by Kim Holden
He’s motioning with his fingers like he wants more. “Gimme three.”
I hand him two more and he takes them immediately, unwraps them, and pops them into his mouth. He talks while he’s chewing. “I don’t know, Impatient. I thought I wanted this, but now that I’m here I don’t know if I do.”
“Paxton’s really excited to watch you guys play.” It’s the only encouragement I feel like I can offer that will make a difference. And it works.
He smiles, a genuine grin. “He is pretty stoked.”
I nod again and smile. “This is probably the best night of his entire life. And I’m not just saying that.”
He nods again. “What about you?”
“I’m pretty excited, too.”
“You don’t have to lie to me.” He doesn’t sound hurt, he’s just being honest.
I push on, even though it’s hard for me. “I’m not.” And suddenly, I feel a surge of energy. This is about him finding himself again, and I need to help him believe he can do it. “I want to watch you play your guitar. I want to listen to you sing. This is my first Rook show. I want to be impressed. Show me what you’ve got, rock star.”
He smiles. “That sounds like a challenge.” He winks. “I like a good challenge.”
“You do?”
The smile remains, but it’s transforming into something far more sexy. “Hell. Yes.”
I surprise myself when I add, “So do I.”
He echoes, “You do?”
I nod. My entire life has been a challenge. But this? This is a different type of challenge, one that I’m beginning to accept, despite my fears.
He stares at me for several seconds, and when his eyes drop to my lips, all I want is for him to kiss me. That’s all I want.
But then he turns away and drops his feet to the ground outside the truck. I think he’s going to walk away and leave this conversation unfinished, but he turns back to me and says, “You might be sorry you said that, Impatient, because, like I said, I fucking love a challenge.” With that he shuts the door and walks to the back of the truck to meet Paxton. And he leaves me sitting here feeling feverish in such a good way. I might be in trouble.
The bar is small inside. Gus said it will hold two hundred, but I don’t know how. By the look of the place, nothing's ever been fixed or updated, from the dark wood walls, to the torn vinyl booths around the perimeter of the room, to the worn, uneven, wide-planked wood floors. It smells like a brewery. I can’t imagine how much beer has spilled on and soaked into the floors over the years. This place is a real dive, and it's amazing to think that Gus and Rook got their start here, when they've played some of the most well-known venues in Europe and the States.
Paxton is in his glory, helping the band bring in their equipment and set it all up. He’s wearing one of the Rook T-shirts Gus gave him, and I know for a fact I’ve never seen him happier than he is tonight. I wish he could live this for more than a couple of hours.
I hear voices near the entrance, and I can see the bouncers turning away mobs of people at the door. Everyone wants in to see Rook play. Paxton and I were going to watch from backstage, but Paxton wants to be out in the crowd. So after the stage is set, we find a spot amongst the masses of people already gathering in the audience. Being in the middle of all these people makes me uncomfortable, but I’ll do anything to keep that smile on Paxton’s face.
When Rook takes the stage, the place erupts. I’ve never heard anything like it. If adoration has a sonic equivalent, that was just it. It’s love. Mad love for this band. And it makes me smile. Paxton is jumping up and down, yelling, and clapping. Yup, I’ve never seen him happier, not that life always calls for this kind of excitement, but this is what I want for Paxton every minute of every day.
Gus clears his throat as he approaches the microphone and he smiles, but something is off. His eyes are searching the crowd and the intensity in them doesn’t match his smile. “Hello San Diego!” he calls out. “It’s good to be back at Joe’s!” His eyes are still searching. “We’re gonna play a few songs for you tonight. But, before we get started I need you to bear with me a minute.”
A woman near the front takes her shirt off and swings it like a lasso over her head. Franco is laughing from behind his drum kit and points a drumstick at the woman in only her bra and says, “Not that kind of bare, but I love your enthusiasm, chica.”
The crowd laughs, but Gus still looks intent. He’s not seeing or hearing what’s going on around him. His eyes are still methodically scanning as he calls out, “Pax, where are you?”
