Stay Until We Break (8 page)

Then the back doors of the Ram van pop open and Miles rolls out of the cargo space, holding an unlit cigarette between his teeth, and he’s got a fist full of bottle rockets. Elliot, Anton, and Vincent pop out of the van then like a troop of clowns, completely oblivious that they’ve almost ended me.

“Goddamn, it’s good to see you motherfuckers!” Miles yells. Elliot lights his cigarette, and then with the lit cigarette, Miles proceeds to light one of the fireworks he’s holding, and it screeches into the sky as Sonia cowers behind me for cover.

“Jesus Christ,” Sonia says. “They’re menaces!”

“Are you fucking crazy?” Emmy screams at him as she comes marching over to us. “You guys almost killed our bass player!”

“Did we?” Miles asks, looking confused. “Elliot, did you almost kill Cole?”

Elliot looks confused. Then he grabs me by the shoulders and kisses me on both cheeks. “He looks okay to me,” he says, then shakes me and yells right in my face, “Coco Chanel! Can you hear me?”

If I wasn’t so happy to see them, I might deck him.

“I’m virtually unscathed,” I say. Crown the Robin are like having all the good parts of an acid trip added to the party. Most of the time.

“See?” Elliot says. “He’s nowhere near almost dead.”

“You sure you’re okay, Cole?” Vincent asks. “We’re sorry—Elliot’s been driving like a maniac to get here on time for soundcheck. He wouldn’t even stop so we could take a piss.”

“That’s harsh,” I say.

“No shit. Miles got so desperate he peed in my Snapple bottle.”

“I wasn’t desperate,” Miles volunteers.

We look over at Anton, who happens to be chugging away at a bottle of Snapple that definitely doesn’t look up to regulation. He pauses, then looks back at the bottle and puts it quietly down on the sidewalk. “I thought that tasted a little off.”

These guys have road sickness. You can see it in their eyes already. That mental state that even the psychiatrists can’t treat, where the conventions of normal society no longer apply. It happens to bands when they stay on the road long enough, and these guys definitely have it. Given how wild they were when they left Jersey City, I can only imagine what we’re all in for now.

***

Over pitchers, Elliot tells us all about their interview at WFUI at Indiana University last night, and how the fucking Pumps were in town on their way out to Chicago and crashed their show in Bloomington and hijacked their interview.

“They had trouble with their tour bus and were stopped at the university for the night,” Miles says. “Elliot ran into them in the student center and happened to mention we were doing an on-air interview so Jason invited himself.”

“They’re doing really well right now, though,” Sonia says. “Not a bad band to get hooked up with.”

“Are you serious?” I say. “Sonia, those guys are total dicks.”

“You’re not kidding,” Miles says. “Jason took over the entire interview. Not even Elliot could get a word in. The whole fucking thing turned into a Pumps jizzathon.”

“Hello, that’s gross,” Sonia says. “But you have to admit, a tour with them could get you a lot of exposure.”

“Never going to happen,” I say. “Imagine Emmylou’s face if you even suggested it.”

“Emmylou wants a record deal,” Sonia says. “I’ll bet you ten bucks she agrees with me and would totally play a show with the Pumps if the opportunity comes up.”

“You’re on,” I say. “But if I win, I don’t want ten bucks.”

“What do you want, then? Not that it matters since I’m winning.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” I say with a wink, and she bites her lip as she registers the innuendo, which is about as subtle as fake tits on a surfboard. Then she excuses herself to go get another pitcher of beer for the table.

When she’s gone, Miles goes on to tell us how Jason got with at least three different girls at the after-party in the dorms.

“Wow, you’ve got some competition, Cole,” Joey says, and I get that he thinks that’s funny but under the circumstances, it just isn’t. And while I have, in the past, hooked up with my share of girls, I’m just not that much of a whore, regardless of what Joey wants to believe. I turn my head to make sure Sonia can’t hear us.

“You have to cut that shit out,” I tell him.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, and then he turns to look over at Sonia at the bar, and she sees us looking her way, and fuck Joey, he makes this “a-ha” face, like the damned lightbulb is going off, and now she thinks I’m telling him something I shouldn’t be telling him. There’s the Sunshine face, beaming right at us. “Are you and Sunshine a thing now? Like seriously?”

“That’s not what I . . . I mean we’re not . . .” Shit, how do I answer this? I look across the table where Anton is sizing me up, and oh, really now? We’ll just see about that, asshole.

“Yeah,” I say, staring right back at Anton. “We are.”

“Wow,” Joey says. “You’re really retiring your chick magnet? So early on the road where all this opportunity awaits?”

“Stop. Seriously.”

“Well, I don’t know how much competition JPumps would be for anyone anyway,” Miles says. “Not unless you’re into high school girls. It was a cheerleading camp party where all that scoring happened.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I say, feeling rage begin to burn in the pit of my stomach. “And you didn’t kick his ass?”

