8. Something in the Air
CHAPTER 8
Something in the Air
JOEL
I t’s the fourth time this week I’ve sat outside of The Sudsy Dream hoping Cherry might appear, but she doesn’t. I might have missed her. I can’t possibly sit here all day. Key is already suspicious enough, and there’s only so many gallons of milk I can drink to excuse these trips. He’s still in his funk, and one of the perks is that he seems to readily accept my excuses, but the more I think about it, the more I’m worried for him.
I had no idea he felt that way about romantic love. I thought he was just super happy being single. A young up-and-coming rockstar taking advantage of our newfound fame to take home any girl he wants without the hassle of a relationship. But what he said about the others—about love—he sounds bitter, and it makes me all the more nervous to mention I might have fallen for a girl who still hasn’t even agreed to go on a date with me.
There’s a flash of red out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn to look, it’s an elderly woman in a red head scarf who walks quickly past the laundromat windows. I press my fists against my temples and sigh. I’m going fucking insane. I’m such an idiot. Why did I think this was a good idea? The woman won’t even give me her real name. I know she’s attracted to me, but that doesn’t mean she likes me. Our connection in Vegas must just have been an alcohol-induced fever dream that I’ve spent the last two years obsessing over. I should go home.
Another flash of red, this time from inside the laundromat, and I’m out of the car and walking through the door, searching for fiery hair before I can convince myself to leave. Glancing around, my chest deflates when I confirm that the red I saw was someone’s football jersey in a dryer.
“This is stupid. I’m stupid. Everything is stupid,” I mutter. “Just go home, Joel.” Turning for the door, I grasp the handle.
“Back again?” asks a voice that sounds like sandpaper.
I whip around only to find the old lady at the counter staring at me over her magazine. Her nails are purple polka dots this week, I notice as I walk toward her. “So it would seem.”
She tilts her head and glances up at my forehead. “Nasty bruise you’ve got under all that hair.”
“You’re very observant,” I mutter, wondering why she bothered speaking to me at all.
There’s a pause, and I glance over my shoulder to where Cherry and I folded laundry together less than a week ago.
“Don’t even think about it.”
I turn back to the woman who’s watching me shrewdly. “Huh?”
“You and her. Ain’t no way that’s gonna happen.”
“What? Why not?” I ask indignantly.
“She’s too good for you.”
I scoff. “You don’t even know me.”
She looks me up and down. “I know you couldn’t take care of her the way she needs.”
I cross my arms. “Oh really? And how’s that?”
“That girl needs a strong man. One who can provide for her and keep her safe. Not some little boy who’s charmed by long legs and a pretty face, hanging around to have fun.”
“I’m not just hanging around to have fun,” I argue, but as the words leave my mouth, I really think about what that means. What this woman is trying to tell me in her own crabby way is that I shouldn’t be coming around if I don’t want something serious. A relationship. And now that the word is floating around in my head, do I even want one? What exactly is my plan here?
The woman leans forward, folding her fingers together so that her nails click. “My advice? Forget about The Sudsy Dream and forget about her.”
My mouth twists. I wish I could argue with her, but how can I when I don’t even really know what I want? So instead, I say, “I’ll be back tomorrow,” and leave the sloshing machines and tumbling symphony behind me.
* * *
The sounds of a large crowd are still thrilling even years into this music journey. The chanting of our band name, the adrenaline that seems to explode through my veins as we get hyped up for a show. I’ve never known anything that’s matched the thrill and as I peer out from the wings of the curtains on stage, I don’t know if I ever will.
“Joel?”
I look up to find Becks with her short blond hair and bright green eyes. “Oh, hey, what’s up?”
“The others are in the green room. Al’s here. He has some news,” she says with a grin.
I narrow my eyes at her. “You know what the news is, don’t you?”
She tilts her head back and forth, trying to suppress a huge grin. “Maybe. Now hurry up.”
Standing, I wrap my arm around her shoulder and we head back down the hall. When we enter, she takes her place on James’s knee and I sit down next to Key on the sofa, whose attention is fixed on our curly-haired, pot-bellied manager.
“Right,” Al begins, “so I have some big news. Granted, I don’t have exact dates nailed down yet, but when I got off the phone earlier, they were really insistent. I tried to tell them that?—”
“For fuck’s sake, Al,” Dave mutters, “spit it out, we have a show to do.”
Al shakes his head. “Sure, sure. Well, a producer at MTV has requested that you guys make a music video.”
There’s a pause as we all process what the fuck he just said.
“Did you just say a music video?” James asks.
“Like an actual music video?” Key reiterates next to me. “Like, for the television?”
Al rolls his eyes. “Yes, Fucknuts, for the television . What kind of music video do you think I mean?”
“Holy shit. That’s . . . that’s—” I start.
“This is fucking awesome!” Dave shouts, jumping out of his seat to rush Al in a ginormous hug.
The next thing I know, I’m plummeting against Al too. All of us are, and I can see it in my mind. The four of us, playing our music on the biggest stage of all, and the ideas already start spinning in my head. What song do they want us to do? Will it just be us playing or do they want a concept video? What will I wear? Holy shit, my mom will see this and be able to show her friends that I’m not just a small time fuckup.
When we finally release Al, his glasses are askew and one of the buttons over his large belly has popped, but he’s smiling.
“What song are we going to do?” Key asks.
Al straightens himself out. “They want to release a video for ‘Neon Crush,’ since it’s the official first single off the full album.”
“Really?”
I turn, and Key has paled. In fact, he looks like he might be sick.
“Are you sure?” Key asks, a stammer creeping into his voice. “I mean . . . that song isn’t exactly our most hardcore.”
I frown. What is he so worried about? He’s always been confident about his lyrics.