Paxton starts waving his hands over his head. Usually he’d be embarrassed by this kind of attention, but I think the excitement has outshined any hint of shyness.
When Gus spots the waving hands his eyes lock with mine and he points at us before crooking the same finger, calling us to him. “I want everyone to give the stud in the Rook shirt and the pretty girl with him some room and let them move up front.”
Paxton grabs my hand and starts pulling me through the crowd. I’m bumping shoulders with everyone we pass and everyone’s staring at me, which is usually a nightmare. And though I still feel a little self-conscious, I can’t stop smiling while a blush heats my face … because Gus just called me pretty. He called me pretty to a room full of people. I know this shouldn’t be a big deal. Beauty is on the inside, blah, blah, blah. I know that. I preach it. It’s my mantra. I’ve repeated it to myself for years. Repeating and believing are two different things. And when you grow up not feeling pretty, then when something like this happens … it’s huge.
When we stop directly in front of him, up against the stage, I finally look up. He’s staring down at me and his smile has transformed. It’s real. It’s the smile he wears after he’s surfed, or played with Spare Ribs, or watched the sunset, or hugged Audrey. It’s bone-deep contentment. It’s my favorite version of Gus. I smile back to let him know I’m with him and that I’m proud of him. And then I say, “Thank you. Show me what you’ve got.”
His smile grows and he winks. “Challenge accepted, Impatient,” he says into the microphone.
He strums his guitar twice, glances back at Franco, and nods. And just like that it begins. For the next hour I watch Gus own that stage. Challenge accepted indeed. From my place up close to the stage, I’m in awe. I can feel the bass and the drums thumping inside my body, and I’m close enough to reach out and touch Gus, if I wanted. I can feel the heat of the stage lights, and the sound of the music seems to pour over me. My eyes roam over every square inch of him, taking it all in. This whole experience is sensory overload.
I watch his feet move from one side of the stage to the other while he’s playing his guitar, before they come to rest in front of me at his microphone stand while he’s singing. And when he sings his words seem to seep in through every pore and fill me completely. I don’t hear them; I feel them. I feel every word, every syllable. His voice, his delivery, it grabs ahold of me. The emotion in his voice makes my heart feel like it’s going to burst. He is so passionate. And holy shit is it sexy.
As the performance goes on, I find myself shamelessly checking out his ass in those jeans every time he walks away from us. I can’t believe I’ve been living across the hall from that ass for months now and I’ve never noticed how spectacular it is. And the way his chest perfectly fills out the T-shirt he’s wearing, his biceps tugging and stretching the sleeves, seems totally new. I watch his taut forearms tighten and flex with constant use.
And his hands. His hands. Watching his fingers manipulate that guitar, bending it to his will, he manages to make it scream … or sing. I know music is visceral, but my imagination is running wild watching those hands. How they would feel on me. What they could do to me. Jesus, suddenly I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. I thought there was attraction before, but now I’m blatantly staring at the bulge in his jeans and full-on fantasizing. All I feel is need. So. Much. Need. The kind of need that’s demanding relief.
And every time
my eyes meet his face again, it’s as if they’re being pulled there. I realize that he's staring at me, and the look in his eyes is sinful and playful and so, so naughty. It’s fueling the crowd.
And it’s fueling me.
I don’t know how long they’ve been playing. It could be tomorrow already for all I know, and believe me I’d stand here all night long and watch him, but when he pulls his guitar strap over his head and separates himself from it, his shirt is drenched with sweat. He pulls the shirt over his head, and the women in the crowd whistle and scream as he huddles up the rest of the band at Franco’s drum kit. The cheering of the crowd continues as they talk, and though we can’t hear what they’re saying, the look on all of their faces has turned serious. When they break apart, Gus walks over to the edge of the stage, grabs a stool and his acoustic guitar, and returns to the mic. After he adjusts the stand, he takes a seat and strums his guitar a few times before he speaks. While he speaks, he absently tunes the guitar. “So, we recorded this song a long time ago, but we’ve never played it live.” He shrugs while he says it. It sounds like an admission and an apology all at once. “Hell, we haven’t even played it as a band in a very long time, so we’re gonna do our best to not fuck it up, but don’t throw shit at us if we do. Deal?” The crowd yells their agreement. His eyes drift from the neck of his guitar, when he’s satisfied with the tuning, to me and he smiles nervously. He’s looking for support.
