Chapter Eight
Pressley
I wanted to go to him, comfort him, and assure him all I saw was beauty and not the scars he clearly hid from everyone.
Only he didn’t realize the physical scars weren’t the issue.
No, this ran much deeper. It was the mental ones he’d struggled to get past, and it may require an unbiased third party to assist him with that in the form of therapy.
Who hurt him?
That was the real question, and one my mind was currently at war with.
If it were another human that had caused this, I needed to know who and ensure they were banned from every show.
They’d never hurt Bowie again, not on my watch.
Protective I’d always been, but something about Bowie resonated deep within me.
Deny it as I may, this wasn’t just about being a band manager, this was about me wanting him, craving him, and needing him on a much deeper level.
Would he let me in if I knocked on the door?
Just as I raised my hand to knock, Tony came around the corner. A curious brow cocked.
“Everything okay, man?”
“I-I’m not sure. Could you, um, could you make sure he’s okay?”
“Do I even want to know what happened?”
“I’ll let him tell you, but I can assure you nothing I saw changes the way I feel about him.
” Shit, had I just let the cat out of the bag?
My brain and mouth were not on the same page here.
“If you need me, I’ll be in my room.” Without another glance, I walked across the hall and closed the door behind me.
Those scars were thick, so the wounds must’ve run deep and zigzagged in all directions across his shoulder, torso, and his handsome face.
The look of terror in his eyes as mine scoured his body was the worst. Never ever would I purposely make another feel less worthy, especially not over something they couldn’t control.
But all I saw was Bowie, the man I wished to hold, run my fingers through his long locks, and kiss those sweet lips.
I’d trace each scar, pressing gentle kisses atop them so he’d see they didn’t bother me.
They were a part of who he was and spoke of his past, but they didn’t define him in any way, and it was important to me that he see that.
I tossed and turned all night. Bowie’s terrified face at the forefront of my mind.
I’d lost count of how many times I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, poised and ready to text him, only to set it back down.
The thought crossed my mind to ask Tony if Bowie was okay, but that felt like overstepping.
Tony would comfort him until Bowie felt comfortable enough to open up to me.
Hopefully someday.
Wide awake with zero chance of sleeping tonight, I resorted to a trick my mom and I used to share when neither of us could sleep—baking.
By the time I heard Bowie and Tony up and moving around, I’d already pulled a batch of fresh cinnamon rolls from the oven and had croissants cooling.
Scrambled eggs were nearly done, and the bacon was warming in the oven, waiting for them to emerge.
“Good morning,” I did my best to sound chipper as they entered the kitchen. “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty good,” Tony said. “The house smells freaking amazing.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” I batted my lashes like a silly damsel. “We’ve got cinnamon rolls, croissants, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Coffee is per order, and the orange juice is in the fridge.” So glad I’d stocked up ahead of time.
“Bowie?” His lack of eye contact struck me right in the heart.
“Are you hungry?” When he didn’t reply, I glanced over at Tony.
He nodded for me to go to Bowie while he stayed glued to the coffee machine.
Tentatively, my legs carried me over to him as I approached him much as you would a scared cat.
“Bowie,” I wanted to reach out and brush his hair aside so I could see his face.
But did I have permission to touch him? Hell, was he even gay?
The simplest of touches sent most straight men into a blind rage.
Yeah, I've lived that mistake one too many times.
“Yeah, um, I could eat.” Still no eye contact. Fuck.
“I’ll fix you a plate.” When I turned around, Tony handed me a fully loaded one. "Thank you," I mouthed and returned to my um…
Crossing a line was what he was.
“Here you go.” He mumbled a thank you and dug in, and I took that as my cue to back off.
Tony shrugged, grabbed his plate, and joined Bowie at the table.
I cleaned up the kitchen and then retreated to my room to get ready for a busy day of auditions.
Hopefully, that would keep my mind from straying to the elusive man I wished to know better.
