It was probably the most dick move I’ve ever pulled, but I knew she’d call me because I made sure she’d have to call me.

I’m not heartless and I wouldn’t call myself a pick-up artist, but for the past while I’ve been sticking to one and two night stands. After we started getting serious with Sherbrooke Station, I didn’t have time to properly date, and there was no shortage of no-strings flings available on tour. It’s hard to pursue someone when you’re always on the move, so if there’s usually a girl hanging around the bar after our shows just looking for some fun, it makes an ideal situation for both of us.

The only interruption to that plan is girls like Kay Fischer.

I could tell just from the way she talked to me, from how she stared around the room in Sapin Noir, that she had a habit of seeing straight through people and finding whatever she was looking for. For some reason, I wanted to make her work to get that from me. She seemed like she was used to setting the pace and waiting for everyone else to catch up.

Unfortunately for her, I’m a drummer. Setting the pace is my job.

That’s why I let myself delete the recording of our interview when I put my number in her phone. I know I’m a dick for doing it, but when I saw the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen of my phone, I couldn’t help my sense of satisfaction. I don’t know exactly what I felt sitting on that staircase with her in the dark, but whatever it was I haven’t felt anything like it in a long time. Whether it’s a good idea or not, I don’t intend to let it go just yet.

“Hey,” I answer, leaning up against the cold wall of the stairwell. “Is this who I think it is?”

“If you think it’s a journalist with an unfortunate favour to ask, then yes.”

“Unfortunate? Did you fall down the stairs again?”

I can almost hear her rolling her eyes.

“Oh wait,” I continue, “if I remember correctly, you actually fell up the stairs last time.”

“Okay, the stairs joke is dead now. We can move on.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so,” she retorts. “Now onto the reason I’m calling. There was a...technical issue, and I lost the recording of the interview.”

I really shouldn’t be smiling so much right now.

“Would you happen to have time within the next twenty-four hours to re-answer some of my questions? I have the framework of the article done, but I need confirm some of the quotes with you and get a few new ones. We can do it over the phone. It’ll only take about twenty minutes.”

She sounds muffled, like she’s speaking through several layers of something, and I can hear the sound of cars passing by in the background.

“I’m just finishing up some stuff with the band,” I answer truthfully, “but I’m sure I can spare twenty minutes after that. Where are you, anyways? I can barely hear you.”

“Running around the city. It’s kind of my job. Oh, fuck. Not again! Why the fuck does this always happen? Shit.”

“What is it?” I ask, as she lists off a few more choice phrases.

“Snow down my boot. Okay, I have to go now. Call me when you can.”

She hangs up and I head back into the basement. I don’t know how yet, but I’m sure I can turn this into an excuse to see her again.

We put practicing on hold for awhile. Shayla, our manager, called a band meeting this evening to go over some details for the upcoming tour, and she’s due here any minute.

We never doubted we had something special as a band, but Shayla was the first person beyond the four of us to see our potential as the next big thing. She’s only twenty-nine, and already runs her own management firm. With her labret piercing, green-tipped haircut, and curves that could kill, I’m pretty sure all four of us have thought we were in love with her at some point, but she’s always been very clear on the fact that she’s happily married to Natalie, her wife.

She’s also married to her job; she’s the reason we started booking shows that got us noticed by people like Atlas. It’s actually kind of scary how ruthless she is when it comes to the music industry. Sometimes I don’t know which motivates me more: the drive to succeed, or the fear of what Shayla will do to us if we don’t.

She comes charging into the basement in a black military jacket, her usual ready-for-warfare attitude going strong as she plops down on the couch beside Ace.

“Evening, boys. Let’s get started.” She pulls a tablet out of her bag. “I have some stuff the PR team at Atlas sent over. It’s a few drafts of tour media, just posters and things like that.”

She sets the tablet down on our scratched-up coffee table and we all crouch around it. We used to let a company Shayla works with handle our PR, but as part of our contract we’re starting to hand off all responsibilities to the Atlas team. Me and the guys take one look at the first image before the protests start to fly.