“Show me what you’ve got!” I shout, and smile.
He nods and his smile warms as he speaks into the mic. “This song is called ‘Finish Me’.” He tips his head back until he’s staring at the ceiling and takes a deep breath and then he says something no one can hear. Then his chin drops and he starts strumming his guitar. It’s just him now, and the sound is breathtaking. It’s slow, passionate, and almost eerie. By the time the rest of the band joins in, I’m lost in it. And when he sings, I’m drowning. Drowning in the depths of the emotion pouring out of him. It’s raw and it’s pain and it’s love, pure and fearless. He’s drawn me in. I’m on the inside, the inside of this storm of emotions. I grab Paxton’s arm and hold on with both hands as if I’m going to get pulled away in the tidal wave washing over me. And when it’s only Gus strumming his guitar again and it eventually dies out, it hits me. His grief hits me. He wrote this song about Kate, that’s why they haven’t played this song.
He couldn’t play this song.
But he just did.
And it was the most beautiful, angry, powerful thing I’ve ever heard.
But his eyes, his eyes are shining. There’s relief in them. And pride. And love. So much love that I can’t keep from smiling at him.
He smiles back at me, and when he does I know he’s going to be okay. This was a step he needed to take. And he didn’t just take the step … he crushed it. He played the hell out of it.
And the best part is … he knows it.
The crowd swells into massive applause, cheering their enthusiasm and filling the place with noise. Gus smiles, wipes his brow, and clears the stool from the stage. He exchanges guitars, and takes his place behind his mic stand again, adjusting the height. He looks lighter than I’ve ever seen him. He’s standing taller. He looks out at the crowd and his eyes scan the entire room. As he does, a smile blooms on his face, and his eyes fill with light. Biting his bottom lip, as if to contain an even bigger grin, his eyes drift upward as he says, “That was for you, Bright Side. I hope you were watching, you little shit.” The rest of the band claps and laughs with him. He turns and looks at Franco and I see his shoulders rise and fall in a deep, cleansing breath. The cheers have quieted down, and I hear him say, “Fuck, that felt good,” before turning back and addressing the crowd. “We’ve got one last song for you tonight. And I’m gonna need all of you,” he gestures to the audience with both hands, “And I mean, every last one of you, to sing with me. Let’s fucking kill the sun, shall we?”
The final song causes the crowd to erupt into chaos, and I’m loving every second of it. I don’t know the words to the song, but judging by the deafening volume, I’m the only one. Everyone in the room is singing. For that three minutes, I feel like I’m part of something huge. And for the first time, Gus’s tattoo makes sense. Because this … everything I see … everything I hear … everything I feel … it’s epic.
Gus.
Rook.
They do epic.
The show wraps up just as the clock strikes midnight and Gus calls out, “Thanks for coming out tonight. You’re the best fucking crowd we’ve played for in ages. Now go celebrate, you badasses. Happy New Year!”
Paxton and I grab a couple of Cokes while Gus and the guys talk to their fans after the show. They sign autographs and take photos for about an hour, after which we help them break down their equipment and load it in their vehicles.
The ride home is filled with one-sided chatter. Paxton talks the entire drive. I’ve never seen him like this, so animated, and energized.
