“You’ve performed here before.”
The fact it was a statement caught me off guard, and I found myself glancing around, half expecting to be faced with all sorts of photographic proof. As it happened, I just saw the change room I’d gotten acquainted with long before complete with the scuffed up wood floors, plain walls, red curtains and ratty leather couch, not to mention the Rubbermaid’s full of ice and booze.
In the corner Danni and Al were sitting on the ground, talking with frowns creased into their foreheads while Pat was lying flat on his back. He had no guitar in hand, but his fingers were working their way through the chords of the set list.
To say the least there was a bit of a tense atmosphere.
“Jude?”
This time I blinked, looking back at the person who was supposed to be interviewing me. Apparently I only did questions or else I was severely distracted.
In a thick pair of glasses and Republican hair cut that had prompted me to call him Clark and refuse to acknowledge his real name, he was observing me closely, a speculative look on his rather mossy face. I’d always thought that music journalists had chosen that job because they couldn’t cut it as a musician, and I always liked pinpointing why. This guy I thought suffered from a severe lack of charisma.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, running a hand through my hair as I leaned back on the seat I’d taken up residence of. I’d chosen it simply for the window above my head that let in a slight breeze, though it brought in an odd scent with it. “Have I played here before?”
Clark Kent just nodded at me, providing, “Red Riot’s first UK tour.”
With that I glanced around again, trying to dig even the slightest resemblance from my memory. No such luck. “Can’t help you,” I informed him with a casual shrug. “I don’t remember most of those shows, so it’s not that much of a surprise.”
Although he did his utmost to hide the reaction, I saw the slight flick of the eyebrows before his eyes darted to the glass I had in my hand. He’d been here while Pat had been mixing drinks earlier, and had accepted a couple on his own accord before we’d even started with the interview for what was supposed to be my cover story on this music magazine over here. I could almost see the thoughts racing through his head, wondering if I’d be able to remember this show.
There was a smirk playing around the corners of my mouth as I lifted up the glass, sent him a mocking little salute before putting it to my lips and draining what remained. I’d have to see if that got into the article.
What I wasn’t going to admit was that it was only the second rather watered down drink I’d had all day.
I was as sober as I ever was, but that didn’t fit the rock star image, did it? And as Logan had said to me, image is everything.
“Do you have something to prove with this show?”
I resisted spluttering my drink all over him – it was a close call, though. Yet there was no doubt my eyes had bulged at that question. That speculative look was back on his face, eyes narrowing on my reaction. There was that aura around him that most musical journalists had, where they were willing to write a marginally good review but would like nothing to slate me altogether.
I was used to that, though. What I wasn’t used to anymore was being talked to so bluntly, letting me know that they thought that I was going to fall flat with no trouble. When Red Riot had first started getting attention it was all I heard, they’d all expected us to get nowhere. I’d heard constantly how girls in rock bands were laughable, how I didn’t fit the profile, how we couldn’t shape up live to other bands around – the list went on and on.
And look at how wrong they’d all been.
Those questions had started to thin out once we’d dropped our first real single, and even more after our album, by the time of our second they were pretty rare before they disappeared altogether. They didn’t talk to Red Riot like that anymore.
The difference was this wasn’t Red Riot, I supposed, and it would be good if I remembered it.
Drawing on all that rusty practice I’d had since I’d been seventeen, I stared up down waiting until he squirmed slightly in the chair he’d pulled out before me. I’d been waiting for that, and let a smug grin work its way leisurely onto my mouth. “What could I possibly have to prove, love?” I questioned, using the little idiom I hated so much purposefully. “I’m Jude Turner.”
With the empty glass, I sent him one last toast before tossing it to the side and standing up. If he knew what was good for him, he’d know the interview was over there.
Not bothering to announce my departure, I just picked up the rather horrible acid wash jean jacket I’d become attached to before stepping out. Danni glanced in my direction, but she didn’t bother asking where I was going. Even if we’d all known each other for a long time, we hadn’t been a band for longer than two weeks, so having even the smallest amount of trust was greatly appreciated.
Slipping the jacket over my shoulders, I hopped down the set of stairs immediately outside the door. I’d been in the old movie theatre turned music venue since early on in the afternoon, staying after our soundtrack while my band had headed out for some lunch, and during that time I’d memorized all the back passages. It may have been a set of nerves I wasn’t used to that kept me here in the first place, but at least I’d managed to get on friendly terms with everyone that worked on the tour.
And with my knowledge of the venue, I bypassed the stage, taking in a quick glance. The place was already filled to the brim – that was almost unheard of for an opening act. Those times Red Riot had opened for other bands it usually was to half filled clubs or stadiums, half the people preferring to chat rather than to pay attention to the band on stage.
It wasn’t that which made me walk away quickly, though. No that was due to the impatience and hostility that the crowd was emitting to the point it was almost palpable.
Reminding myself I’d cut my teeth performing in rougher venues than this, I found a rather dark corner down from the stage where I dug out the pack of cigarettes in my pocket. They were just a bunch of Bends’ fans, I informed myself; I could handle them. I’d gone on stage in front of brawling crowds of drunken idiots that wanted nothing more to rip us apart when I was fifteen. I was twenty three and a world renowned performer now, what did I have to be scared of?
Lighting my smoke, I snorted slightly, knowing full well how naïve my thoughts sounded. I wasn’t being that much of a comfort to myself, because I knew I was lying to myself. I had countless things to be afraid of.
I’d performed short sets without my band, but they were little acoustic things, I’d never been a solo artist. And now I was doing my first gig in front of a crowd that was practically calling out for blood. Since we’d first arrived in Heathrow, I’d noticed little by little the at best stand offish attitude most Bend fans had towards me, and that was on the street with members of the band. Now I was going on a stage that surged with mob mentality that was fueled with alcohol. It wasn’t the most calm of situations, was it?
Trying to calm my heart that had begun to pound in my ears when I’d seen the crowd, I took a long breath in from the cigarette, tipping my head back. This was just a perverted way of the breathing deeply exercise people were always told to do. With my head leaning back against the wall, I stared up at the roof, letting out the breath where it swirled above me calmly, ignoring the thrum of the crowd. Without missing a beat, I hauled in another toxic breath from the cigarette.
Not that I would have ever told him so, but Clark Kent had a point up there, and it was one that I’d been thinking about for a while now. My rash decision at doing this tour hadn’t taken into account the extent of the rivalry between Red Riot and The Bends and how deeply it had gone into the fans. Going out there, I had something to prove, of course I did.
Yet at the same time every time I’d stepped onstage since being snuck into that college bar back in Michigan I’d had something to prove. I was proving that I was worth something, no matter what I’d been told my entire life. I’d gone through years of being a burden on my parents that thought it was my fault that their lives had fallen apart, but I was something, wasn’t I? I didn’t need either of them, and they could have their new lives and children and be done with it.
If I could go on stage, in front of all those braying Bends fans, and kill it? Well, that would be the ultimate proof. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, and no one could stop me.
As if to coincide with my thoughts, a song erupted through the speakers, creating a vibration on my skin. This time my lung full of smoke escaped me before my choosing. That was my call; it was the song I’d chosen on my own after much debate to welcome us onto the stage. It was the official three minute warning.
The reason I’d chosen the song, besides the amount of attitude it dripped with, rang out around the theatre. “We put this festival on you bastards with a lot of love. We worked around the year for you pigs. Are you gonna break our walls down? Are you gonna try it? Well you go to hell!”
