Chapter Twenty-One
You’re probably wondering why I gathered you all here,” I say dramatically, suddenly very nervous.
I’ve never had the dream of showing up to class in your underwear, but I imagine it feels like this.
Except watching a bunch of guys read the article I wrote about them is infinitely more mortifying. But necessary.
“We were already gathered,” Marcus points out with a bored quirk of his brows.
“Thanks, Barrett.” I wink at him, my coconspirator, tipping me off that everyone would be at his place to write the final song for the album.
“Anyway,” I say, plowing on, “I’ve finished the article—almost. It’s unconventional and not necessarily what you asked for—what anyone asked for,” I admit under my breath. “But I think this is better. But—”
“Two buts? That’s never good.” Cain laughs.
I make a face at him, still avoiding Dax’s gaze from the moment I crashed the end of their session.
I called him last night to float this idea past him before proposing it to everyone, and the call ended with a “long-distance practice session”—aka phone sex—and I don’t trust myself not to blush if I look at him.
That, and I never let the subject of my article review the piece beforehand, and I’m incredibly nervous about them reading it—him more than the others.
“But,” I continue, “if you’re on board with this, I need a little bit more from you, since you conveniently left out some parts the first time.
” I flash them a saccharine smile, and they have the grace to look abashed.
Well, all of them but Marcus, who isn’t even slightly abashed.
“First—” Clearing my throat, I slide the binder-clipped bundles from my backpack, handing them to each guy in turn.
I save Dax for last, and when I hand him his, he doesn’t need to graze the back of my hand to take it from me, but he does it anyway.
I meet his gaze, and there’s no trace of nerves or hesitation in his eyes—just pride.
I smile weakly before retreating to the bottom of the basement stairs to wait, mentally reciting the article in my head.
[DRAFT] Finally, Revelations: The Reintroduction of Final Revelations
By Sloane Donavan for Alternative Press
When one of metal’s biggest bands asks you to do their first interview in nearly a decade, you don’t say no—even when the frontman is your ex.
But I’m not here to tell you if Dax Nakamura is a good kisser (he is) or the best places to sneak around on a bus ([redacted]).
I’m here because if anyone is going to tell you exactly how it is, it’s the girl who spent a summer on their bus a few years ago and doesn’t have anything left to prove—to them or to you, dear reader.
Final Revelations isn’t new. Everyone knows them—or thinks they do, despite them not giving an interview in eight years. Yeah, you know the one. After that article, it would make sense they’d never speak to another reporter again.
I’m here to tell you that you don’t actually know Final Revelations.
Are they curmudgeonly? Yes.
Do they only want to talk about the music? Yes. And no.
Do Dax and Marcus hate each other? No; they bicker like an old married couple—with love.
Did Dax make a deal with the devil to sound Like That? The demon I made a deal with to get this article says I’m not allowed to disclose that.
Is this actually their final album? Yes.
If you ask them what to expect off this record, you’ll get five different answers, only half of which make sense. For example, when I asked Cain, he made a jerk-off motion, so do with that what you will. But weirdly enough, I know what he means.
The album isn’t done yet, but if I tried to describe what I’ve heard so far, I’d say it goes a little something like this: It’s like when you were a kid and you’d sit at the bottom of the swimming pool and see how long you could hold your breath.
You’re fighting to stay under, to not give in to the screaming of your lungs, believing that maybe if you just hold on a little longer, some magic will happen and you’ll sprout gills.
But then, eventually, you accept the limits of your mortality and allow yourself to surface.
And when you do—the air is crisp and fresh the way it is after a storm, and it tastes all the sweeter because you’d forgotten what a gift it is to breathe easy.
So yeah, (insert jerk-off motion here).
You either know what I mean or you don’t.
You can decide for yourselves what the album feels like in March. For now, here’s their story, as told by Marcus, Cain, Jonah, Barrett, and Dax—no “source close to the band” needed.
See below for part 1 of their interview, and stay tuned for part 2 in the January issue.
I allow a trickle of pride to slip in as Jonah laughs within seconds of starting to read.
I can’t claim ownership of most of this piece—it’s just them being them—but by the time I had their transcripts satisfactorily interwoven, the intro I wrote poured out of me easily, as well as a smattering of joyful tears because finally—finally—the voice in my head, the one on the page, was mine.