“They were all over the age of consent,” Miles says with a shrug.

“I’d really rather not hear how or why you know that,” Joey says. “No, really. Do not tell me.”

“Or me,” I say, my fists reflexively clenching at my sides.

“Jason told me—I swear!” he says. “And no, I didn’t hook up with any of them. Jesus Christ, you guys.”

“But you did sleep in a dorm room last night,” Anton says.

“On the floor, for fuck’s sake,” he insists. “And if you tell Maria about that . . .”

“What happens on the road stays on the road,” Anton says. “I would never. Come on, man.”

“Maria would de-ball Miles with her stilettos,” Elliot says, and then gives us all a very stern look. “She would de-ball all of us, you understand what I’m saying?”

“Who would?” Sonia says, plunking the pitcher down in the center of the table. Elliot picks it up and pours beer into a clear plastic cup.

“You,” he says. “If any of us step out of line.” He winks at her and she snarls a little.

“I don’t wear stilettos,” she says.

“She doesn’t need them,” Joey says. “She can de-ball a stallion with one look.”

Sonia smiles when he says that and sits down next to Anton, who shifts in his seat to get a little closer to her, maybe to even catch a whiff of that honeydew body lotion she’s always got on her. He lights a fresh cigarette off the one he’s finishing and he doesn’t make eye contact with me, that’s for sure.

Let him dream, I say, because I know that look in Sunny’s eye when she glances across the table at me and curls her tongue in her mouth like that. I feel it in my bones. She pours herself another beer and I get up and walk back outside because if I sit there, I’m going to keep drinking, and if I keep drinking and Sonia is drinking all night, I’m going to end up fucking her in the sleeping loft of the Ram van during Crown’s set. I know it. I can feel the way I tense everywhere, how my heart pounds when she’s near.

Soon, she’ll be out here looking for me. And I want her to follow me outside, yes, but I don’t want her to find me. Not yet. I don’t have a strong enough grip on my impulses right now. I know how I feel and I know what she wants and it’s not good. No matter where things are headed with this girl, which is looking more and more like the scenic route to nowhere, the first time I’m with her is not going to be like that.

And oh, damn.

Now I have to admit how much I want this to happen, even though I know it’s a bad idea. Not only that I want it to happen, but I have actual ideas about our first time—first time, like there will even be a second. I know there shouldn’t even be a first, but if that’s where this is headed, it’s not going to be some quick, desperate bang in a car or an alleyway between sets. It’s going to be something I want her to think about long after all this is over and I’m nothing more than a memory to her.

Because if my future with this girl is going to be as a memory, it’s going to be a good one.

Sonia

Out on the back patio of the Wrocklage there’s a soft, warm breeze, which feels nice after sitting in the frigid bar. It’s still early, and there’s nobody out here but me, though I did come out here to look for Cole. After nearly a whole day of him giving me the silent treatment, I want to make sure we’re at peace before everyone in the band decides to make one of us ride on the roof à la Aunt Edna in
Vacation
, only without the being dead part. I hope.

I look down at my tattoo and think about adding a small flame to the bottom corner of the cage while we’re out here, if I can get a rec for a reputable artist and we’ve got time. If I could, I’d set all the cages in the world on fire. Set every bird free.

I can still see my mother’s face, all pinched and red with her vodka-fueled rage when she first saw my tattoo, three years ago. I hadn’t planned to go home at all after we’d had our huge falling-out over Juilliard, but it was my father’s birthday and he asked me to come home to make peace. Ha, nice try, Dad.

“What kind of man is ever going to want you with that self-inflicted defect on your arm? An ex-con?” she said. I was upstairs, coming out of my old bathroom and about to put my cardigan back on when she grabbed me by the arm. She looked sick at the sight of it.

“I’m not worried about finding a man,” I said, disgusted. “I’ve got my own life. My own goals.”

“What, are you a lesbian now?”

“And what if I am?” I really wished I was, if only to piss her off more.

“You’d better not be,” she said. “And you can forget the new car after this stunt.”

“I don’t need a car in New Brunswick.”

“I guess you won’t need to be leaving there again until Thanksgiving, then.”

“Maybe not even then.”

Maybe not ever if it wasn’t for my father, who as far as I know still hasn’t seen my tattoo. Maybe I’ll show it off at the big, fancy twenty-fifth anniversary shindig my mother has been planning all year at the stupid country club. My stomach lurches when I think about having to go to that when we get home from the tour. Maybe I can get some kind of tour virus and avoid it.

I walk around the corner to the alley where the vans are parked, but there’s nobody there, either. I suddenly get a chill. Maybe even a little lonely. When I turn to go back inside, I feel a hand on my arm and there’s an instant, just a split second, where I’m startled. Then I feel the buzz along my skin and smile.