Despite my previous thoughts a grin lit up my mouth. If I was trying to make a statement of the fact I didn’t give a fucking shit, what was better than an Oasis song to help make the point?
The song drew the attention of not only my band that came wandering down, but Clark Kent himself and not to mention the arrival of Cam. Casually smoking in my corner while I watched them, I saw Cam peer about my band before sending a look up the staircase, obviously wondering where on earth I was. Eventually his eyes found me, and without a sign of hesitation, brushed past Clark to get to me.
As he walked towards me, I didn’t bother to move, lounging against the wall, letting the song fill up all the attitude I possessed and push the nerves to the side. His gaze skimmed over me, taking in the skin tight black jeans that I’d worn holes into the knees and raggedy shirt I’d had for years. I’d cut off the sleeves and deepened the neckline crudely while writing Red Riot on it with a sharpie while Carl had doodled a face on the bottom, and I’d never been able to bring myself to get rid of it even though it was fraying. It seemed like the perfect choice for tonight.
When he managed to look me in the eyes, coming up to a stop a step away from me, I could see all those thoughts running about behind his eyes. It didn’t take a genius to know what I was about to walk out to, and he knew better than anyone else. The tickets for this show had sold out months ago within minutes, long before it was known I would be opening. There were very few people on my side out there.
“You ready for this?” he asked, his gaze darting back down to my shirt.
“Oh, darling, don’t you know me at all?” I replied, taking another drag from the cigarette as I straightened. Not caring who was watching, I stepped forward, specifically brushing my hips against his as I tipped onto my toes, my lips touching his ear. “Just watch me,” I whispered.
The breath he sucked in was just that extra spark of confidence I needed.
With a smirk, I pushed past him, making sure to get all the contact in I could before sauntering towards the opening to the stage I’d rushed past before. Clark Kent was watching closely, but I didn’t give him a care as I met up with my band, my cigarette nestled between my two fingers.
“Kids are running around naked, fuckin’ in the bushes,” repeated over the speakers.
Just as we were about to walk on, I glanced behind me, only to see Logan arrive just down from where Cam had come moments before.
When his eyes met mine, I winked and walked out on stage, to a mix review of boos and cheers and sloshing beer.
Not bothering to acknowledge the crowd surging against the barriers beyond a flick of my eyebrows, I took another drag of my cigarette. My band made the same kind of arrival. Suddenly I had the urge to smile as I glanced at them, seeing them going to battle stations. They’d know what they were getting into and still here they were. It gave me a sudden rush of affections towards them. This was no time to be raising arms out to the ceiling as if a returning hero, and they knew that – it would only get a bottles rained down upon you.
At the moment I had them on the brink, the excitement at seeing something they’d thought was unbelievable was fighting with the aggression. I could create a riot for two entirely different reasons if I wanted; I just had to walk the right line.
Propping my cigarette in my mouth, I gripped the single electric guitar I’d had put out in preparation. This wasn’t going to be a gig where I could spend half the time talking, I was just going to have to play the music or else there wasn’t a hope in hell so there was no time for guitar changes. “I love it, good rhythm over there. Yes, all are welcome. Yes indeed, I love them. Fun, nice, life, youth, beautiful! I’m all for it.”
As the song trailed off until there was nothing but the talking sample, I stepped up to the amp behind us, creating as much abrasive feedback as I could.
*
“The Bends are national heroes, let’s get that straight. We’ve watched them since Cam Harrison was a scrawny kid behind his guitar while his brother goaded crowds into riots or turn down corporate awards before they turned into rock stars. They’re the face of rock and roll in our country. But when was the last time you watched them walk out in front of a booing crowd full of bloodlust without so much as a blink?
And that’s when you get a whole other round of appreciation for Jude Turner.
Looking like something a modern day Dickens would consider the epitome of a rock star, she strolled on stage to Fuckin’ In The Bushes like she could do it for the rest of her life. With a rag tag band thrown together, playing collectively for just two weeks, she had the crowd wrapped around her pinky finger. Every time she’d pull in a breath, we’d do the same. If she gasped so did we. They made chemistry spark on the stage, in spite or maybe because of the fury of the crowd. Playing every song on her brilliant solo debut bar one, she slipped in Red Riot songs to people that should have hated them along with an assortment of covers from some of the greats from Britain. They included a brilliant rendition T Rex’s Children Of The Revolution, The Kinks’ Love Me Till The Sun Shines and My Generation from none other than The Who.
She had us all forgetting about the fact The Bends were supposed to be the main act of the night. It was all about Jude Turner – just as it should be. There are certain bands that you see on that one special night that change everything, and you know when you’re in the crowd. It’s the beauty of those existential concert moments. Oasis had Knebworth, there was The Libertines’ Freedom Gig, The Stone Roses’ at Heaton Park, The Rolling Stones when they played Hyde Park. This was one of those nights for Jude Turner.
Would it be sappy to call it magical? Maybe, but that’s all I could describe the show as. She’s wild as ever, slipping back and forth between a guitar or just a microphone in her hand, singing face to face with the crowd and rushing with such energy you’re sure she’d have to putter out sometime. But not once in that set did she let a person down, heading from strength to strength with an amount of liveliness that makes you exhausted just to watch.
In interview she’s arrogant while managing to be charmingly self-effacing at the same time. She’s as open as a book and then closed off like a vault, wearing a secretive smile with dreamy eyes that sharpen as quickly as they drift; a story teller to the end no doubt. It’s impossible to pin her down to anything, an artist by her own account made into myth at the same time as being startlingly real. Nothing about her makes sense while at the same time you couldn’t think of any other way for her to be.
She’d said plainly to me she had nothing to prove before the show, but even if that was true, she proved it all the same.
Yet did she even need to? Because, in her own words, she’s Jude Turner – a legend and myth at twenty three while alive. Not many musicians can be put in that bracket if they’re still living, there’s Bob Dylan, Seth Ryan, Nick Cave, Morrissey, Kate Bush, David Bowie and maybe Peter Doherty, but who else? A brilliant song writer, thick with allusions of grandeur paired with staggering slips of harsh reality and a reckless performer. It makes for one deadly combination.
My loyalty to The Bends has been shown over and over, but when the show ended and we were rushed into debaucheries at an after show, it was her I was left thinking about. Magical and charming to the end, just one smile from her is as good as a bullet to the heart when she’s on form. It’s no wonder you find yourself watching every step she makes.
And what is it that she proved during that show? Well, if there’s one rock and roll rebel left breathing, it’s Jude Turner.
“And then it goes into the actual interview,” I said, flicking the magazine shut. “I’m being as brilliantly witty as ever, so it’s nothing new.”
Over his toast, Pat answered me dryly, “Did you need an ego boost or something?”
Giving him a cheerful smile I dropped the magazine on the table with the shockingly white table clothes. The photo had been taken at that show that had been given gushing reviews. I was stood in the same outfit I’d worn on stage looking as I’d been described as what the epitome of a rock star down to the heeled boots with a cigarette burning between my fingers while I leaned against a stone doorway. One eyebrow was slightly arched as I gazed at the camera carelessly, one arm tucked across my stomach. Under my photo was the quote, ‘What could I possibly have to prove? I’m Jude Turner.’