So I take Jonah’s surprised laugh and Barrett’s mischievous chuckle and even Marcus’s intrigued brows to heart.
I try not to watch Dax too closely, but I can’t help the way my gaze slides back to him, his only reaction a slight crease between his brows as he reads.
“You little shit,” Cain mutters, tossing a guitar pick at Marcus, who dodges it.
“What?”
“Page three.”
“How are you on page three already?” Barrett crows.
Dax doesn’t even look up at their bantering, his eyes sweeping across the text, a full page ahead of them all. He finishes first, staring at the last line like he’s waiting for more to appear, before starting over.
I hold my breath. I’m vaguely aware of the others as they finish, can feel them watching me watch him, until all of us are watching him, because really, this article is about all of them, their collective name dragged through the mud, but none so much as Dax.
I couldn’t allow myself to think about it too hard while writing, but I’m rewriting their history.
Or I’m the vehicle for them to rewrite it.
I don’t know if I’ll ever write anything that means as much as this ever again.
Dax reaches the end for the second time and is halfway out of his chair when his eyes meet mine.
I loose a shaky breath, and he’s already to me, taking my face in his hands.
He’s bending over, bringing his mouth to mine and he’s pushing me back into the stairs.
He’s sighing into my mouth like he’s putting down a weight he’s been carrying for eight years.
He’s painting my cheeks with his tears, and I’m wiping them away with my thumbs, tasting his invisible burdens on my tongue.
He’s pressing his forehead to mine, his staccato breaths like the slap of drumsticks counting down the start of a new song.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he whispers just for me.
“I liked it, too, but I’m not gonna kiss ya, Boston,” Barrett calls irreverently from the other side of the room, effectively cutting the tension.
I laugh, and so does Dax, our amusement intermingling. I wipe his cheeks and then my own before meeting everyone’s gaze.
Marcus nods, and the others nod their approval as well. I sag in relief.
“So what do you need from us?” Jonah calls, scanning the article.
“Nixed. And the final Final.”
“We don’t want this—”
“—to read like an obituary,” I say in tandem with Marcus.
“I know,” I assure him. “I mostly want to talk about Nixed before a brief segue into setting up the future. It won’t be an obituary because you’re not fucking done yet.
You have this album and then tour. Let me finish your story up to this point. That’s all I’m asking.”
All the guys’ attention drifts to Dax. Nixed is their album, but it’s Dax’s stories.
“That’s who you gotta ask for Nixed,” Marcus says with a nod to Dax.
“I’ve already heard it.”
Marcus’s brows shoot up, and he and Dax exchange one of their silent conversations.
“Something I should know?” I ask blandly.
The corners of Marcus’s mouth turn down. “Guess not.”
“Great. You should release it.”
They splutter and choke on their words.
“Yes,” Marcus agrees the instant he gathers himself, the two of us on the same page for maybe the first time ever.
“Come full circle—leak it like the EP,” I say.
“Or go out on a double album. Dax sent me the final Final last night, and—The juxtaposition of those songs versus Nixed, the perspective of when you’re in it versus when you’re through it—that’s a story worth telling.
Obviously, I’m not a member of the band,” I hedge.
“But as a fan, I’ve had points in my life where I needed both albums.”
They exchange loaded looks, and I hold up my hands. “You can discuss later, when I’m not here. But if I could steal one of you to—”
I don’t get to finish, to qualify why I want to speak to them individually, same as before, rather than as a group, Dax taking me by the hand and dragging me upstairs.
“Not in my room,” Barrett calls after us.
“We’re not going to scandalize your furniture,” I promise around a laugh. “Dax knows the rules.”
“Do I?” he questions, glancing back with an arched brow as we reach the top. He pulls me closer by our joined hands, backing me up against the kitchen wall. Leaning in, his breath ghosts across the shell of my ear as my hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer on instinct. “Do you?”
I scoff, shoving him away.
He smiles, holding out his hand. I slide mine into his, allowing him to guide me up the next flight of stairs and down the short hallway. “I meant what I said to Barrett.”
He grins at me over his shoulder, pausing at the end of the hall. He swings the door open, revealing a small guest room with a sloped ceiling. I glance at him in question.