Yeah, right. When has that ever worked for me…
By the time I was ready and reemerged, the boys were sitting on the couch waiting. “Alright, let’s roll.” Bowie hopped in the backseat, leaving Tony to ride up front with me.
“I hope the tryouts aren’t packed with a bunch of lame-ass contestants again,” Tony said. “I mean, I get it, wanting to fanboy over Social, but fuck, making a fool out of yourself on stage isn’t the way to do it.”
I had to laugh. Tony had such a way with words. “Agreed. I hadn’t considered that even happening until Wolf pointed it out. If it starts out like that again, hopefully Mickey or Stoli will call them out and clear out the wannabes.”
“Fucking lame,” Bowie called out. “Who does that shit? It’s like, dude, buy a concert ticket and pay for the meet and greet, but don’t waste our fucking time.”
“I hear you, and while I agree with you, I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that our approach is everything.
I think if it gets out of hand, we let Mickey and Stoli handle it.
” And so the day begins with a shitty attitude that I was likely the cause of.
“I’d like the two of you to sit back and evaluate.
Your input as to who moves on to the next round is just as important as Mickey’s. ”
“We can do that,” Tony agreed, though the back seat remained silent and faced the side window away from me. While I now understood the hair issue from Bowie’s perspective, it only served to make forming any sort of bond with him twice as hard.
Let it go, Pressley. If it’s meant to be, he’ll come to you.
Yeah, right.
We scanned our IDs to get into the building and then headed upstairs to the audition room.
“Morning,” Wolf greeted us. “Did you come through the front?”
“No, the back. Why?”
“Didn’t see the line outside, I take it then?”
Bowie and Tony jogged over to the window. “Oh, shit,” Tony said. “That’s way more than forty-seven.”
“Indeed, it is.” I peered around them. “How do we know who’s who?”
“After last week’s fiasco, the ones we accepted were sent an email with a QR code for security to scan before they are escorted up.
Front doors are locked until nine, when security starts letting them in.
Which is,” Wolf glanced at his watch. “Now. Time to roll, gentlemen. We’ll take them in groups of ten. ”
Joey, Stoli, and Mickey walked in. “Looks like we’re in for a hell of a day,” Stoli said.
“Who’s Bowie, and who’s Tony?” Mickey asked, urging them to introduce themselves. “Nice to meet you both.”
As the first group funneled in, we each grabbed a bottle of water and took a seat opposite them, where Wolf had set up chairs for us.
One after another, wide-eyed hopefuls got up on stage, and for the most part, they weren’t too bad, at least by my untrained ears.
Maybe audition videos should’ve been sent in first. Would’ve been an easier way to weed out and dwindle down these long-ass days.
I’ll bring that up with Easton and Diamond during our next one-on-one meeting.
“There has got to be a better way,” Mickey muttered beside me. “I get this is our first time playing build-a-band, but we’d have had better luck finding a new bassist at Build-A-Bear.”
“Ha-ha-ha,” the rest of us laughed, but Mickey just shook his head. “May I make a suggestion for next time?”
“Next time your ass is handling this,” Wolf growled. “How I became the chosen one is beyond me.”
“That’s easy,” Stoli cut in. “You’re an intimidating fucker, and they hoped you’d scare the losers off.”
“A double bird flip for the win!” Joey teased when Wolf fired off paired birds. “Seriously though, how many grabby-handed fans have you scared off over the years?”
Wolf’s low growl, a signature response I’d learned, came before his words. “Too goddamn many.”
“Lunch is on its way up, let’s take a break and recap before we bring the next group in.” The receptionist’s message that the food was here was a welcome interruption. The security guard helped unload the cart before he left. Plates filled, we gathered around the table. “Any round two choices yet?”
“Not really,” Mickey was the first to reply. “I mean, there are a couple that would benefit from lessons, but the others are seriously lacking talent, and without that, it’s time for a new career choice.”
“We don’t have the time nor the patience to wait for a player to get lessons.
If we can’t see the talent and ability to quickly hone it, we’ve got to pass.
” Who knew Stoli had it in him to complete a sentence without using the word fuck?