“Sacrement, non.”

“Like fuck we’re using that.”

“No. No way.”

“Over my dead, rotting corpse.”

Shayla shushes us. “Ben là, calm your tits. I haven’t even finished showing you yet.”

She’s trying to take the high ground, but I can tell she feels the same as we do. All I can do is shake my head as she scrolls through a few more pictures.

I’m not going to lie and say I’ve never realized we’re four pretty good-looking dudes. I’m also aware a lot of the attention we’ve caught is because of that, but it’s never something we’ve focused on as far as promoting ourselves goes. I like to think that even if our looks are the reason some people start listening to us, it’s not why they keep listening to us. Clearly the PR team has other ideas.

“This is like a Magic Mike meets indie rock sex fantasy.”

Ace summed it up pretty well. The posters show us in various stages of removing flannel shirts, cast in black and white against different galaxy-themed backgrounds.

“How did they even get a picture of me lifting my shirt up like that?” JP asks, still gawking at the tablet.

“I think they photoshopped these.” Shayla coughs to cover what I’m sure is a snicker. “You know, just to give us an idea of what they’re aiming for.”

“Must be photoshopped, JP,” I say with a nod. “I know for a fact you don’t have an eight pack.”

At that, the tension breaks and we all burst out laughing. I can’t believe an entire team of PR professionals actually thought this was a good idea.

“But seriously, Shayla,” Cole urges once things have calmed down a bit, “I am not signing off on that.”

A dark possibility occurs to me then. I turn to Shayla.

“We do get to say no to this, right?”

“Yes.”

She sounds too cautious for that to be the end of the story.

“...And no.”

There it is.

“You don’t get final say on this kind of stuff, but I made sure you’re included in creative decision-making. I took care of you boys when we worked out the contract. You have way more leeway than a mega label taking a shot on some up-and-comers would normally give. I think that’s because we’re getting the bare minimum compensation to make signing with them worth our while, and also”—she pauses to toss her hair over her shoulder—“because I’m amazing.”

“Hear, hear!” JP shouts, reaching over to pat her on the back.

“So I’ll tell them it’s a solid ‘no’ on this and that we’d like to take a different direction. Moving onto the next order of business, we need to make sure you’re all up to speed on your bookings for the next few weeks. You have that show in Ottawa on the twenty-second...”

Shayla spends the next twenty minutes grilling us on all things Sherbrooke Station. As tedious as it can be, I still get pumped up when I realize we actually have things like contracts and a PR department to talk about. We’ve already come so far from starting with nothing but a basement and a dream.

I try to set an example by staying focused on what Shayla’s saying, but we’re all zoning out by the time she wraps things up.

“...and in case you weren’t listening, which I’m sure none of you were, I already forwarded all the information to your phones. Please take the time to look at it, and do whatever you have to do to stay on top of this.”

She locks eyes with each of us in turn.

“I’ve gotten you boys this far. I’m not planning on stopping until you reach the top. Got it?”

We nod like kids who’ve been threatened with detention.

Shayla pops up out of her seat, all smiles now that she’s had her daily scare-the-shit-out-of-the-band moment.

“All right, I’m off. Have a good rest of your day.”

She shrugs herself back into her coat and heads out.

“We leaving now?” JP asks. “I told Youssef we’d be his roadies, so we should be there by eight-thirty.”

We’re all going to see a friend of JP’s perform tonight. He’s doing an electronic set at a bar up on Avenue Mont Royal.

“Sounds good. I just have to make a phone call first.”

I shut myself up in the stairway again and dial Kay’s number. It rings a few times before going to voicemail.

“Playing hard to get, huh? It’s Matt. I guess you’re busy journalist-ing. I’ll be doing something for the next hour or so, but I’ll call you again when I can.”

