20
Slater
“Thanks for making me breakfast, man. I was feeling pretty shitty this morning,” Fife says, pushing back from my dining room table, where he’s just eaten me out of house and home…well, at least eaten me out of bacon and eggs. Fucker can sure pack it in.
Last night, the guys and I helped our buddy Ryder celebrate the opening of his nightclub, Fever. Fife decided to ride my couch after taking advantage of the VIP room after our set.
“No problem,” I say. “Next time, though, we’ll go downtown to Fran’s Restaurant. You fat bastard, I can’t believe how much you eat, man.”
“I’m a growing boy. Besides, everyone knows greasy food is the best cure for a hangover. I feel better already,” he says, patting his non-existent belly. My brother is lucky we come from a good gene pool. Our mother, Grace, a teacher, is a tiny little thing at 5’2”. None of us take after her in the height department, thankfully, but we did inherit her fast-working metabolism, no matter what she or we shoved in our mouths. The height of the Jenkins brothers, all three of us coming in at over 6’, comes from our father, Paul, a 6’2”, steelworker. Needless to say, the Jenkins boys ruled the neighbourhood when we were kids because we were all built like brick shithouses. Growing up on the outskirts of Toronto in Mississauga was great. We’d spent all our free time playing road hockey and jamming in the garage whenever possible. Even in elementary school, the three of us were convinced that we’d either all be NHL superstars or rock gods. Thankfully, our parents supported us no matter which dream we chose to chase.
Today, Grace and Paul Jenkins are still Sicken Union’s biggest fans. I blame my dad, Paul for my never-ending drive to make singing my full-time job. Our family are huge fans of the band Rush, and all it took was seeing them live for the first time to know that I wanted to be standing up on that stage just like Geddy Lee. I wanted to feel that same rush of adrenaline I felt standing there in a rock and roll trance over and over again and again. Lucky for me, I could actually sing. I remember telling my parents on the way home from the show that night that I was going to be the front man in a band my brothers and I would form. And I remember my parents smiling fondly and giving me their encouragement, even though they knew my dream wasn’t going to be the easiest to make real. Especially because I’d never sung a note in my life before then. It wasn’t until my mom walked in on me rocking out in front of my mirror, singing my heart out to “Tom Sawyer” the next morning that she had an “I’ll be dammed” moment, and enrolled me in vocal classes when I was twelve years old. And as they say, the rest is history—my brothers and I became Sicken Union.
“Good thing you work out,” I say. I study his stomach, and make a face.
“Fuck off, pretty boy. You’re no slouch yourself,” he says, leaning over and swiping the last piece of bacon from my plate.
“Asshole.”
“Snooze you lose,” Fife retorts, his mouth full.
“Last time I cook for you, you shit.” I punch his arm as he passes, carrying our plates to the sink, where he rinses then loads them into the stainless steel dishwasher. We may be rock stars, but Grace Jenkins has always made sure her boys remained grounded, and taught us early on how not to be slobs.
“Victoria said you had some photos I need to approve. Did you bring them?” I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Shit, I almost forgot. Hang on.”
He moves over to his bag, rooting through it before producing a manila folder.
“Take a look. See which ones you want Tommy to submit for the media packets,” Fife says, sliding the folder my way across the table. “We each flagged the ones we like.”
“Thanks, will do.”
“So ya know, I won’t judge you for skipping right to the shots of Happenstance,” he says.
“Not sure what the hell you’re implying?” I take another swig of coffee, preparing to spoon-feed my brother some bullshit, despite knowing Fife always sees through it regardless.
“Those girls are fucking hot,” he says, looking pointedly at me.
“I didn’t notice them.” I only noticed her. The one who tries to hide, the one whose playing makes her shine so fucking bright she can’t not be seen. But I keep that little kernel to myself.
“Which group are they again?” I try to play dumb.
“Whatever, big guy. Like we didn’t see you all starry-eyed and shit, staring at the chubbier, dark-haired one who was slaying it on the guitar.”
“The fuck you call her?” I snap.
“Whoa, easy there, tiger. I’m not saying she’s big, I just mean, she’s short…compared to the other ones…” He raises his hands in surrender, trailing off.
“I better not hear that shit come out of your mouth again,” I warn, opening the file folder. “The last thing she is, is chubby.” I shake my head.
“Funny,” Fife counters, “for someone who didn’t notice her, it sure seems like you know exactly who I’m talking about though, eh?” Fife rubs my buzzed head condescendingly. “Okay, I’m out. Got a lot of shit to do to get ready for the tour. I haven’t packed a thing yet, and we leave in less than a week.”
“Take it easy,” I say, not bothering to show him out. Once I hear the click of the door, I do exactly what he said I would. I flip past the other band photos until I reach the ones of Sicken Union with Happenstance, and the ones of just their band.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, looking down at a shot of the shy girl and the lead singer, posing with their backs against each another. My eyes almost pop out of my head taking her in.
I remember when she first walked out of wardrobe that day. Her long, dark purplish-black hair was curled at the ends, flowing like a silk veil and framing her gorgeous face. Her big blue eyes were all bright and sultry, done up with a bit of shadow and shit that imprinted their intensity into my brain. I can feel myself getting hard just looking at these pictures, which, although they’re very nice, don’t even do her justice. Look…those long legs in a tight black leather skirt, and her perky rack, the same one I saw hiding under that Beatles shirt at the bar the other night, on display here in a black-and-white, deep-cut V-neck Green Day tank top.
Flipping through the stack, I grab a pack of Post-it notes and flag the one of all of us—Sicken Union and Happenstance—the one showing my left arm wrapped around her shoulders. I smile, thinking of the sharp intake of breath she took when I’d first touched her, and my cock stirs again thinking of how sweet she smelled, like vanilla, with subtle hints of jasmine. Fuck me. This girl…
Infatuation is one of life’s wild occurrences, and it’s been a long time since I’ve been hit in the solar plexus like this. I’m simply looking at photos of a girl I’ve known for less than fifteen minutes, and she has my adrenaline kicking in overtime. A feeling of excitement and happiness surfaces. I’ve got eight weeks with this girl, eight weeks to bring her into the light, and out from the shadows she tries to hide in. I don’t know this Shadow Girl’s deal, but my end goal is clear: don’t fuck this up. I not only want this girl pinned to a bed beneath me, but also—for the first time in a really long time—I want to actually know her.
Flagging a few more pictures of Happenstance with Post-its, I manage to work my way through the other bands’ photos, flagging a few here and there with a lot less diligence and care.
A wave of excitement crashes through my body as I rifle back through the pile and take one last peek at my favourite picture of Happenstance. Grabbing my pen, I make a note for Victoria, our PA, on the yellow paper square and attach it along the photo’s edge before closing the folder and sliding it away from me.
“Jesus, man…who are you, right now?” I wonder, rapidly clicking my pen open and closed as if it were a newly-developed tic, laughing at myself for basically insisting to Victoria that we use said picture of Happenstance for our promos, or else I wouldn’t be too happy.
When the fuck did I become a diva making demands? And why is it, for a guy who doesn’t chase or woo chicks, I suddenly feel like I just took the first steps toward being that guy?