“Where ya goin’, Sunshine?” Cole says. “You just got here.”

My heart swells, but just as it’s peaking a small part of my brain sounds the alarm. I always knew it would hurt if—I mean, when—he moves on to someone new. But now I’m beginning to realize exactly how much.

“Are you all right?” he asks, giving me a funny look.

“Oh, sure,” I say, my heart beating faster. “Just, you know, getting some air.”

“Me, too. I like taking a little space before a set,” he says. “Helps me get my head together.”

He chews the end of a thin red drink straw as I stare. I could watch that mouth for hours, honestly. I wonder if I should try to make conversation, but it’s the first time all day we’re not fighting, so I opt for staying quiet.

He’s quiet, too. Maybe he’s sizing me up. He looks so serious I have to assume I’m coming up a bad bet. I mean, of course I am. He can easily hook up with other girls who are nicer, and who can be just another punch in his long dance card so he can get what he wants without any strings—Diane and Marilyn. There are strings with me, no matter how cool I may try to be about it, because I have feelings for him that I can’t do anything about. He must realize that.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You’re making the Sunshine face and I haven’t even said anything.”

“Oh, nothing,” I say. “I’m going to head back in.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll be along in a few.”

Notice how he doesn’t stop me or try to persuade me to linger.

My heart deflates like a sad balloon long after the party’s over.

***

While Soft play, I sit at the merchandise table with Anton the Robin, who talks to me about Crown’s tour escapades. I try to listen, to smile when I should and to laugh at his jokes because it’s Anton and this is the perpetual rock party now—Soft and Crown the Robin will be touring the next two weeks together, until this circus pulls into the final stop. So I don’t want to be a bitch. Actually, that’s a total lie. I want to be a bitch. What I really want to say is, “Anton, can’t you see I’m busy watching Cole’s hands and having wildly inappropriate thoughts about where they’ve been?” But I’m trying to be professional. As professional as I can be on . . . I lost track of how many plastic cups of PBR by this point.

On stage, Cole is all bounce and swagger and soft brown eyes, pounding on that bass, singing along with Emmylou on the chorus of “Heat.” That boy’s voice is pure sex when he sings. He could easily front his own band, not that he’d ever leave Soft. I’m singing right along with them when Anton leaves and then comes back with a fresh pitcher and a basket of pretzels, and I’m so loaded now that I actually eat pretzels out of a basket in a bar, as if I can count on every person in this club washing their hands after going to the bathroom before shoving them into a community basket of snack food. I nod in what I guess are the right places as Anton tells me some story that I can barely follow about sleeping in a bathtub in some doctor’s house in Albuquerque.

Towards the end of Soft’s set, I catch Cole throwing these little glances my way that I interpret as a lot more meaningful than they probably are, but still, why is he doing that? Why oh why is he looking at me like that? Just to confuse me more? Well hell, if he wants me tonight he’s definitely getting me, because I’m drunk and he’s Cole McCormack and that seems like a good enough reason under the present circumstances. Or any circumstances. Do I even need a reason? I can’t remember. And now I can’t take my eyes off of him. I just stare openly, and I don’t bother nodding or smiling at Anton anymore.

After Soft play their last song, I walk right up to the stage, stumbling slightly after I accidentally knock into Elliot. I catch myself and sort of land on both feet like a cat, right in front of Cole. He notices my gracefulness from the corner of his eye as he’s powering down his Ampeg. He turns and leans down so he can talk to me, putting his hand on my arm to steady me.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Can I get that for you?” I say and nod at his bass.

He studies me for a second, and I feel the judgment coming off him like waves of heat.

“What?” I ask.

“How much have you had to drink?” he asks.

“I’m on the bottomless Solo cup plan, so I lost count,” I say. I reach my hands for his bass and he pulls it out of my reach. “Come on, Cole. I promise to be careful.”

He grimaces before he decides to hand the bass to me. “Don’t drop it,” he says. “Please.”

“Give me a break,” I say. “I would never.”

Cole’s bass is all warm in my hands and I’m not going to do something as weird as hug it or sniff it or anything, even though I want to. I go back to the merchandise table to spend some quality time with it before I put it away, though. I take a seat, still holding on to his bass, pretending that I’m someone he trusts enough to handle his bass and to not ever drop it, even if that’s not exactly true. I start to mess around on it while the rest of the band pack up their gear. It feels so good to move my fingers over the strings, even if I don’t have the hand strength to really play. I start to finger strum just a few scales to warm my hands up, and then noodle around on nothing in particular. It feels so silly but good all at once.

As Cole passes by with Joey’s floor tom he stops, looks over, and sees me playing his bass, and I feel like I’m going through his diary or underwear drawer or something. I stop playing.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll put it away now.”

“No, that’s all right,” he says. Then he pulls a pick from his front pocket. “Try this, though. Don’t tear your hand up.”