I nearly laughed aloud and only just caught myself in time to fake a cough.
“Sorry, swallowed down the wrong pipe.”
But even a great lunch couldn’t save us from the rest of today’s tryouts. I hoped like hell tomorrow’s would be better.
“Ready for another fun-filled day of shit-tastic bass playing?”
“Stoli, there isn’t enough caffeine for your smart ass this early in the morning.” Mickey made what I guessed wasn’t his first cup as he rolled his eyes at his friend. “Might end up calling on some of those still waiting in the rain. So far, the ones that got in are no prize.”
And off we went, until Mickey couldn’t take it anymore and took the stage himself.
“How many of you have played in a bands, raise your hands?” Three of ten, not a good ratio.
“Of those three, how many are still in those bands?” No hands up was a bad sign.
“Here’s a better question: how many of you only tried out for a chance to meet us?
” Every. Freaking. Hand shot in the air.
“Dismissed.” Teacher Mickey wasn’t fucking around.
He weeded through each group the same way until the finals were down to seven, and at that point, he let them each take the stage. One of them stood out to me but bassist guru, I was not so I’d defer to the group.
“Hey,” Tony nudged me and showed me his list with the same name circled. “This guy.” He turned to Mickey and showed him the same thing. Mickey smiled and winked. I got the feeling we had our bassist.
“Alright, we’d like the following three bassists to stick around for round two.
Jett, Devon, and Tibby.” I expected the room to fill with groans and colorful curse words, but instead, they congratulated the top three and even exchanged fist bumps.
It is amazing how much smoother it goes when you weed it down to the true professionals.
“Alright, gentlemen,” Mickey addressed them. “Now’s the time to shine, so if you’ve got a favorite song in your back pocket that you can nail, do it. First up, Jett.”
Jett chose Right Now by Korn. Any Korn song is heavy on bass, so he went in the right direction. Too bad nerves got the best of him, and he missed a few key chords.
“Next up, Devon.”
Devon reached for the stars by choosing Run to the Hills from Iron Maiden. He wasn’t too bad, a bit stiff, but given this was the final round, nerves would tend to get the best of you.
“And last but not least, Tibby.”
Tibby shot for the moon when he broke into Metallica’s For Whom the Bell Tolls.
We were on the edge of our seats, enthralled by this smiling young man as we watched his nimble fingers flawlessly pluck every correct string.
At the end of the song, both Jett and Devon were on their feet clapping, as we were too.
That was one tough-ass song to nail, and nail it he did.
“Devon, Jett, it was wonderful to meet you both, and we wish you the best, but we gotta give it to Tibby.” Mickey shook their hands. “Definitely keep in touch, the two of you have mad talent, and you never know what’s next for the Masterson fam.”
Tibby packed his bass up, and as soon as the door shut behind Devon and Jett, he let out a wail sirens would be jealous of.
“Welcome to the team,” Mickey bro hugged him.
“Wolf will get the contracts ready for you to sign. Let me introduce you to the rest of the crew. Stoli and Joey, you know, this is your band manager, Pressley. He’ll be your main point of contact, and I’ll be your mentor.
The new band you’ll be a part of is called Imminent Danger. ”
“Imminent Danger, I freaking love it,” Tibby said, smiling wide.
“Right on, this is Bowie, the lead guitarist, and your singer and frontman, Tony.”
“Dude, this is so surreal,” Tony said as he shook Tibby’s hand. “By the way, where did Tibby come from?”
“Tiberius Franklin Hawthorne the third, at your service,” Tibby bowed. “Thank fuck my mom nicknamed me Tibby. Not that it kept the grade school bullies away, but hey, my real name is a ridiculous mouthful.”
“Tibby it is,” Bowie shook his hand. “Three down, only a drummer to go.”
Jesus, how had it just hit me that the most painful auditions to sit through would be our last?
“Do we have earplugs?” Evidently my question was funny, though it wasn’t meant to be. Guess that was a no on the earplugs…