Dave shoves his shoulder. “What are you talking about? That song is killer. Definitely one of the best you’ve ever written.”
“Yeah,” James interjects. “And maybe it’s good it’s not as hardcore. It’ll appeal more to the masses. Rope them in.”
Al nods. “That’s exactly the plan. We don’t want to scare off the public by going straight to ‘Futility.’”
“Fuck, I love that song,” James muses.
Becks places her hand on his knee and squeezes. “It’s kind of a downer though,” she adds.
James tilts his head in agreement. “Yeah, but it’s a big fuck-you to the man. Fuck-you to the bullies, fuck-you to the government, f?—”
Becks places her hand on James’s cheek and the color that had begun to appear in his face during his rant recedes at her touch. I can see the way he visibly relaxes. How she centers him after so much of his young life was spent in turmoil. Maybe I do want that. Maybe I want that with my own woman.
“Yeah, okay, you’re probably right. At least there’s a rad solo in ‘Neon Crush,’” he concedes. “Just make sure you get my good side on camera.”
I grin then glance over at Key again, who’s cracking his knuckles and looking at the floor. What the hell is up with him now?
“When does production get underway?” Dave asks.
Al holds up his hands. “I’m still ironing out the details, I just wanted to let you know. Now”—he glances at his watch—“you’re on in fifteen, so blow the fucking roof off this place.”
They all give a resounding whoop before finishing their beers and heading for the stage, but I haul Key back by the shoulder. “You okay, man? You looked like you might be sick for a second there.”
He nods. “Oh, yeah. Fine. Just . . . ‘Neon Crush’ is—well, it’s a lot of pressure. It’s one of the only songs on the record where I’m the sole writer. I guess I’m just worried that if it bombs . . .”
“You’ll think it’s because of you and not us,” I finish for him.
He nods. “Yeah. Exactly.”
I twist my lips and sniff. “I wouldn’t worry. If it bombs it’ll be because your ugly mug is on the TV, not because of your songwriting.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
“No seriously,” I continue with a shit-eating grin, following the others out the door. “Your hideous face on TV? We’ll be lucky if people don’t think we’ve started a zombie invasion.”
“He really is an ugly mother fucker.”
The two of us stop, our path to the stage blocked by a figure in the dark corridor. His voice is familiar, and it’s as if the floor has just disappeared beneath me. I can feel the tension taking over Key’s whole body as the man steps into the light in front of us. Someone neither of us has seen in almost eight years.
“One-Punch Logan?” I mutter, followed by a swift elbow to the ribs from Key.
But he seems to ignore the offensive nickname, and instead, smiles even brighter. “Hey, guys.”
“Uh, hey, man. How are you doing? How’d you, uh . . . get back here?” Key asks.
Logan Samuels steps closer, his hands sliding into the front pockets of his jeans. He looks exactly the same, right down to the braid tucked into the brown ponytail that trails down his back. The same smug smile on his lips, like he thinks he knows more than everyone else in the room. The only thing different is his nose and, well, I guess I’m to blame for that.
He raises his arm where a blue rubber bracelet with the name “Carnal Sins” is visible.
“Fuck,” Key mutters.
While we haven’t used the bracelets to hand out to groupies in a few months, I guess they’re still out there circling. Did Logan find one by accident? Or did he seek out a fan and steal it from her? Either way, this guy is as loony as I remember.
“Well, it was nice to see you again but we have a show to do,” I say, trying to get Key to push ahead. “Enjoy the show.”
“Oh, I will,” he says. “And you guys enjoy being out there. Must be awesome to have everyone screaming and cheering for you.”
I frown. “Yeah, it’s fucking unicorns and rainbows all day.” Rolling my eyes, I shove past him with my shoulder. “See you around, Samuels.”
“You never know which performance might be your last.”
We both stop and turn around to find this prick grinning like he won the lottery.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Key asks, stepping forward.
He shrugs. “Nothing. You just never know when your luck will change, right?”
Key moves but I grab his arm. “Forget about him. He’s just being a massive cunt.”
“Guys, they’re waiting for you—oh!”
Becks appears in the hallway behind us, her lips parted in surprise to find us with a stranger. Her eyes dart between us, clearly sensing something is amiss with the way her gaze lingers on my hand holding Key back.
“Sorry, Becks, we’re coming right now,” I say.
“Oh, so you’re Becks,” Logan says, his eyes sweeping up and down over her, and my blood begins to boil as I see the way she cringes back. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on. That album cover photo you did is positively scandalous. I’d recognize those tits anywhere.”
Becks’s face turns beet red, but I barely register it. My fist flies before I can even think but at the last second I’m yanked back, my knuckles missing Logan’s nose by an inch.
“The fuck—” I shout out, feeling James’s arms wrap me from behind and seeing Dave pin Key in a hold. Becks is off to the side, squeezing herself against the wall to avoid any flying limbs.
“Joel, what the hell is wrong with you?” James asks as I pry him off me.
“This fucker—” I start, but I catch sight of Becks, and she subtly shakes her head, her wide eyes darting between me and James. I understand that look. She’s worried if I tell James the reason I almost punched this asshole, he won’t hesitate to commit murder. I take a deep breath and look at James. As his grip loosens, I shrug him off me then take one last look at Logan.
“It’s nothing. This guy was just hoping I might straighten out his crooked nose.”
Logan’s smug smile drops for an instant, and I can see the rage brewing underneath, but he knows better than to take on four guys in a narrow hallway with security within reach. So I back away toward the stage, pulling Key along with me.
“See you around, One-Punch Logan,” I call over my shoulder, motioning for security to escort him out. “Enjoy the show.” Then without a glance back, I walk out onto the blinding stage to calamitous applause.