I grin, take it from him, and dig in with the pick, getting some nasty sounds off the body that are pretty awesome, and I must be drunk because I’d never be playing Cole’s bass in front of anyone, or at all, if I wasn’t. Anton leans against the wall next to me as I’m beginning to fumble around the bass line for “Loud Is How I Love You,” and there it is. Next thing I know, I’m actually playing it.

“That sounds great!” Anton says. “Didn’t know you could play.”

“I can’t,” I say and laugh.

Cole comes back and I stop playing because no way am I playing the bass line from “Loud” in front of the best bass player I know, and the guy who wrote it.

“Watch it, McCormack, or Sonia’s going to take your place in Soft,” Anton says. “Everyone knows female bass players are the bomb.”

“Yeah, Kim Gordon, Kim Deal, Kim Coletta . . .” I say. “Maybe I should change my name.”

“Play it again,” Cole says. “Let me see.”

“No way,” I laugh.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s hear it.”

“She just played it,” Anton says. “You should have heard her.”

Cole looks at Anton. “Don’t you need to go set up?” He nods to the stage. Anton looks over to where Elliot, Miles, and Vincent are setting up Crown’s gear.

“Yeah, guess I’d better,” he says. “Catch you after, Sonia.”

Cole doesn’t say another word to him, but raises his eyebrows and nods at the stage as if to say, “Run along now, asshole.” And I don’t quite get it, but then Anton just smiles and gives Cole a wink before he saunters off. Cole makes a face behind his back before he turns his attention back to me and gives me a smile.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“What was what about?” he asks, sitting in the seat right next to me. “Go on—I want to hear you play.”

Now I’m definitely nervous, drunk or not, like I’m playing in front of a full auditorium of paid subscribers. I shake my head. “Nah, I don’t think . . .”

“I know, it’s much more complicated than a cello,” he says, sarcastically. “Probably too difficult for you with those soft little hands of yours.”

I know he’s totally goading me, but Goddamn do I have a competitive streak.

“This soft little hand makes a hard little fist, McCormack,” I say, shaking my fist at him. He laughs but stops when I start to play his bass line to “Loud,” and it sounds perfect, of course. But then he breaks out that killer smile of his and it makes me mess up. Damn it.

“Here, I’ll show you,” he says, and then pulls me to him so that I’m practically in his lap. He puts his left hand around the neck of the bass while I’m still holding the body in my lap. He moves his fingers over the neck and explains, “See? It’s easier to reach that high F
from up here.”

I nod and just swim in the fact that he’s right here with his arm around me, even if it is just to get his hands on his bass. I nearly faint in surprise when I feel his nose nudging the outer edge of my ear.

“So are you into Anton?” he asks.

“What? Are you crazy?” I say with a guffaw. How could he possibly even wonder about that? “You don’t really think that, do you?”

“So the answer is no,” he says. “Good. I’ll make sure he knows it.”

“Oh God, don’t say anything to him,” I say, slightly panicked. “Wait—what would you tell him about me?”

“Sunshine, I don’t need to say anything to him,” he says. “Come on, now.”

I turn to look at him and his lips are right there, right within reach. His scent is some mix of summer and starlight and vanilla Tic Tacs again, so maybe he was planning to kiss me anyway. I don’t know, but I do know that I sort of fall into that kiss like one might fall into a trance. Everything disappears but his sweet, warm mouth, my hand on the back of his neck, pulling him even closer as I slide my tongue in, all the while his bass is pressed against me, with his hands holding it in my lap. I nearly freak with how hard I’m crushing on him because I am actually making out with Cole while he’s still got his hands on his bass. Lifetime sexual goal achieved.

Cole takes a breath and his eyes dart to the stage and then back to me again. I look over to see Anton staring at us and I have to look away as I feel my face heat up. See, I’ve been the butt of jokes between guys before and I can feel a setup from a mile away.

“Is this some sort of game to you?” I accuse him.

“Is what a game?” he says.

“Why did you kiss me?”

“Hey—you very clearly kissed
me
that time,” he says. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.”

“But you . . . you . . . started it. I think.”

“Yeah, well I’d sure like to finish it,” he says. “But I can’t when you’re so damned shitcanned.”

“I’m not shitcanned! I’m just buzzed!”

“I’m not having a repeat of this morning’s sunburn, thanks.” He sighs, clearly exasperated, and takes his bass out of my lap, nodding to the empty seat next to us. “Do you mind?”

I slide over. Then he gets up with his bass and leaves to go put it back in the case. I watch him walk off, my stomach in knots. Okay, I admit I am sort of drunk and it’s not the best time to go reading into a bunch of shit with him. It’s Cole—not Hank Hanley. I’m twenty-one, not sixteen and back at PDS, having the shit teased out of me by all the jocks.