“It’s just what I do in the morning,” I replied breezily, though the corner of my mouth tipping upwards proved my lie. “If I don’t have a magazine with a perfect review by my bedside by the time I wake, I won’t get out of bed. I mean, I am –” I paused for a moment, flicking open the magazine again to find a quote “– the last rock and roll rebel, after all.”
Pat chocked lightly on his dry piece of toast, asking, “Do you seriously get someone getting you magazines that have stories about yourself?”
That caused me to laugh, gaining the attention of the rather bleary eyed hotel staff that lingered around, waiting to take away the continental breakfast Pat was greedily scarfing down. Well, the toast that was left over since everything was gone by the time he woke up. They’d already kept it open much longer than was appropriate since it was past noon, but Clara had managed to get them to make an exception for us. The woman was amazing. Not as amazing as my dear Mandy, but still.
“Sweetie, don’t you know anything about me?” I questioned, delighted by his reaction.
He sent me a suspicious look, the toast almost brushing his lips. “I’m never sure with you,” he told me slowly.
“That means I’m doing my job well,” I laughed, patting his free hand lightly with my own. “And, no, dear, I do not have a person hired specifically to get me a magazine so I can get up in the mornings. While you lot were wasting the day away, I went to get some shitty coffee and walked around the city a bit before buying the magazine.”
He smiled ruefully at me, taking a huge bite of his toast and said, “So it was just a pleasant surprise that your ego expanded?”
“It’s a wonder I can even get my head in the room,” I agreed.
“How were you up that early anyways?” Pat asked, finishing off the last bit of his toast and starting on the other slice. “You guys were still going at six in the morning when I passed out.”
Figuring there was no way of answering that without sounding self congratulatory or pathetic, I just smiled brightly in response.
As he chewed another huge bite, Pat watched me, the realization dawning on his face slowly as proved by his rising eyebrows. “You didn’t sleep at all then, did you?” he asked rhetorically, shaking his head lightly. “And what was it you had last night at the club?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answered carelessly. However there was quite the mischievous grin on my mouth as I took a sip of the stale coffee I’d grabbed – it was even shittier than the last cup I’d gotten, and that was saying something. Over priced coffee chains were definitely not my thing.
Once again he shook his head, but he was seemingly unsurprised – and of course he would be, he’d lived in this lifestyle long enough. The only reason he’d stepped outside was because of his new boyfriend that was keeping him on the straight and narrow. So Pat just took another bite, eyeing me appraisingly as he questioned, “Have you come down yet?”
“Doubt it,” I answered, pursing my lips in thought. It was a valid question.
“Are you still drunk?”
“Oh most definitely,” I said with another blinding grin, “But only a little.”
He just laughed again. Maybe he was going to start living vicariously through me on this tour; because I could do all those things he couldn’t anymore. “Then why were you wandering around a strange town in the early morning hours?”
“I like cities I don’t know in the morning,” I informed him with a shrug, spinning my cup slightly. “It’s all those people just waking up, the scowls as they make their way to work, getting on with their lives. Reminds me that I’m not the centre of the universe,” I joked quickly, lightening the mood. Now was not the time for philosophising.
“You,” Pat said, pointing his toast at me, “Are a strange rock star.”
Giggling, I drained my cup before I stood. “That I am,” I informed him, nudging his shoulder lightly as I grabbed the magazine. “I’ll put some more toast on for you; it looks like you’re going to need it.”
Pat would have replied but his mouth was too full, so I just patted him on the cheek before walking away. As promised, I slipped some bread into the toaster, sending the glum looking woman sitting near the table the most polite little grin I possessed. She just glowered at me, obviously thinking I was taking the piss. In return I flashed her one of my blinding smiles before strolling away.
I was really unable to not aggravate. It was just a defining trait. Maybe that interview wouldn’t have been so raving if he’d got to see my bitchy side.
An elevator appeared readily at a press of a button and I stepped inside the empty capsule, leaning against the wall as I tapped my foot impatiently. When the party had finally died down in Logan’s room, I’d escaped under the pretense that I was going to go pass out in my own despite him insisting that I was welcome to sleep in his bed. I’d gone out on the streets, wandering about until I lost myself in the side streets and had no idea where I was. And it was only then that I had settled down for some coffee and to watch the people coming out of their caves.
I’d only been recognized by a few people, and most of those had been at the gig we’d played last night. It allowed me to have the rare opportunity to just people watch as I got lost in the city. There was nothing I liked more than getting to the point where I had to find my way back to my hotel. It was a habit of mine, no matter where we visited.
Glancing down at my hands, I shook my head when I caught sight of the magazine. The review had been slightly ridiculous. Well, more than slightly. It was gushy and sappy if flattering, even if I didn’t believe it. I made a good story though, and at the moment the music press was in the mood to deify me while the tabloids were searching to vilify. It was an interesting war to be sure. I guess they needed something to fuel the rumour mill since they couldn’t report on the feud between Red Riot and The Bends anymore.
The light ding of the elevator brought me back into reality, glancing up in time to see the doors slide open smoothly. I made sure I was on the right floor before I stepped out, feeling the card key in my pocket weighing me down as I made my way around the bend in the hall.
My backup band and I were situated on the floor above where I stood now, but I wasn’t bothered by that, watching the numbers on the doors pass. Sleeping wasn’t the goal in my head right now. My feet padded lightly across the carpeted hall until I came face to face with the number I’d been looking.
Preparing myself for the fact he was probably sleeping like a normal person, I stepped up so the tips of my flip flops were touching the door as I knocked lightly.
The response was instant and abrupt.
“Fuck off,” he answered flatly.
Laughing in the back of my throat, I leaned against the door, pressing my cheek against the surface. I just knocked again, though softer this time. “If you keeping talking like that you’re not going to get to see me naked anymore,” I warned casually.
This time I didn’t get an immediate reply, and I found a frown puckering its way between my brows.
That was until the door swung open.
Not prepared for such a dramatic change of position, I lost my footing and would have tumbled straight through the doorway had Cam not caught my arm. He pulled me back into a proper position, hands gripping my forearms a bit too tightly for comfort. Not that I minded.
Tilting my head at him, I squinted, looking closely at him. I wasn’t really paying attention to the fact he was still wearing the clothes that he’d played the gig in last night – even I’d changed. No, I was more focused on the bruising beneath his eyes that must have mimicked my own as well as the redness and slightly gauntness that came to the cheeks whenever you spent too much time awake. The residue from the party last night were all over him, even the writings I’d scribbled all over his upper arm remained in the thick black felt, though it was smudged.
“I need you,” he informed me.
Although I blinked at the proclamation, I managed to get a hold of myself, stopping my odd staring in exchange for some wit. “Well, that’s a better welcome,” I informed him with a grin.
He didn’t have a response for me, which had me frowning as he yanked me into the room, kicking the door closed as an afterthought. This wasn’t like him; he usually had some comeback to everything I said. If he didn’t I’d probably drive him mad or I’d find him boring. There needed to be some equal ground.
Leaving me by the door, Cam spun back around to the queen sized bed. Definitely acting weird, I decided as I trailed after him. And that was saying something considering what we’d all gotten up to last night, with the few exceptions between the band and crew.
“I need a singer,” he mumbled, leaning over his bed.
And that was when I noticed what was on the perfectly made bed, if you ignored the slight rumples. There was a notebook in the middle, filled with mindful scratches while crumpled sheets decorated the rest and his acoustic guitar lay on top of the stack of pillows that had been provided.