We head over to the station next door. We’re only one metro stop away from the bar, but if there’s a way to stay off the streets in winter, it’s usually worth taking.

I hang back from the guys as we make our way to the staff entrance, where Youssef’s already hauling stuff in from his van. I got a missed call from Kay while we were on the Metro, but she didn’t leave a message. I try calling one more time and get her voicemail again.

“It’s Matt. I guess we’re playing phone tag now. I’ll be at a show at Café Cléo for the rest of the night. I’ll check my phone if you want to text me, or you could stop by if you’re around. The guy playing is actually really good.”

I doubt she’ll consider showing up, but it was worth a shot.

We get Youssef all set up and he buys us a round for the favour, joining us at a table before he’s due to go on. There’s still half an hour to kill before show time and the place is already packed. Youssef DJs at a big club most nights and plays his own stuff on the side. He’s got a dedicated cult following, and at a venue as small as Café Cléo, I’m sure they’ll be turning people away at the door before his set even starts.

Once our beers are finished, Youssef heads off to get ready. We grab ourselves a place to stand and watch him perform. I check my phone every few minutes, but nothing from Kay shows up. After shoving my cell back in my pocket for what must be the sixth time, I look up to find Cole smirking at me.

“Don’t worry,” he says with mocking concern, “I’m sure she’ll text you back.”

“She’s not a girl,” I defend myself. Cole raises an eyebrow and I try to clarify. “I mean, yeah, she’s a girl, but she’s not like, a girl girl. She’s just a person who happens to be a girl, but she’s not a ‘waiting for a girl to text me back’ kind of...girl...”

I trail off when I see Cole giving me his signature ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ stare.

“She’s a reporter!” I blurt. “She’s the one Ace was supposed to meet. She has some more questions for me and we’ve been trying to get a hold of each other all day.”

“I see,” Cole muses. “So she’s that kind of girl.”

He flashes the exact same smirk as before.

“Oh fuck off, Byrne.”

Youssef makes his entrance a few minutes after that, raising two fists in the air to greet the crowd that rushes to fill up the floor the second he appears. He doesn’t waste any time getting right into it. A pair of oversized headphones rests around his neck as he cranks out a trippy, acid house intro that builds into a fist-pumping beat everyone goes crazy for.

It’s not my usual kind of music, but I know talent when I see it, and I’ve never seen anyone work a crowd quite the way Youssef does. I’m always amazed that he’s not more popular than he already is. The guy should be crushing it at Tomorrowland and selling out concert halls across Europe.

JP’s already going wild, leaving the three of us to stand on the sidelines as he rushes into the crowd, high-fiving everyone he passes before getting swallowed up into a group of people near the front. He can buddy up with complete strangers like he’s known them for years.

I tap out the rhythm of the song on the side of my pint glass. The rush of energy pounding through the speakers and inside the chests of everyone here distracts me from anything else for a moment. Next to playing music myself, hearing it live is probably my biggest addiction.

There’s nothing like losing yourself in a crowd, like letting the sound-waves wash over you and sweep away everything but the moment you’re in. You give yourself up when you let go like that, and in return you get to be a part of something bigger than you could ever be on your own. Music can make you feel like a single drop and an entire ocean all at once.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the bass rumble through me, and then I swallow down the last of my beer and follow after JP. I don’t repeat his high-fiving routine; instead I duck my way between the people jumping up and down in synch until I reach him at the front.

“MATT!” One of his doped-up looking grins spreads across his sweat-slicked face when he sees me. “ҪA VA?”

“ҪA VA!”

He gives me a thumbs-up and starts jumping around again. It’s not long until I’m doing the same, throwing my hands in the air along with everyone else as the song starts building up to a bass drop.

JP starts chanting beside me.

“YOUSSEF! YOUSSEF! YOUSSEF!”

