makes you look like you’re hard to work with. Got it?”
The guys answered with a mixture of “Yessir,” “Aye-aye, Captain,” bad salutes, and excited smiles as they walked out.
When Doug flicked his head and held up his index finger to me, my shoulders tightened. Somehow, he’d completely missed the fact that I detested him. The last thing I wanted to do was spend one more minute with him, especially without the other guys around me to act as buffers.
“You coming?” Trevor asked.
Doug shooed him away. “I need Dec for another couple of minutes. He’ll catch up.” The asshole just left it like that—no explanation. So, the look of suspicion on Trev’s face didn’t surprise me at all. What did surprise me was that it was directed more at me than Doug. I wasn’t the shifty one here.
I didn’t know what Doug wanted, but I felt the need to make up an excuse and lie to my friend. “Let me guess, it’s about my wardrobe again. Dude, I’m not going to stuff my junk into leather pants just because some guy you hired thinks it’ll make me look like trouble.” Yep, the stylist Doug had hired to ‘define our image’ had actually said that. Well, his exact words to describe me in leather were hot and sexy as sin, but I wasn’t going to repeat that shit out loud. The guys had laughed hard enough the first time.
I kept bitching about leather pants and chafing until Doug closed the door on Trevor’s face.
Then I was done pretending. I cared about my friend’s feelings—not the asshole’s. “What the fuck do you want from me now? I’m writing what you want me to write, playing what you want me to play, doing everything your way.” To the point where nothing of me was left. Yep, I’d sold out down to the penny.
“I need to know if you’re ready to leave those idiots behind.”
I shut my eyes, wondering why he’d “forgotten” to mention any of this while we were talking about worst-case scenarios earlier.
For months, I’d followed his fucking advice for the good of the band. Saying okay to everything Doug claimed would give us a better chance of making it big. Not for Doug, and definitely not for myself. I’d done it for the guys he’d just called idiots. Hell, maybe they were idiots sometimes. But at least they were going after what they’d always dreamed of. That’s more than Doug or I were doing. I doubted Doug’s lifelong goal was to be surrounded by ugly-ass office furniture, smoothing his greasy hair, and pretending he knew anything about music. Or even liked music. Unless when he was a little kid, he dreamt of growing up and becoming a shallow, narcissistic asshole.
As for me? Well, it’s hard to go after a dream knowing it will ruin three other people’s attempts to get theirs. Plus, I still hadn’t figured out exactly what I wanted, anyway. “Not this” wasn’t specific enough to fuck over my friends for.
So, until I had a plan, helping the guys reach their goals didn’t seem like a bad way to spend a year or two. I just wished it didn’t make me so miserable.
“Tick tock.” Doug tapped the expensive watch on his wrist. “Just say the word, and I’ll have a producer and a recording studio booked in ten minutes. Ten minutes after that, I’ll have the album cover done, and you’ll be opening up for Fall Out Boy.”
Even if he weren’t lying through his teeth, it would be impossible.
“How exactly would I write a full album of songs in ten minutes, Doug?”
“You wouldn’t have to. We’d change up Self Defense’s songs a little and use those.”
I nodded slowly. “Leaving the guys with nothing to play.”
“Oh, come on, Dec.” He shook his head with all the condescension he could manage. “You know they’re not what I’m selling. Let’s do this right, man. Who knows how big you’ll get. Fuck, someday, Fall Out Boy could be opening for you.”
I’d let him talk too long. He was actually starting to believe I might say yes.
“No matter how many times we discuss this, or what bullshit you promise me, I’m not leaving the other guys behind.” The only reason I was in this to begin with was because of them. I sure as hell wasn’t in it for myself. So, going solo would never happen, even if it wouldn’t crush Trevor.
“You don’t seem to understand what I’m offering you, Declan.”
“Believe me, I understand. Which is why it’s never going to happen. So stop asking.”
“There’s a limit to how much of their shit I’m willing to put up with. You wait too long, and I might just give up on all of you. Then, when you come crying to me, begging for another sh
ot, guess what I’ll say.”
“Um…” I squinted, pretending to give it some thought. “Exactly the same thing I’m saying now: No.”
He shook his head, his lips smashed together. A single sad chuckle jerked his chest. “Then you’d better make sure none of those idiots pisses me off too badly. Or it’s over. For good this time.”
He said it as if I’d be sad to see it all end. Hell, maybe that was my best way of getting out of this cleanly—make it someone else’s fault that everything fell apart. Nah, it wasn’t worth the risk. Not after what had happened after our last big shot had gone bust. Nothing was worth living through that again.
“Is that all?” I asked. “Or do you want to tell me how tight my pants should be for the next show?”
“That’s it. Until you smarten up, at least.”
Asshole. “Why don’t you go ahead and start calling me an idiot, too? So you get into the habit.” I slammed the door on my way out. It didn’t make me feel any better. Not a lot did these days.
Trevor was the only one waiting for me. “What was that about?”
I considered telling him the truth, but it would do more harm than good. Trevor wanted this. No, Trevor needed this. I couldn’t be the one to ruin it for him. If I were the one to kill his dream, it would be my fault if he shoved a bottle of pills down his throat again. Fortunately, I’d been there in time to get help last time. Unfortunately, I’d been partially responsible. I’d been his best friend and had missed all the clues that seemed so clear in hindsight.
I’d had no idea how bad he was hurting back then. But I swear he hadn’t stopped smiling since the band started getting more popular. Ironic, since that’s the same thing that made most of my smiles disappear. The difference between us was I knew I’d come out the other side okay.
Until then, I could put up with a lot. As long as I had something to love and something to hope for, I could live through almost anything.
9
Declan
Immaterial Defense: Once and Forever #4 Page 6