While I’d been busy getting lost he’d apparently been hard at work.
Tossing the magazine aside, I peered suspiciously at his back, noticing the dark hair that looked as if it had been pulled in every direction in frustration. It appeared he’d gotten just about as much sleep as I had in the past little while, which meant whatever he’d written was either going to be something exquisitely beautiful or simple garbage. There was no in between when in a manic state like he was in. I knew that first hand. There was no in between.
Without informing what exactly he needed me to do, Cam snatched up both his guitar and notebook from the bed before shoving the later into my chest. Staring at him bewildered, I hastily took possession of the book.
If he’d only had the same sorts of me last night shouldn’t it have worn off by now? Maybe he’d dropped some acid without my noticing.
Yet he still didn’t explain further, just gripped me by the hand and tugged me away.
Oddly he yanked me into the bathroom this time.
“Okay, you’ve officially gone insane,” I stated.
Unbothered by my proclamation, Cam ushered me towards the bathtub, helpfully pressing me to step into it. Still confused beyond belief, I did as silently asked, standing stupidly with the notebook clutched to my chest. Was I having some drug fueled dream? As the thought crossed my mind, Cam clambered into the bathtub with me.
“The acoustics are better in here,” he explained.
Getting fed up with him, I rearranged it so I held the notebook in one hand, using the other to press against his cheek. That seemed to get his attention, sending those dark green eyes of his shooting up to look at me.
“What the fuck are you going on about?” I asked bluntly. Well, there was no point beating around the bush, was there?
Cam blinked at me before narrowing his eyes as if he couldn’t believe I didn’t understand exactly what he wanted me to do. “I need a singer, I told you that,” he said, gesturing to the song book as he gripped his guitar by the neck with one hand. “I need to know what it sounds like when it’s someone who can sing.”
“Could have asked nicely,” I countered in necessity of having a snippy response. In reality I was already glancing down at the songbook. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him roll his eyes, not bothering to reply as I let my eyes skim over the mess of chords and lyrics jotted down altogether. It was a hell of a mess, chords and progressions scribbled in between the lines he’d created, but it didn’t take me long to make sense of it.
Still focused on the open notebook, I questioned, “And where’s that brother of yours? He’s the one that’s going to sing it.”
“You showed up first,” said Cam impatiently, “And it’ll be a B-Side so he probably won’t.”
As I made sense of the scribbles the verses and chorus were starting to come together in the mental image I had in my head, not to mention the clever middle eight that he’d snuck in there. In my current state of mind, it was almost intrusively well written, running along the edges between dreamlike phrases into simple questions. A particular one stood out on the page to me as if it had been emboldened: ‘I’ve always had luck. The good and the bad kind. But which is a favourite of mine?’
It seemed nothing short of brilliant, but who knew what I’d think when I was sober hours from now?
Although I pretended to still be reading, I let my eyes glance over the top of the notebook. Cam’s hand was gripping the neck of the guitar so tight that his knuckles were glowing white while the other beat an impatient rhythm against his thigh.
Enjoying the fact I could torture him a bit, I lingered and played with the idea of singing the song. What harm could it really do? It was just so he could hear someone else sing it, unable to get a recording of himself quite yet. Plus I’d been adding covers into my sets every night, singing one of Cam’s in a bathtub wouldn’t hurt any.
“You’re going to need to play me what you’ve got written if you want me to sing,” I pointed out calmly, focusing back on the book.
And it was just that easy to get whisked into his manic song writing state.
Sitting in the empty bathtub, we hooked our legs over the edge as we worked through what he wanted with the song. I kept opinions to myself, letting him work through it in his own head – I was only here to be a voice, and I was alright with that, content with writing songs on my own. It wasn’t like he needed help anyways, his mind was moving at a thousand miles per second. I could practically see the wheels spinning out of control behind his eyes.
I waited in moments where he fell into silence, watching in fascination, and then he’d pick up again. Sometimes he’d just be wrapped up in the guitar, working his way through the instrument as if he knew it’s every secret, pulling things from it that I wouldn’t have dreamed of. And when he told me to sing something, I did just as he asked.
During that time I was starting to wonder if the cover story had been written about the right person.
He was so entrenched in his song writing trance and I was in an equal state about watching him that neither of us heard the knock on the door. We didn’t notice a single thing until a figure burst into the bathroom with us.
I caught sight of the body from the corner of my eye and gave a short yelp, clutching the notebook to my chest as if I could use it as a weapon. At first Cam stared at me as if I was the one who had leapt over the deep end, but then he gave a start when he noticed the third body in the bathroom, standing over us.
“What are you doing?” asked Logan without so much of a greeting.
Those brothers did have a knack at skipping all the preliminaries, didn’t they?
“B-Side,” answered Cam shortly, busying himself back into his guitar immediately.
Apparently that wasn’t satisfactory for Logan, who in turn fixed me with a look. Giving an unhelpful shrug, I loosened my grip on the notebook substantially. “I’m just here to sing what I’m told to sing,” I informed him.
My words had him – unless I was very much mistaken – wearing a pout.
Maybe I was the one who had taken acid last night without noticing.
However I was sure Logan was standing before me, his mouth turned downwards with the bottom lip jutting out. The harsh bathroom light faded out the pale green eyes further, creating the illusion of an even further pout. This was turning out to be a weird day. What made the situation even odder was that I happened to be sitting in a bathtub during the scene that was playing out before me.
Still I didn’t linger long on that aspect of the situation, because I was remembering something that Logan had said to me long ago while we sat in a sun bleached courtyard. I don’t want to be the face of the band with nothing to give. Sitting on those benches, I’d assured him he wasn’t just the face yet his only response had been a dripping condemnation of himself, admitting that he was the voice then. It was a side of him I knew well enough was never seen, even to Cam who he always had to be the untouchable older brother to.
And here I was, being the voice he was supposed to be.
The logical way to look at the situation was simply that I had been the one available to Cam at the moment. I had just been the one to knock on the door at the right time. However I’d learnt long before that the Harrisons weren’t exactly logical, they were thrown into fits of jealousy and childishness easily, and they leapt to assumptions within a blink.
So I knew what it looked like to Logan, even if that was the last thing it was. I didn’t want to do anything creative with Cam, our egos were too big – they’d be clashing at every second word. The only people I could work with on my music was my band and Cash, there was no room for anyone else, not even if they were someone as talented as Cash.
However that wouldn’t occur to a brother who practically had nightmares about being a replaceable face.
It didn’t take me long to diffuse the situation, patting the bottom of the bathtub as I gave a theatrical yawn. “C’mon, jump in here, sweetheart,” I told him, “He’s too much of an asshole for me to deal with for any longer. You’ve saved me from strangling him only by minutes.”
“Hey,” complained Cam suddenly.
Apparently the only thing that could get him to look up from his guitar when he was in a mood was an insult. It was proved by the reproachful look he sent me across our porcelain seat. I replied with a blinding smile. I’d have to keep that in mind, because he’d been quite happy to ignore the fact I was there altogether in the past while unless he telling me to sing something. Well, barking at me more like it.
Despite the thoughts, I couldn’t really hold anything against him. I’d been enjoying it far too much.
Maybe I was a masochist and a narcissist.
