The Rock Chamber Boys : The Complete Series

by Daisy Allen

  Just then the door creaks open and Brad stumbles inside. I lift my hand up to cover my eyes from the shock of the light, but it doesn’t turn on as I expect. There’s the sound of a shoe being kicked off and I watch the shadow move against the wall. Brad mumbles something to himself as he struggles to pull his T-shirt off and suddenly he’s there, on top of me. In his bed. The weight of his body suddenly crushing my ribs shocks me out of my sadness.

  “Ahh! Brad! Gerroffme!” I press both hands against his chest and roll over until the wall is against my back.

  “What the freaking, flying herd of crazy bats?!” He scrambles around on the bed until he can see my face illuminated by the moon filtering through the open window.

  I can’t help letting a giggle escape at the look of confusion on his face.

  “It’s just me, dick-wad.” I roll my swollen eyes and reach out, giving his ear a soft tug.

  “Oh, for a minute there, I thought my mattress had come to life and was about to swallow me.” His body relaxes and he wriggles his lanky body against me so we can both fit on his tiny bed. Reaching to the end of the bed, he pulls his blanket over us, tucking it under our chins as we’ve done a hundred times.

  “Hey! I’m not as big as a mattress!” I respond in a raised whisper, offended, against his shoulder.

  “No, but parts of you are just as soft and squishy.” He pokes me in the side, knowing I hate it.

  I squeal a little too loud and he reaches over and covers my face with his hand.

  “Quiet, Butter! Always such a loudmouth!”

  I scrunch my nose up and bite his palm, and he pulls his hand away revealing my grinning face.

  “Wench.”

  And then suddenly, I’m crying.

  I don’t know if it’s the familiarity between us and knowing that I’m in a safe place, or if it’s just that I couldn’t hold it in anymore. All I know is that the tears are streaming down my face and I can’t stop them.

  “Hey!” I can just hear Brad through the roaring in my ears. “Butter, what’s wrong, babe?”

  But all I can do is shake my head and let the tears fall. I feel him move around me, his arms, one sliding under me, one over, to pull me hard against his chest.

  “Shhh, what’s wrong, what happened? Tell me so I can go chase it off with my manly form.”

  And I make a sound that mirrors what a dying cat would if it were watching a comedy gala special.

  “That’s my girl—nice to see all those hours at choir practice going to good use.”

  “Shut upppp!” I wail and struggle in his arms, needing to feel the freedom of breaking free. “You’re supposed to be making me feel better.”

  He holds me tighter against him, his bare chest warm against my cheek. “Um, judging by the sounds you’re making now, I did.”

  Through my tears I can’t help but smile in gratitude, grateful for the comfort of just being with him.

  “Aw, Butter.” He looks down at me, his face filled with concern. “What happened?”

  “Silas and I broke up,” I force myself to say. To force myself to admit it.

  “Good!” he answers without missing a beat

  “Brad!” I look up at him in horror at his insensitivity.

  He meets my look, unwavering. “What? It is good. Good fucking riddance.”

  I’m shocked out of my tears. “You’re supposed to be comforting me, fuck-doodle! My boyfriend just dumped me!”

  “I am. I’m telling you that you can officially thank the gods that you’ve finally lost that good-for-nothing scro-bag.” He emphasizes his point by squeezing me tighter around him.

  I push him away and scramble over him and off the bed. “What the hell is wrong with you? Just how drunk are you?”

  He sits up on the bed, and shrugs. “I’m not that drunk and nothing’s wrong with me.”

  I search his face and it tells me nothing except that he truly believes what he’s saying. “Why are you saying this shit about Silas?”

  “It’s not shit; it’s the truth and you know it. You’ve known it for ages. That’s why you broke up, is it not?”

  “No, it’s because...”

  “Because what..?”

  “Because I wouldn’t go with him.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because…”

  “Because why? If you love him as much as you say you do, I’d have thought you couldn’t wait to run away with your rock God.”

