No, the voice whispered. All will be fine. Simply wait.
Again, the voice was calm and reassuring, and Johnny felt that it knew the right way to proceed. But what was going on? Had he finally snapped? Why was he getting private messages in his head?
“What are you?” he asked.
He felt rather than heard some vast, dark merriment, and then the voice:
Why don’t you call me Johnny?
***
Case walked up the stairs to her second-floor apartment with Brad following closely behind.
Action, she thought. No thinking.
She stopped outside her door, put her guitar case down, and got out her keys. She turned the key in the lock.
No thinking. Just doing. There had been a time in her life—most of it, really—when that was all she did. She had just acted. She’d gotten in a lot of trouble and fucked a lot of people over, but she had never felt any remorse over it. People made their choices, and if they didn’t always deserve what they got, they usually came close enough. She’d moved on to the next thing, and so had they.
That sort of thing piles up after a while, though. Yeah. You couldn’t live like that forever. Eventually you had to stop, stay put, and live with your mistakes, or at least you did if you were serious about being a musician. It was tough to get gigs when you changed towns every eight or ten months.
She pushed the door open. She could feel Brad’s presence, a faint warmth just behind her.
No thinking, she reminded herself. Not now. All that thinking, all that consideration wasn’t doing her any favors lately. Or maybe it was, but the favors were the slow kind—goodwill built up over months rather than wiped out with careless words and anger before it could get started, friendship that required more patience than she’d ever demanded of herself outside practice. If there was gratification to be had from all this effort and patience, it sure as hell wasn’t the instant kind.
No. And there’s a time for instant gratification. That would be right now, in case you weren’t paying attention. She could feel—or imagined she could feel—Brad’s breath tickling her neck, and she wondered how his hands would feel on her skin.
Case picked up her guitar case and went in.
The place was a mess, but she didn’t care, and she doubted he would either. She passed the light switch in the kitchen—too bright, too glaring—and turned on a lamp instead. Then she slid the guitar case behind her beat-up secondhand sofa and turned around to face Brad, bringing her eyes up to meet his directly. He might have been hesitant before, but he didn’t flinch now. He stared right back, hungry. His lips—full, almost swollen-looking—were parted ever so slightly, and his breath came rapidly. Case felt suddenly warm.
No thinking.
She shrugged off her jacket—an old jean jacket, since Johnny had taken custody of her leather one—and let it drop to the floor. She raised her eyebrows in a silent question or maybe a challenge, and then she slouched back against the wall and waited.
He needed no further invitation. A moment later, he stood in front of her, leaning down as she tilted her head up—and he stopped. He hesitated, but this wasn’t his earlier uncertainty. This was deliberate. He stopped, close enough that now she could feel his breath, those swollen, exquisite lips just waiting . . . waiting . . .
She let him wait. His breathing grew louder, and his shoulders trembled when he let a breath out. Two breaths. Three. He put his hands on her waist, and now she stopped breathing. She had expected soft, office-boy hands, but his fingers were hard and callused and rough against her skin, deliciously, intoxicatingly so, and she gasped as he slid them up just under the hem of her shirt.
She leaned in, brushed her lips against his so lightly that it was more of a faint electricity than a touch at all. Now he moved toward her, but she pulled back from the kiss even as she pushed her hips against his body. A low moan, warm and musical, escaped his throat. She bit her lip.
Then his hands were moving again, pushing her shirt up below her breasts, tracing lines on her body that set fire to her nerve endings and raised goose bumps all the way down to her feet.
She grabbed his shirt in both fists (and had it been an ugly shirt? could she even remember?) and pulled him to her, and now, finally, at last, he brought his mouth down to hers. He was teasing, then insistent, then teasing again, and now it was her turn to make a noise.
She tore his shirt open. Buttons went flying, bouncing off the carpet, skittering across the kitchen linoleum. He laughed and helped her pull her own shirt off, then pivoted neatly, sitting on the arm of the couch and pulling her after him. She stood in front of him as he nuzzled and gently bit the skin of her neck. A mischievous impulse seized her, and she put her hands on his shoulders to shove him backward onto the couch—
And then, for no good reason she could see, an image occurred to her. Danny, meeting her eyes as she left the bar, then downcast and miserable as she turned away.
It was as though somebody had switched her off. All the electricity drained away, faded just like it did when she turned off her amplifier, with a little sound that died away so quickly you weren’t sure you’d really heard it. Her body stiffened. She saw Brad in front of her, half dressed and somehow ridiculous now, his eyes half lidded, his lips pursed and mouth open.
“What?” he asked, and the ridiculous expression was gone, replaced by one of confusion and anxiety. “What did I do?”
NO THINKING! part of her screeched. Push him down on the couch and LET’S GET ON WITH THIS! But it was no good. Sex had lost all its appeal all of a sudden, and it wasn’t coming back.
Case snatched her shirt up off the floor. “You didn’t do anything,” she said, busying herself with her shirt so as not to look at him. “You were great.”
His brow furrowed, eyebrows pressed together. “I’m always happy to hear that, but usually it comes later in the evening.” He tried on a grin. “If at all.”