The thoughts and my view of Cam were cut off when, after barely a second of hesitation, Logan scrambled in between us. A wry elbow caught me in the side, making me give a gasp that turned into a laugh quite quickly as he squeezed into the tub. Across the older brother my ears caught the sound of the acoustic guitar starting up, playing the same thing I’d heard countless times already in the flawless acoustics. Amazingly I still wasn’t bored of it.
Although the progression that he was playing never even faltered, Cam spoke up in the voice that he’d barely used since the time I’d gotten into the tub with him. Casually, he asked, “How did you get in?”
“Oh, the door was open,” said Logan, taking the notebook I handed him, “Thought you might have been taken for ransom.”
“Would you have paid it?”
Without pausing, he answered, “Not on your life, mate. We can always find us another guitarist.”
Planting my arm against the edge of the tub, I slouched against the edge, letting it support me as I dropped my cheek down against my arm. It was with amazement that I watched a laugh be surprised out of Cam, forcing him to stumble over the chords he’d placed together with such care.
I’d barely been able to get a response out of him, yet a few words from his brother and he was fucking up his own song.
The thought had me smiling, letting my eyes flicker between them. Cam had gone back into his zone, almost grimacing in concentration as he played a certain bar as if in the expectation of perfection. I didn’t think he expected anything less from himself.
Beside him, Logan was looking down at the notebook. He was wearing that look I’d only ever seen during our poolside guitar lessons; gaze intense and travelling over the words as his hand began tapping along almost unconsciously along with Cam. The lines around the corners of his mouth always sharpened when he focused. I wasn’t sure if he noticed that he pressed his lips together when thinking.
Suddenly not needed to be at the ready every moment, a yawn escaped my lips as I settled back, feeling outrageously comfortable considering my legs were still shooting out in an odd direction. I watched Logan give Cam a nudge, unbothered at interrupted the process as he pointed to something in his writing.
To my surprise Cam didn’t snap at him for that. Instead he leaned over, dark eyebrows drawing together in concentration.
As time went on I was sure they forgot I was there entirely. They were entering a world only they could truly be inside. And even if I’d wanted there was no way I could penetrate something like that as they worked side by side.
With drooping eyes, I noticed that Cam begun conversing intently with his brother on the song. Not to mention that Logan made sense of the madman scribblings far faster than I had – he probably had a mental translator in his head after all these years. And with another yawn, I noted that he caught on to what Cam wanted with lightening speed in comparison to what it had been like when they’d just been supposed to be singing backup in the desert.
Definitely not just the voice I thought before drifting off completely.
Proof that they really had forgotten about my presence came when I woke up curled up in the tub with a stiff neck. However, maybe as an afterthought on one of their parts, there was a jacket drooped over my huddled shape. I had no idea which one of them the worn down leather jacket belonged to though.
Wearing that coat and rubbing my aching neck, I’d been wandering through the hallway in some odd walk of shame when I’d run into Clara. She was being a double agent, not only the band manager but the tour one as well. And it led me to getting onto the bad side of her temper for once – something that was usually reserved for the brothers. For such a small woman, she could put the fear into you.
Apparently I’d slept through my sound check altogether, and she was not pleased about it. Something my ear drums could testify to.
Still in my walk of shame outfit, she’d ushered me out into a cab with her. The whole drive to the venue she kept nattering on, telling me how my backup band had all been so responsible, waiting when the bus had come to pick us up. Eventually I zoned her out, taking instead to staring moodily out the window. It was a wonder anyone ever annoyed her, she was already starting to make my head thud – I considered briefly that it was from a rather strong hangover and come down, but decided I liked blaming her better.
Borrowing a pen from the cab driver since he got irritated with me writing words in the fog on the windows, I constructed a set list on the side of Clara’s disposable coffee cup. She still wasn’t pleased with me but had gathered I’d stopped listening, which at least had made her stop talking. I think that cab driver was more pleased than I was.
I put down the same songs we’d been playing from my solo album that was set to drop in two days, every song bar the opening number. When you’re set up for a fight with a crowd, a soft ballad on acoustic guitar wasn’t a smart idea. Although I had noticed a certain if reluctance warmness that was beginning to seep in after the first view gigs, but I was still starting off confrontational. With those songs, I snuck in three from Red Riot that were from the early part of the band, and the covers that were becoming a part of every set we played. Since the very first night in London, we’d learnt songs from bands that came from around the area we were about to play.
Since we were in Cardiff tonight we’d chosen collectively Motorcycle Emptiness from Manic Street Preachers along with one from Super Furry Animals.
The cabbie told me I could have the pen when he noticed me chewing subconsciously on the end.
Louis was at the ready to usher me through the crowd that they’d intended for me to miss, since I was supposed to arrive earlier. As it was I’d ducked my head and squinted against the flashes, lightly grabbing hands that shot out to touch me in the claustrophobic space I was allowed, bodies pressing in from all sides. I didn’t get a chance to stop this time, being propelled towards the back door by a force far greater than my own.
I found my band in a back room lined with couches and tables laden with their rider requests that was mostly booze – and of course the cereal I always wanted. This time I was welcomed with open arms and cheers. There were many proclamations that they were surprised I wasn’t out in a gutter somewhere, but I wasn’t likely to tell them I’d passed out in Cam’s tub. There was a severe lack of care that we’d missed the sound check for which I was relieved, and not pressing questions or suspicious looks. In fact they just pressed alcohol upon me and that was always welcome.
While Pat was on the phone, trying to block us out as he plugged his free ear, Danni and Al regaled me with stories from the night before. It was amazing how much a person could miss when they were on the opposite side of a club. All the while I kept the drink I’d been handed as a steady companion even while I poured a bowl of cereal.
We tended to pool our food demands like little children at lunch time. And what an odd assortment it made. To go with my changing brands of childish cereal, Al always wanted some fruit – he’d taken up the mantle of the healthy one – while Danni got multiple cups of noodles and Pat switched it up with every show. It was a bit of a surprise every night, which was nice.
Whichever poor kid had to go out and get all of it must have been rather confused. We didn’t exactly live up to the standards set before us since liking all sorts of M&Ms. With my legendary ego they probably expected me to demand a monkey back stage. Sadly we stuck to the more necessary rock music staples with the enormous list of ciders, beers and hard liquors that were needed, plus two packs of camels for me. We might not be living up to rock star eccentricities but at least we had the basics.
Giving a laugh at a typically snide comment of mine, Danni spun around, heading over to the sound system that was set up in the corner. I would have questioned what she was about to put on, but I was busying snorting into my cereal as Al described the fight he’d almost got into the night before. It was quite ridiculous to be sure. It didn’t help that Al wasn’t exactly the fighting type, and he’d been rather reluctant to get involved.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Clara stepping into the doorway, peering down at her cellphone. It was just then that Danni pressed play on the stereo that shot into Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground at an echoing volume, welcoming Clara into our zone with a distinct amount of feedback.
Chomping down on my spoonful, I grinned as she grimaced at the surprise assault that forced her to look up from her cellphone.
She looked into my amused look immediately before giving a roll of her eyes and tucked the phone away from sight in her high waisted dark jeans. “We grabbed some clothes from the motel; they’re in the bathroom next door if you feel motivated to change.”
With a sigh, I glanced down at my current outfit. Flip flops, brown tights, a baggy sweater that hung far down and a ragged leather jacket that belonged to one Harrison. It wasn’t exactly go in front of thousands of people worthy, was it? After a moment of hesitation, I abandoned my bowl of cereal, opting to take my drink with me. There was still a head ache thumping behind my eyelids, and though I was good at compartmentalizing, I needed to get rid of it before it was time for me to go on stage.
