“Dude. If I never have to do another interview in my life again, it’ll be too fucking soon.” I laughed at Mark, letting my head fall back against the couch cushions. He had a point; none of us particularly wanted to do any more interviews. Of course, we’d all known that there’d be interviews coming up when we finished recording the album—we’d gone through that wringer the last time, too. But ever since Alex lit up the news with his part of shutting down a major drug syndicate a few months ago, suddenly Molly Riot was golden. So of course, when the album started wrapping up, the phones began ringing off the hook.
“I don’t see why you’re so glum about it, Marky-Mark,” Dan said from the corner of the room. He had taken up his usual position there long before the interviewer had arrived, and now that the guy was gone, he was sketching in his notebook. “Half the questions were for Alex anyway.”
“It just takes so much out of the day,” Jules groaned, slumping over onto the console.
“Where’d Alex disappear to?” I looked at the time on my phone. “We’ve got another one of these in like, twenty minutes.” The label, of course, wanted to maximize the exposure we were getting from Alex’s big adventure. He got most of the attention for the fact that he had basically gotten abducted in the line of leading the cops to the big man in charge.
“He’s talking to Mary,” Jules said, halfway rolling his eyes. Of course, Alex was talking to Mary; I was only surprised she wasn’t actually at the studio with us.
None of us exactly resented Mary—hard to resent the woman who’d managed to drill through Alex’s stubborn ass mental block to get him to understand that he was taking his drug-love way too far—but of course when you’ve been in a band with a guy for years, and breathed his damned farts in a tour van, there’s a bit of friction whenever someone new comes into the picture. Especially when that new someone distracts the lead singer of your band on occasion.
“I’ll go get him,” Dan said, standing up and stretching. He wandered out of the control room, headed for the little courtyard outside where we usually took any calls; it was the most private place in the studio complex—more even than the bathroom.
“You ever talk to that Bianca chick after last week?” I yawned, turning my head to look at Mark. I shrugged.
“She texted me like twenty fucking times, man.” I shook my head. “I played along for a day or so, but Christ.”
“Don’t worry Nicky,” Alex said, coming into the room fast on Dan’s heels. “One of these days you’ll find that special lady who can suck a watermelon through a hose and then sneak out of your bed in the morning before you wake up without even leaving a note.” I laughed.
“But will she leave me a cold beer to wake up to? If not, I’ve still got my hand,” I said with a smirk.
“Your hand, Mark’s hand, Dan’s socks…” I threw an old, cigarette-smelling couch cushion at Jules.
“That was one time,” Mark said jokingly. Everyone settled in to wait the fifteen minutes or so before the next interviewer arrived at the studio: I fished my cigarettes out of my pocket and lit one, Dan went back to sketching, Mark started tapping on the arm of his chair, and Alex and Jules started talking about mixing one of the songs differently.
We’d been at it since the ungodly hour of eight o’clock in the morning, and none of us was particularly excited about another interviewer. The last guy who’d been in the studio to talk to us had wanted to know a bunch of shit we’d already told about fifty people about over the years: how we’d all met, what our process was like, whether we liked recording or touring more, whether we preferred big shows or small venues.
“If the next dude doesn’t show up soon, I’m taking a nap,” Jules said, yawning as he sprawled across the control panel, letting his head come to rest on his arm.
“Yeah,” Mark said, tapping in a beat that was becoming more complicated and faster-paced every second. “Let’s all pile on the couch with Nick and let the dude see us like that. Next month’s Record Spin headline: ‘Is Molly Riot Gay?’”
“Psh,” Dan said absently, not even looking up from his sketchbook. “Of course we are. Like that’s even a question.” I watched him for a minute, as he somehow managed to take a cigarette out of his pack, bring it to his mouth, find his lighter and light the end of it without ever taking his gaze away from the sketch in front of him or slowing with his pencil.
“We just stopped getting questions about that after that one guy from Miami Scene saw Jules kiss Nick,” Alex said with a sigh.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Though true story: after that article came out, I got so much tail. It was great.”
“How can you tell a difference?” Jules smirked at me. “Skinny Nicky with the big blue eyes and supermodel lips. When did you lose your vcard again? Fourteen?” I rolled my eyes.
“I lost it at the civilized age of sixteen, thank you. You should remember; I hooked you up with that girl’s friend.”
“If we’re going to keep waiting, I’m going to grab a beer,” Mark said finally, finishing off the staccato drumming with a flourish.
“Grab me one too,” Jules called as Mark started for the door, headed to the kitchenette.
“Me too!” Dan thirded the order, and Alex asked for a coffee, and we settled in to wait for the interviewer to finally get there.