“It’s not you, it’s me. Really. This may be the only time you’ll ever hear that from somebody who really means it.”
He sighed. It was a lost sound, and maybe a little resentful. She could hardly blame him. “How reassuring,” he said. “So I should probably go, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He stood up.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Case said. “This is . . . It’s just been a fucked-up night, you know?”
He shrugged. “It happens.” He put his hands in his pockets and stood awkwardly for a moment. “So I’m going to leave a card,” he said. “If you feel like it, call me.”
“You still want me for the session?” she asked, surprised.
“Yeah.” He took a couple of steps toward the door. “And, you know—I’d like to see you again. Maybe we’ll go a little slower next time.”
“That would be good,” she said. The words sounded harsh. She softened her tone. “I mean, I’d like that.”
“All right. See you later.”
“Later.”
He left.
Case lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling. No thinking? Ha. She had a feeling she was going to be doing a lot of thinking that night. A whole lot.
***
Danny came back to the table after a brief conversation with the manager, the evening’s take in his pocket. Amazingly, the manager seemed willing to talk about future booking—must have been a good headcount, Danny thought, because three-quarters of the band had nearly been involved in some kind of brawl that Danny had half-observed from across the room.
“You ready to go?” he asked Gina. She nodded vigorously. He took her hand and navigated her through the sea of people to get to the door.
Once outside, Danny tried to get a read on Gina’s emotions. Her face was strained and tired, the way it had been the last couple of times she’d come to a show.
“Headache?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Not bad. The earplugs helped.”
“Oh. Good.” They walked past a couple of other clubs. Dance music t
humped in one of them, making the windows vibrate and the reflections shiver. He led Gina around a puddle of yellow vomit on the sidewalk, still studying her face for some reaction. He saw nothing besides slight disgust at the puke on the ground, but then even that was gone.
It took only a few minutes to get to her car, but it felt much longer. Finally, Danny had to ask, if only to get something from her, some indication of how she felt about . . . anything.
“So. What did you think?”
Now she looked at him. She looked calm in the darkness, but then the headlights of a passing car swept across her face, and Danny’s heart clenched like a fist. Her face wasn’t calm—it was frozen. Deliberately still. Who knew what currents pushed and pulled beneath that surface?
Glass smashed somewhere, and a man started shouting.
“Do I need to be worried?” she asked him, face still unreadable. Danny knew she wasn’t talking about the noise, or about the fight that had nearly gone down earlier.
“About what?” he said. He tried for casual, but his voice was higher than normal and reedy.
She only looked at him, face still impassive. Frozen or maybe chipped out of stone.
“No,” Danny said. “You don’t have to worry. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“See you at home,” she said, and she got in the car.
Danny stood in the dark lot and watched her drive away.
Chapter 14
Johnny pounded the stapler with his fist and got a nice, satisfying chunk! out of it. It was two days since the last show, more than three weeks before the next, and he knew it was mostly a waste of time to put up flyers this soon, but it gave him something to do while he wandered up and down Commerce Street, searching. Waiting.
Whatcha waiting for, John? the voice in his head asked.
“Please be quiet, Johnny,” he told it. “I don’t feel well.” It insisted that he call it Johnny, for whatever reason. He’d messed with it a couple of times since it had announced itself, addressing it first as Tony and then later as Captain Howdy, and each time it had sulked for hours. If sulking had simply meant that it shut up and left him in peace, that would have been okay, but instead it had felt like there was a pressurized thundercloud in his head, threatening to storm and rage. He tried to avoid pissing it off now.
Negotiating a truce with the voice in his head. I’m cracking up, he thought. It didn’t feel like he was cracking up, though. Maybe that’s how it is for everyone who cracks up, did you ever think of that? Who the hell knew? And, anyway, he couldn’t do anything about it.
Come on, John, it said. What are we doing here?
Johnny sighed. Best to just humor the damn thing. “We’re looking for Douglas.” He reached another bulletin post, covered in the tattered remains of half a hundred posters, and came around it, out of the shadow to where the streetlight shone. He tacked another flyer up.
In his head, “Johnny” chuckled. Douglas. Is that what he’s calling himself now? Cute. What do you need him for?
Johnny looked down the street. This part of town was dead on a Monday night, and it was a good thing, too. The last thing he wanted was for random strangers to see the deranged man running around downtown with a stapler, talking to himself. It was a good thing, but not a comforting one. Johnny didn’t like this area on an off-night. It was partly that he felt like a target for a mugging or a festive, unmotivated drive-by shooting, but that wasn’t all. Seeing this place without the crowds and the noise, the neon in the windows and the thump of bass from every third building, was like seeing the back of a stage set. No, it was worse than that, more of a . . . a transgression. It was like seeing your mother naked—you knew it had to exist in this state sometimes, but witnessing it crossed some boundary that shouldn’t be crossed.
He slammed home another couple of staples. “I’m hoping he can tell me about you. Maybe he can tell me if I’m losing my mind.”
He’s a has-been. A miserable old failure, trying to make his amends before the end. Talk to him if you want, but he’s got nothing for you.
“Great.”