The White Stripes album was thudding all around even when I shut the door behind me as I left them for a change of clothes.
However the moment I was out of human company I found myself yawning. Widening my eyes and taking another drink didn’t help either. How long had I even been sleeping in that tub? Even as I opened the door into the bathroom, another one was prying open my mouth wide despite my protests.
I hadn’t even had the chance to wish for some help before my prayers were answered.
Making sure to slam the door sharply, I stepped forwards to my bag that was sitting on the ground, digging through the front pocket. I liked the crew, but that didn’t mean I trusted them with anything but my instruments. And I knew better than anyone how easily a photo could be taken and sold to the press only to grace covers of tabloids for months on end. I wouldn’t even blame anyone bar myself if I saw photographs, because I knew how common it was for someone to sell you out.
Thankfully it was the right suitcase and I gave a sigh of relief. I was too hungover and tired to survive this gig with only the help of alcohol – that would just put me to sleep faster. I needed a little bit of help here, and I found it when my fingers brushed the edge of the small plastic baggie.
Yanking it out, I peered carefully, letting the assortment of pills tumble about themselves. With a sarcastic little smile, I couldn’t help but think this was how musicians got fucked up. They parted all night, shoving substances inside of them and then they needed a pick me up for the show they had to play. It was a vicious little circle. They usually had the help of a record label keeping them doped up and confused, which I definitely didn’t.
The difference was all those musicians that fucked up their lives definitely were not me. I always had control.
I wasn’t sure which were which anymore, but it wasn’t like I’d have anything in there to put me to sleep. They were all to keep you going, and with that thought in mind, I tossed two back, downing them with the rather strong mix of rum and coke that I’d been given.
Just as I was swallowing, I felt a discreet buzzing from the pocket of my sweatpants. There was only a short moment of confusion until I remembered my cell phone.
When I’d pulled it out and held it in front of me the name only made me bury my nose in the drink, and this time I polished off the drink that should have taken me much longer to down. I’d only saved the number under a name so I could be prepared enough not to answer. The hope had been I’d never have to see it flashing across my phone.
But the word ‘Dad’ had been coming up more than I’d like to admit lately.
I didn’t really care what he wanted. I didn’t really care about him or his new family. He could get that second chance at being a father; I sincerely didn’t give a fuck. I mean, I was the Jude Turner now – I barely even registered that the last name belonged to him – I didn’t care about anything.
Turning off the phone quickly I traded it for more coveted little pills, tossing them back easily. They weren’t working fast enough.
*
To be honest I wasn’t really sure how the concert went – it was all sort of a blur. I did have a certain memory of spinning around the stage, guitar flying out with me attached by the strap as I held the microphone in one hand while the chord tangled around my feet and I downed what was left of a drink. The crowd had given a roar of appreciation when I’d tossed my empty cup at them.
I’d never understood why people liked that, but I was a crowd pleaser at heart – at least for my crowd. If I thought about it, though, I probably would consider it a privilege to be smacked in the head with Ian Curtis’ cup.
The venue we’d played a mid level venue tonight, able to hold a couple thousand, tomorrow night would be the big show. The tour was an odd assortment of small to big venues, travelling up and down the country in smart order. I suppose it was different from being in America, you had to be systematic about your tour since the country was so big. That wasn’t exactly a problem here.
A part of me missed playing tiny clubs when it came to light there was no after party tonight. At least at clubs you could just jump into the crowd and join in with them. It wasn’t too bad, though, we made our own party back stage.
Having gathered up our alcohol, my backup band and I had made our way down a few hallways until we’d found The Bends’ common room that had been set up. With some tatty old couches and a foosball table and another stereo system, it was more than we needed really. There were tables piled up with the combined alcohol and weighted down with more than a few suspicious substances.
At the window Rob and Danni were waving at the crowd of fans that had lingered around to the resounding amount of cheers. The crowd’s noise level could barely be heard over the thumping music, a playlist made by none other than Graham – it was eclectic to be sure. I thought they were throwing things down to them as well, but I couldn’t quite be sure since I was facing in the opposite direction. With a sniff and a gasp, I quickly whisked a hand over my nose, blinking quickly as I sat back. I never did get used to that. It always burnt like a son of a bitch.
Drowning the sensation immediately with the rum and coke – that seemed to be my drink for the night – I settled back, waiting for it to kind in. While doing that, I glanced in front of me where the foosball table was situated and Cam and Pat were having quite the intense game. There was a lot of shouting going on, accusations and swearing.
Behind them Logan was charming Clara, trying to make her not so grumpy at the lot of us and it was working. The only person that could do that was Logan it seemed. It had been explained to me that they’d been friends since they were in diapers – he’d even been her “mate” of honour at her wedding. It also gave reason to the fact she treated Cam like a little brother.
When my eyes settled on them, I watched as Clara gave a reluctant smile to which Logan punched the air triumphantly. That made her laugh. Giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, Logan stole the drink she’d been holding, skirting around her.
The conniving bastard, I thought amused.
A spewing of shouts distracted my gaze, causing it to flash back towards Cam and Pat. Seeing as Pat was jumping up and down while Cam sent him a dirty look, it didn’t take much to gather who had won.
With as much dignity as he could possess, Cam walked about the table as Logan eagerly took up his place. I grinned broadly at him as he sat on the edge of the arm rest, letting me drop my head back to stare at him. He was purposefully not meeting my gaze. Those brothers really took it personal when they lost at something, no wonder they used to get so argumentative when Red Riot would win awards.
“Shut up,” he told me, taking the drink from my hands.
Definitely competitive.
Laughing, I stood up and pressed a hand on his knee as I leant in closely. His eyes darted down to my lips at the move but I just grinned at him and patted his cheek lightly before pulling. I was good at leaving people high and dry. I didn’t bother speaking, just wandered away to meet Al who was hanging out with Kevin and Darren from the crew by the speakers.
The night went on in such a way, tonight sticking to a little party group of the bands and crew instead of meeting in strangers in a bar to drag back to a party at a hotel. Probably better this way since the hotel staff already loathed us, apparently they didn’t appreciate that we’d begun throwing things out Logan’s window last night. We’d tossed nothing that would actually hurt someone if it hit, but they needed those bed sheets.
At least it made for an easier going atmosphere, even when all those things in my system started to kick in.
And that lead to me and Danni dancing on top of the side table along with the music. It wasn’t exactly attractive dancing since that wasn’t quite my style; I was more flailing with a touch of Moz stuck in for good measure. Pat had tucked jokingly tucked a five pound bill in my belt to which I kissed him chastely on the mouth to the resounding cheers.
He’d jokingly pressed a hand to his chest and I slapped him lightly on the cheek. “That’s for my pride,” I snapped in my best attempt of a fifties movie voice with a Chicago accent. As it happened it was far better than my attempt at an English one.
Sadly Someday had just begun to play so loudly only Danni and Pat could hear me. That accent should have been praised to the heavens, but at least they got a laugh out of it. I supposed if a song was going to overshadow my brilliant accent it I could take comfort that it was to the brilliance of that guitar.