When we get home, the house is unusually quiet. Audrey is in Chicago celebrating New Year’s Eve with Dr. Banks. Paxton hugs Gus and thanks him again for the fifth or sixth time and retreats to the basement to go to sleep. It’s two o’clock in the morning. I should be tired, but my body and mind won’t quiet down. If it wasn’t so late I’d probably go for a run to burn it off, but instead I offer to make Gus something to eat. He wants grilled cheese. So I make four sandwiches and pour two glasses of milk while he takes a shower. He returns wearing only a pair of shorts and we sit on the stools at the island in the kitchen to eat. My ear is ringing dimly in the silence. It would probably be annoying if it wasn’t a reminder of what I just experienced. The memories are all running through my mind: the sounds, the visuals, the feelings.
The silence seems to offer respite from the rowdy evening to Gus. So I give him time to reflect, or not to think at all if that’s what he needs, while we eat. But as we’re finishing up our sandwiches, I break our peaceful quiet time. “Thank you.”
He looks at me, talking through chewing his last bite. “For what?”
“For making Paxton’s year.”
He’s not good at taking compliments. He looks down at his plate, but a bashful smile breaks out. “He did have fun, didn’t he?”
“I’m telling you, this was the best night of his entire life. Ask him in the morning, he’ll tell you.” It makes me smile just thinking about it.
Gus glances at me and his expression is apprehensive. “What about you? Did I meet the challenge?”
I lick my lips. “And then some.” I’m nervous all of a sudden. He’s sitting on my right side. I never let people sit on my right side, with a full view of my scars. I turn fully on my barstool to face him.
Before I speak, he places a hand on each knee and spins me back to my prior position facing forward.
“Why did you do that?” I ask.
“Because I never get to see this side of you.” He gently touches my cheek, my scar, and a finger traces it.
Though I fight the flinch, my eyes instinctively squeeze shut and tears prick the backs of my eyelids. My chin drops and I pull my lips between my teeth and bite down trying to ward off the emotion that I know is coming. When I no longer feel his touch, I take a deep breath and open my eyes.
He’s staring at me and there’s no judgment, or disgust, or pity in his eyes. “I showed you a different side of me tonight. It’s your turn.” His voice is quiet and gentle. Gentler than I ever would’ve imagined he could be.
I give him a disingenuous half smile. “Our other sides are very different.”
He glances down thinking for a moment before he reaches out and grips my knees and turns them toward him again so I’m facing him. When he scoots to the edge of his stool he doesn’t let go of my knees. His legs are spread. A knee touching each of mine to the outside. I’m looking down at his hands on me and our tangle of legs pressing against one another, when he says my name to direct my eyes back to his, “Scout.”
Scout
. When he says my name it sounds like a promise. And my entire body reacts to it, both physically and emotionally. He’s searching my face, and out of habit I look away again.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do, though I have to fight the urge with everything I have to not look away.
“I’ve been hiding from performing for a long time now. Hiding from that other side of me.”
I shake my head to reject his misgivings, because he was born to perform.
“What?” he asks.
I’m still shaking my head adamantly. “You shouldn’t hide. What I saw tonight ... ” I sigh because now I’m getting emotional thinking about it and I know he doubts himself way too much, so I need to say what I can to convince him otherwise. “You, up on that stage. God … it was incredible. Your voice, your music … just your presence … was amazing. You asked if you met the challenge earlier … but damn … ” I hesitate. “ … You blew me away.”
He’s still staring at me, with no hint of a smile. As he leans forward slightly, the pressure on my knees increases and with it I feel the air around us charge. His eyes drop to my mouth before finding my eyes again. “Maybe you see my other side differently than I do. What you just described ... ” He shakes his head. “That can’t be me.”
I cock my head in disbelief. “Why not?”
“Because I’m always doubting my talent. I’m always questioning whether I’m good enough. Hell, for over a year I couldn’t even write a new album.”
I want to shake him, but I tighten my hands into fists instead. “How can you even say that? You’re the most talented person I’ve ever met. And you did just write a new album.”
He takes my fists in each of his hands and gently pries open my fingers. “So, basically what you’re saying is I should tell all the doubt to fuck off, because I’m better than I think I am? That you see me differently than I see me?”
I lock eyes with him and I nod. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
He squeezes my hands and raises his eyebrows to emphasize his point before he even says the words. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, too.”