A few people around us pick it up, and in the next instant it’s the only word coming out of anyone’s mouths. The music gets more and more shrill until there’s a split second of silence before Youssef drops the beat, and everyone loses their shit. Arms start flailing around me, and think someone spills half their drink down my back, but I can’t even bring myself to care because the only things in the world right now are the pulsing lights and the mind-numbing bass that seems to seep through me like a slowly spreading high.

JP’s face swims into focus beside mine, his teeth stained blue by the strobe lights. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and turns us towards Ace and Cole, still standing to the side on a small platform a foot above the crowd. They hold their beers up in our direction and we wave back. Just as I’m turning away to face Youssef’s booth again, my eyes catch on someone standing alone a few feet to the right.

She’s hidden by the semi-darkness and rows of writhing bodies that keep blocking her from my view, but I recognize Kay Fischer when I see her.

From the way she’s staring straight in my direction, I’m pretty sure she’s seen me too.

“I’M GOING!” I shout to JP, even though he’s probably not paying attention anyways.

Getting out of the crowd is just as hard as getting in, and I’m panting by the time I reach Kay. She greets me with a wry half smile and says something I can’t make out.

“WHAT?”

I watch her lips move but still can’t tell what she’s saying.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

“I SAID,” she yells, standing on her toes to get closer to my ear, “ARE YOU HAVING FUN?”

“OH! YEAH! ARE YOU?”

She gives me a look that questions my sanity and then motions for me to follow her down to the far end of the room.

“Better?” she asks.

My ears are still ringing but it seems like we might be able to have a somewhat normal conversation now.

“I was in the neighbourhood, and since you weren’t answering your texts I figured I would try stopping by.”

“Right. Sorry. Got kind of carried away.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

I expect her to be pissed off but she looks amused.

“How long were you standing there?”

Her half smile turns into a full one. “Long enough.”

“Like my dance moves?”

“I don’t know if I’d consider that dancing, but it was...entertaining.” She clears her throat. “Anyways, I’m sorry to interrupt your night, but my article’s already late. Do you mind if we just go over the quotes really fast?”

“We can go somewhere else,” I offer. “Somewhere that doesn’t have a raging techno party going on in the background might be better for an interview. There’s a Thai place right across the street.”

“Here’s fine.”

I wasn’t suggesting a date, but somehow it still feels like I’m being shot down.

“I’ll just read you what I remember you saying, and you can correct me if it’s wrong,” she continues.

“Okay, but you’re going to have to come a little closer. I still can’t hear you very well.”

I can hear her perfectly fine, but if we’re not getting any more time together tonight, I’m making the most of this moment.

Taking a step nearer, she pulls her phone out. She reads a few sentences off the screen, stopping in between to ask me if I want to change anything. I tell her everything sounds fine, only somewhat listening to what she says as I let my gaze drift to the tattoo I noticed last night.

I can only see the very edge of it, two thin horizontal lines tapering to a point just below her clavicle. My fingers are itching to pull the fabric of her shirt to the side and see what’s inked on the delicate skin underneath.

“...and you’re okay with that last bit too?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s what I said, or close enough.”

“Cool. Then I guess we’re all done.”

I glance away from her shoulder just as she lowers her phone.

“When’s it printing?”

“Monday,” she replies, “that is, if they haven’t already fired me for being late and got someone to write something else.”

“You don’t want a picture of me? For the front page?”

She lets out a bitter laugh. “More like the second to last page. Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not exactly working with La Gare’s prime reporter.”

“I’ll frame it anyways.”

She laughs again and starts buttoning her coat. “I better head out now.”

“You’re not staying for the rest of the show?”

“Late article, remember? Plus, I need to get back to my place out in Verdun.”

“You live in fucking Verdun?”

She nods. “Yep. Fucking Verdun.”

“Jesus. Well, safe travels.”

“Thanks. Enjoy dancing the night away.”

She moves past me towards the exit and walks away without looking back. I wish I could say I do the same, but I stay standing there watching the front door long after she’s gone.

I may have lied to Cole, but I can’t lie to myself: I am definitely interested in Kay as a girl girl.