Forgetting about Pat altogether, I began bouncing up and down on my heels, hips and shoulders moving to the music. And in my typical style when I was drunk and with friends, I didn’t care about how I sounded, just belted out, “In many ways they’ll miss the good old days. Someday, someday. Yeah it hurts to say but I want you to stay. Sometimes, sometimes.
“When we was young, oh man, did we have fun,” I sang, with particular emotion that made Danni break down in laughter. She was doubled over; unable to dance as she tried to catch her breath, so I made up for both of us. “Always, Always. Promises they break before they’re made. Sometimes, sometimes.”
Jumping into the chorus with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm after the show I’d put on hours earlier, I continued, half hoping the people outside could hear my drunken shouts. “Oh, my ex says I’m lacking in depth. I will do my best. You say you wanna stand by my side?” I questioned the room in general before finding Cam in the corner grinning at me, and made sure to point both hands at him as I sang, “Darling, your head’s not right…”
Danni couldn’t keep up with me anymore, holding up her hands in surrender and tiredness as she stepped off the table.
I should have probably been with her there, but I’d had some help with keeping going all this time. So it didn’t even faze me as I blew her a theatrical kiss goodbye with both hands before continuing on my lonesome into the verse. “And now my fears, they come to me in threes. So I, sometimes, say, ‘Fate my friend, you say the strangest things. I find, sometimes’.”
In replacement for Danni, Logan wandered up, joining up in my ridiculous rendition. This time it was him that I pointed to as he stepped beneath me, singing along, “Oh, my ex says I’m lacking in depth. Say I will try my best. You say you want to stand by my side? Darling your head’s not right.”
Gripping him by the collar of his button up shirt, I dragged him up onto the table with me as he laughed. What could I say? Drunks love company. Especially the kind willing to be made fools out of. And together we went on, jumping up and down on the coffee table. “See, alone we stand, together we’ll fall apart. Yeah, I think I’ll be alright. I’m working so I don’t have to try so hard. Tables they turn sometimes.”
Now it was my time to break into laughter, unable to keep up to Julian for the last ten seconds of the song. I had to lean my head against Logan’s shoulder as he held me up right.
I always liked moments like these. Not just the laughter and clinging onto Logan, but the sensations that were running through my body. I was electrified at the same time as my limbs felt loose and free with tension spearing through them. My mind had slowed to a more manageable pace yet was as fast as a whip when needed. It was just enough that I was outside of myself, if only for a few minutes, while still having control of my body even if I didn’t think about my actions too closely. At least I had always been impulsive.
However the beat that came on after The Strokes had me lifting my head, giving an elated laugh as I met Logan’s eyes. Hadn’t Cam told me at the very beginning that Logan had liked rap before he’d gotten into rock music after seeing The Libertines. I’d always liked the sound of rap growing up as well, which was an odd addition to the jazz I’d learnt to love music with and old rock that had inspired me. And this was one of those songs I could recite by heart, even if I wasn’t a rapper by any sense.
With a daring smile quirking up the corner of my mouth, I was just far enough gone to join in with Public Enemy song. “I got a letter from the government the other day. I opened it and read it. It said they were suckers. They wanted me for their army or whatever. Picture me givin’ a damn I said never…”
It was to my delight that Logan joined in.
We got far more attention as we started to wrap along with Chuck D, everyone spinning around in surprise at our horrendous rapping. The cheers shoved us along as I danced along, bouncing along, taking a few breaks to take long gulps of my drink, jumping straight back in with Logan.
“… As for the rest of the world they can’t realize,” we rapped in perfect time together, “A cell is hell – I’m a rebel so I rebel...”
I was sure I’d seen Cam holding that camera that they used to put videos online, but I didn’t even care for once though I would regret that later. It was proved I hadn’t been born to be a rapper as I went along – it just didn’t matter right now. I was too busy acting like a fool, singing along as I moved with the music, hands going on Logan’s shoulders as we jumped about to one of my favourite songs of all time.
After that song we didn’t miss a beat, moving into the next song and the one after at that. Then the next. He had boundless energy just as I did, but he’d been taking the same sorts of things, spinning me around in circles to The Beatles and then jumping along to Gin and Juice right after.
I was breathless, having been spun around so his chest was pressed against me breath as I let my eyes drift shut to the song from Pulp. I was swaying slightly, half to the music and the other because of the substances swimming through my blood. The perfect drugged up festival song pulsing around.
“In the middle of the night it feels alright,” Jarvis Cocker assured us, “But then tomorrow morning. Oh, then you come down.”
It was suddenly a drop off from the energy pulsing music that we’d had before, but that was alright. I was beginning to think I was coming down just with the song that spelt out standing in a field with thousands of people.
However the relaxed swaying as I leant against Logan was suddenly ruined as I begun to wake up to my actions, at least slightly. His hand had transferred before me, slipping between the waistband of my jeans and plain v-neck, and it was enough to have goosebumps rippling across my stomach.
That was when my eyes flashed open, taking in the room all at once.
No one was particularly paying attention to us, having all drifted since we were no longer providing them with entertainment. Danni was spinning slowly in circles just below us while Al stared up at her mesmerized. Clara was talking on her phone to her husband back in London while Pat and a group from the crew were sitting cross legged on the ground passing a joint between them, causing the room to be covered in a thick smoke. Graham had left hours before so his absence wasn’t a surprise.
Cam’s, on the other hand, was.
“At four o’clock the normal world seems very, very, very far away.”
Even though the song was hypnotizing enough to transport you back all the way to Woodstock – the smell of weed helped – I pulled away gently from Logan. Even as I stopped Danni, gripping one of the hands she’d had in the air, I was leaning in to whisper into Logan’s ear. “I’ll be back,” I promised quietly as I pulled Danni up onto the coffee table.
To be honest I wasn’t sure if she had any idea what was going on, I’d seen Cam hand her a pill earlier and her pupils were dilated, she just continued dancing along with the song. I was passed her stage by now. Yet it made sure I didn’t feel guilty by forcing her to replace me when Logan barely paid her a glance as I carefully stepped off the table. She gained his attention eventually, pulling him to do a bastardized version of a waltz that made him laugh before obliged her.
A grin playing on the corners of my mouth at the sight, I turned around to Clara who met my gaze right away.
She stared at me dead in the eye for a moment, phone still pressed against her ear, before she gave a sigh. ‘Over there’ she mouthed at me, not wanting to interrupt the call by my voiceless questioned as she pointed at one of the many doors that lead out of the room. In equal silence in the lazing room, I mouthed back ‘thank you’.
“I lost my friends, I dance alone, it’s six o’clock, I wanna go home,” I sang under my breath, heading towards the door.
When I pushed through, the opened door let in some light to the room, but I couldn’t see a thing as I squinted in. Quickly I stepped through, shutting it behind me, and when I did I began to make out shapes and light.
Cam was sitting in front of a laptop in the darkened room, and it created an eerie high light of him in the darkness. Grinning, I tucked my hands behind me, leaning back against the door. His eyes flashed up to meet mine as we stood in the darkness, the only light from the computer he had on the table before him, the echoes of Pulp lingering in the room.
The moment was interrupted when a voice sounded from the computer.
“And how was that reunion like for you?”
The sudden American voice felt abrasive to the ears. I’d gotten used to being in this country, surrounded from accents all across it, and it felt blunt and harsh to me now. The only Americans I’d been speaking to were from my backup band and my friends over the phone, I was used to them. It was odd how quickly I adjusted.