Anything I can help you with?
“You can tell me what the fuck you are.” Johnny crossed the street, heading through an alley over to Elm. Even the graffiti looked bored tonight.
I told you. Think of me as your guardian angel.
“Right.” They’d covered this ground a few times, and so far “Johnny” had claimed to be his guardian angel, the Ghost of Christmas Past, the voice of God, and even his conscience. That last was sort of bleakly funny, considering, but Johnny didn’t laugh. He didn’t want to give the voice the satisfaction, particularly considering that its sense of humor worked in only one direction.
Another corner, another couple of flyers tacked up at haphazard angles. He heard the footsteps as he stapled the last corner in place, and he turned.
Douglas stood there in his faded jeans and a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He squinted in the streetlight.
“Hey, Johnny,” he whispered. “Sounded good the other night.”
“Thanks,” Johnny said. His questions had gone from his head, and he stood stupidly, staring at the old man.
Ask him about the whore, the voice said. Ask him about the heroin—see how he likes that one!
“Shut up,” Johnny said. “Jesus.”
Douglas gave him a half-grin, but the swagger had gone out of his face, replaced by something like melancholy. “You hear him, huh?”
“Loud and clear.” Johnny stuck his finger in his ear as if to clear it. “You knew about this.”
A nod.
Johnny wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. At least he wasn’t losing his mind. “What—what the fuck is it?”
Transmissions from Jupiter! the goddamn thing yelled inside his head, loud enough that he flinched.
“Does it matter, Johnny?”
“Huh?”
Douglas walked around Johnny, putting his back to the light. Dark hair fell over half his face. “It’s your voice, Johnny. The one that does the singing.”
“I didn’t sign up for this,” Johnny protested.
“No?” Douglas’s voice was the sound of bricks sliding together. “Did you check the fine print? How about we get out a copy of the contract and have a look?”
“There is no contract. You know that.” You get what you pay for doesn’t mean a damn thing, Johnny thought, the words of the song dragged up from wherever he’d shut them away. He shivered.
“Ah. Well, near as I can tell, you got everything you wanted out of the deal, so I don’t know what you’re bitching about.”
The voice in Johnny’s head laughed. I guess he told you, huh John? Not bad for an old fucking FAILURE!
“I didn’t get everything I wanted. Do I look famous to you?”
Douglas’s eyes, black and depthless in the shadows, never wavered from Johnny’s. “Not yet,” he said, and there was that faint melancholy again, “but give it time. You will be.”
You think he might cry? the voice asked. I think he might cry.
“Yeah, sure. Okay. But what about the crazy fucker that followed me home the other night?”
“Get used to crazy,” Douglas said. “It’s all part of the fame trip. That’ll just keep getting worse.” He stepped forward and, to Johnny’s surprise, put his hands on Johnny’s shoulders. He leaned in close. “They’ll love you, Johnny, and they’ll do anything for you—as long as you keep giving them what they want. Don’t ever forget that.”
He pulled his hands away with jerk, holding his palms open, and then he walked away.
“Hey!” Johnny said. “What about this goddamn thing in my head? What is it? Some kind of—of demon? What?”
“Does it matter, Johnny?” Douglas said without turning around, and the words were so faint they barely reached Johnny’s ears. “Does it even matter, as long as you get what you want?”
Johnny stopped in midstep, ready to follow Douglas and harangue the answers out of him if nece
ssary, but the question drew him up short. Did it matter? Really?
He wasn’t sure.
He stood on Elm Street at the mouth of some wretched, trash-strewn alley and watched Douglas walk away.
That was terrifically productive, “Johnny” said. Shall we put up some more flyers?
***
The next evening, Case walked into the practice room and slammed the door behind her. She knew she wore a mean scowl on her face, but she didn’t have the energy to pretend to be in even a neutral mood, let alone cheery. Sleep had been long in coming the past couple of nights, thanks to Danny and that stupidity with Brad. It’s not Danny’s fault you’re a fucking idiot, she reminded herself. He went home with his wife, and do you suppose he declined to put it to her because he was mooning over you? Of course not. That would be stupid.
It didn’t matter, though. It wasn’t Danny’s fault, no, but he wasn’t exactly blameless, either. As long as she was pissed at herself, Danny was going to get the overflow.
Getting her head straight, though, seemed to be taking an inordinate number of sleepless hours.
Danny and Johnny hadn’t arrived yet, which was just as well. Quentin was there, though, sitting on his amplifier, bass laid flat across his lap. His eyes were pointed at the floor, and his hands were draped over his instrument as if he had no real intention of playing.
“You okay?” Case asked, stifling a yawn.
He chewed his bottom lip. “I guess.”
She dredged up half a smile from somewhere. “I gotta admit, you surprised the hell out of me when you went after that guy the other night. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Quentin shrugged.
“That guy was older than dirt, but he looked tough. You’re lucky you didn’t get your head kicked in.”
“Yeah.” He scratched at a smudge on his fretboard, then finally looked up at Case. “That guy is bad news. I don’t like the way he hangs around Johnny, and I don’t like the way Johnny’s been acting since he started hanging around.”
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