7. Pretend I’m Not Here
7
PRETEND I’M NOT HERE
FELIX
Sweat By The All American Rejects
A fter only a couple weeks on the road, I think I’ve reached that point where touring starts to wear on you. After a night of broken sleep, stepping off the bus and straight into an inferno, courtesy of Texas’ relentless heat, I’m definitely not in the best of moods.
I make my way toward the venue for soundcheck.
“Welcome to Texas!” Dusty calls after me with a laugh that echoes in the heavy air.
I pull a sucker from my pocket, snatch off the wrapper, and pop it into my mouth, hoping the sugary distraction will help me push through till I can retreat to the air-conditioned bus.
Gunner is sprawled out in front of one of the industrial fans set up on the stage.
“Are you alive?” I ask, giving him a kick.
He sits up groggily. “Whatever cosmic joke is happening right now, I did not consent.”
“I don’t have time for attitudes,” I reply, annoyed.
We dive into rehearsing our set, my fingers work their familiar dance across the guitar strings and we finally seem to have found a rhythm.
I ditch the guitar and motion to Kate, one of the sound techs, indicating my vocals are being lost in the mix. I’m drawn toward the fan’s welcome breeze. I take a deep breath as I prepare to belt out the next verse.
Then, out of nowhere, Maggie roller-skates past with her camera in hand. She’s a blur of denim and bare skin, my lyrics faltering as I try to register the vision.
What in the actual fuck?
She circles back, her camera focusing on me with teasing persistence. I drop the mic at my side, unable to hide my amusement. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“My job,” she shoots back playfully, “pretend I’m not here.” She jets off again.
She really expects me to pretend she’s not there.
She’s zipping around in a skirt so short it should come with a warning and a crop top barely hanging on to the pretense of covering her. How am I supposed to ignore that?
Get your shit together, man.
“Alright guys, can we go back to the second verse?” I call into the mic with as much authority as I can muster. Dex counts us off again, and I try to hold the thread of my focus as Maggie skates by, her hair catching the light like molten gold.
My concentration shatters as she rolls up close.
“Do you mind?” I ask.
“Oh sorry, am I bothering you?” She beams up at me, wholly unfazed by my mostly feigned exasperation.
“Where did you get those things anyway? They look ancient,” I observe, nodding toward her roller-skates.
“I made Dusty stop at a garage sale,” she confesses triumphantly, veering off again.
“I’m sure he loved that,” I say sarcastically.
This girl.
“Someone steal your kale chips today?” she teases, whirling in place, her skirt riding up a little higher, damn near showing her panties. The image is torturous.
“You’re supposed to be documenting Velvet Drift, remember? There are three other members,” I say dryly, gesturing toward my bandmates.
“I don’t mind if you film me, Maggs,” Bash chimes in.
Maggs?
“Make sure you get this in the film!” Dex rolls a pattern on his drums.
“Don’t encourage her!” I warn, only for Dex to falter in laughter.
“Nothing wrong with getting a little riled up before a show,” he defends, pointing a finger at me. “This tension the two of you got going on could work in our favor. It’s giving you that broody look.”
“There is no…. oh, fuck off.” I grumble into the mic, knowing he’s hit closer to home than I’d like.
“Can we please just finish before I die of heatstroke?”
Dex gives a drum beat and we start to finish out the soundcheck.
Maybe I can’t resist her taunts, or maybe I just want to join the madness. As she glides past, I reach out, grazing her ribs, relishing the startled yelp that follows.
She glowers back, flipping me off with an elegance that feels impossibly enticing.
When we wrap up, Maggie rolls to a halt before me, thrusting her camera at me to view the footage, and the way the camera pans from the ground up is…
“That’s cool as fuck,” I admit, genuinely impressed by the effect she’s created, especially after all the antics.
“See, I don’t need all that fancy equipment,” she replies confidently.
“I can see that,” I laugh.
“Ah, but you haven’t seen the best part,” she teases, hitting play as the screen freezes on my stupendously bewildered face. “That ‘what the fuck’ expression on your face is priceless.” She blushes slightly as she ribs me with delight.
“I’m impressed.”
“Just wait until you see it after I edit everything.”
“Is that how you spend your evenings?” I ask, intrigued.
“That’s just one of the things I do alone in my bunk at night while watching footage of you,” she smirks, the words dripping with playful insinuation.
“You know, you could do a lot more interesting things with me right here and now instead of wasting those skills alone in your bunk,” I flirt back, my grin widening as I watch her reaction.
Maggie’s eyes roll skyward, though the coy smile tugging at her lips tells me I’ve hit a nerve. “In your dreams, rockstar,” she retorts, her voice laced with teasing defiance, yet there’s an unmistakable warmth in her gaze that betrays her.
“If you let me,” I counter, my voice dropping to a low hum.
“Careful, Felix,” she warns, skating just a hair’s breadth away. “You might end up regretting this.”
“Or maybe,” I smile, “you might find you enjoy it a lot more than you think.”
She pauses in thoughtful consideration. “Hmm, well, I wouldn’t want to distract from your art, not when we’re just getting to the good stuff.”
I step closer, resting my elbows on an amp. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of music in me,” I reply smoothly.
Bash calls out in a loud, mocking tone. “Just fuck already!”
Maggie rolls her eyes and gives Bash the middle finger. “Don’t tempt me,” I murmur, pushing away before I do something I’ll regret.