Without breaking the gaze with me, Cam answered as if he’d been ready for the question forever. “It was a bit awkward, what can I say? It’s bound to be.”
For a moment I frowned in confusion at the sight, wondering who on earth he’d be making a video call to at this hour in the morning. It didn’t take me long to figure it out, though. I’d heard Clara talking to him earlier, reminding him of the interview he had to do with a chat show over in America on the computer. She’d said she only wanted him since Logan was bound to put his foot in his mouth somehow.
“Nothing else you can tell us about her?” asked the voice coming from the computer. The question and tone betrayed the purpose of the interview, making a line come between Cam’s brows, they were clearly begging for gossip.
And it was only then that he looked away.
“What am I supposed to say to that?” he asked, a little edge coming to his voice as he glanced back down to the screen. “I was with her for years, I asked her to marry me, that doesn’t exactly go away in a blink, does it? Whatever our relationship was, we did love each other, and the last thing I’d want to do is to say something on a talk show that would hurt her.”
My stomach sunk slightly at his words, but I refused to let it show on my face. I shouldn’t have even been surprised. Everyone wanted the gossip on Cam and Arabella’s “reunion” since that night. He was almost chased down about it. And still, despite what she’d done to him, he never said a thing against her in the press. Cam always kept it civil. Yet who was I to judge? I was getting asked about Josh being in rehab all the time, and I kept my mouth sealed shut.
“Okay,” answered the interviewer, plain disappointment ringing out in his refusal to throw her under the bus. “Well, what can you tell us about touring with Jude Turner?”
That had his eyes flashing back up to me as he tried to hold back the grin.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I warned in a low voice, barely audible between everything. The last thing I needed to do was be on television in this state. However that smile had built back onto my mouth as I stepped forwards.
Although his eyebrows quirked daringly, Cam didn’t sell out my presence to the television. “She’s been an adventure,” he told them after a long moment of silence.
There was ringing laughter coming from the laptop, but I ignored it, stepping up to stand immediately behind the computer. I enjoyed the fact far too much that they were sitting in their morning suits, asking the rehearsed questions while I stood just out of sight, a night of laughter and dancing behind me. Who really was the sucker in this situation?
“That’s putting it mildly,” said the reporter. “She’s a legendary partier over here, all her nights out end in the papers. From what we’ve heard over hear she’s been going off the rails even more than normal.”
I raised my eyebrows at Cam, wanting to know what his response would be.
He had to bite down on his bottom lip to keep himself from laughing.
Recovering, he answered in a normal voice but his eyes were always on me. “That’s not exactly what I was saying, but even in that way she lives her life a bit impulsively. I was saying it’s an adventure to watch her perform, because she’s taking souls with her in this country. They’d follow her anywhere.”
That grin I’d been wearing faded at his words, and I found myself chewing on the inside of my cheek as I averted my eyes from his. The answer hadn’t been what I’d expected.
However I was able to recover when the Americans on the computer began to say their goodbyes to him, thanking him for being on the show and onwards. Before he had the chance to say the polite goodbye, I reached forwards, pushing the laptop shut with a soft snap.
“Well, that was rude,” observed Cam.
“Do you think I care?” I answered as I skirted around the table.
Leaning back in the couch, he let a contented smile rise on his mouth as I approached, his eyes travelling up and down my body. “Not in the slightest,” he replied.
Chuckling, I clambered on the couch and swung my leg over his lap so I was sitting above him, straddling his hips. With the walls soundproofing the music slightly, we could only hear a muted version of the Vampire Weekend song that had begun in the room beside us. Dipping my fingers in his hair, I smiled, letting my eyes scour his face in the darkened room. “Got it in one,” I said, dipping my head to meet his lips.
The reaction was instantaneous – as it always seemed to be with us. He shifted upwards hungrily to add pressure to the light kiss I’d started; however I pulled slightly away, forcing the touch to almost be a whisper.
My teasing didn’t last long, though. All resolve in me to torture him a bit faded when he slipped his hands beneath my shirt, those callouses running along the sensitive skin of my back as he pulled me forwards. My fingers clamped in his hair as I pressed down against him, eliciting the perfect moan in the back of his throat that trembled into my mouth.
However the moment was ruined when Logan’s shouting voice broke through the sound barrier, far louder than the song he was singing along to.
Breaking off the kiss in laughter, I dropped my forehead into the crook of his neck. “Do you think he’s figured out the difference between dying young and Diane Young yet?” I questioned, lifting my head to meet his gaze with all my hair having fallen messily in to my face.
Sending me a grin of his own, Cam reached up, brushing my hair behind my ear casually. “Probably not,” he answered which just renewed my laughter.
Slipping off him to the side, I left my arm slung across his chest as I drooped contently against him. With my cheek pressed against his shoulder, I let my eyes drift closed, listening to our muffled version of the song that included Danni and Logan singing along.
Oddly I was happy to just linger there.
I wasn’t afraid that I was going to fall asleep, I was still a bit too wired up to do so, but I wanted nothing more than to stay in one spot for a few seconds. It just so happened I’d found the perfect place to do so. The warmth radiating off of him helped with it as well.
“You know,” I murmured lazily, “Dying young won’t change my mind.”
“Hm?” he questioned in a similar tone.
Without opening my eyes, I registered the feeling of him playing absently with my fingers. Forcing myself to ignore his hands because I couldn’t seem to get control of my thoughts when he was touching me, I tried to piece my mind together enough to answer him.
It wasn’t easy, and it felt disjointed and confused as I spoke. “I mean, dying isn’t what scares me, everybody dies, don’t they? Can’t get away from that. No, it’s the idea of growing old that freaks me out. How is somebody like me going to age? I won’t make sense at forty. This personality wouldn’t work. And when that happens, I’m going to be alone. So no, dying young and happy doesn’t scare me. Its growing old and being alone that’s worse, I’ve watched it happen to my mother while my dad drives his life into the ground. Being like them, well, that’s the worst thing I can think of.”
Cam didn’t reply, but his fingers halted in their absent minded playing. I didn’t dare open my eyes but I was sure he was staring down at me – I could practically feel that burning gaze. He didn’t speak right away, and I was reminded how much I liked that about him. Cam wouldn’t say something just to speak, he meant the things he said and he was going to weigh the words before he spoke.
However this time he didn’t get the chance, because when Diane Young cut off, another song set in like a battle cry that had my eyes snapping open. The drums always thundered right through your head in this one.
“Oh man, we need to go see Logan for this one,” I demanded, jolting to my feet. “It’s perfect; we can’t let this one go.”
Although he looked confused, Cam allowed me to haul him to his feet even as Johnny Rotten cackled around us when I swung open the door. Danni was making a drink to the side, but Logan was still on the table, air drumming along with the Sex Pistols.
Without hesitating, I bolted in his direction, and yanked Cam up on the table with us. I just made it in turn to shout along to the lyrics, jumping up and down to which they soon joined me. It was a wonder they table hadn’t broken yet. In a horrible harmonization that was alright considering, we sang together.
“I am an antichrist. I am an anarchist. Don’t know what I want but I know how to get it. I wanna destroy passerby. ‘Cause I wanna be anarchy!”
- okay, I've got to run. I need to do so many things in three hours, it's stupid, but I wanted to get this out before my horse show this week. Hope you enjoyed. Lots of songs again, but I put Fuckin' In The Bushes on the side. Not edited of course.