  “I have to live my own life, Brad.”

  “Yes. You do. And you can start right now.”

  And with that, he pushes himself off the bed, reaches for my hand, and pulls me against his bare chest. For just a split second, he stares at me, and for the first time I see how the golden specks in his eyes sparkle even in the dark.

  And then his mouth is on mine.

  Hard.

  Wet.

  Urgent.

  And all I want is for it never to end.

  Chapter Six

  Emily

  Present Day

  He doesn’t move, and I wonder if he heard what I said.

  So, I repeat it.

  “I said, ‘Fuck you, Brad.’”

  “I heard you.”

  He seems too amused to have really heard though.

  I try again.

  “Fu—”

  “Yeah yeah, I get it, fuck me, Brad,” he says in a loud whisper as he tugs on my arm before I can finish, pulling me into a quiet corner of the hall.

  I wrench my hand away from his, ignoring the burning sensation around my wrist. Later I’d wonder whether it was from tearing my arm from him or from his touch alone. But for now, it just adds to the hate.

  “Butter.” One word. One name. And it all comes back to me.

  “Don’t call me that.” My mouth curls, pursing in annoyance.

  “Well, I see you haven’t changed.” He, on the other hand, keeps looking aggravatingly amused.

  “I hope I can’t say the same for you.”

  He chuckles. Seriously? He’s chuckling?

  The exit is behind me, and I’m determined to make it there.

  “See you ‘round, dick-wad.” I flip him off before I go.

  He moves fast, cutting me off.

  “Still going for the classics, I see.”

  “Someone’s got to have a bit of class.” The words come out in a hiss.

  “Ooh. That hurt. You know I’m embarrassed about my humble beginnings.”

  “Brad, there’s nothing humble about you other than your intelligence.”

  He grins. He goddamn grins that fucking grin of his and nothing’s changed and it’s eight years ago and something in my chest just... breaks.

  My hand comes up to press against my chest. I don’t know why, maybe to stop whatever is about to flood now the dam has cracked.

  His grin instantly fades and suddenly he’s holding me.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I scramble out of his hold.

  “Shit. Sorry. You suddenly went all pale and I thought you were going to faint or something.”

  “Don’t touch me!” The words come out in a whispered yell. The last thing I want is for anyone to witness this scene.

  “I’m sorry! Fuck.” he curses, staring down at his feet for a moment.

  I take the pause to compose myself. Get it together, Emily. And get out of here.

  His gaze moves up to meet mine again. Golden specks. Golden specks in his eyes. That look hurt. Hurt by me.

  A twinge happens somewhere. Somewhere I thought couldn’t twinge anymore.

  “It…it’s fine,” I offer.

  He takes it. A smile.

  “I’ve gotta go. Nice seeing you around, Brad.”

  “Butter. Don’t go. Let’s go grab a coffee. It’s been—”

  “Eight years, Brad. Eight.”

  “I know.”

  No, you don’t know. You might figure it out from looking at a calendar. But you don’t know. You haven’t counted the days, the months,
the birthdays.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve gotta go.”

  “Give me your number then,” he insists, and I wonder why he’s even bothering.

  “No.”

  “Or take mine.”

  “No point, I’ll just throw it away.”

  “Emily.”

  “Just… just let me go, Brad. Forget we saw each other today and let’s just start the clock again.”

  I don’t know what he responds to that, because I’m gone.

  ***

  Phil wants to see you.

  I moan. I’ve barely been back in the office for two minutes before our receptionist dings me on our intraoffice messenger.

  Why?

  Give you two guesses.

  I don’t even need one.

  Nice knowing you. Don’t steal the stapler on the way out. I know how you’ve been eyeing it.

  Your sympathy knows no bounds.

  Sure it does. Office stationery just isn’t within those bounds. He’s in his office, anyway.

  Yeah, yeah, I’m going.

  I push myself away from the desk with a resigned sigh. I knew this meeting was coming. He was not going to be happy about my question at the Rock Chamber Boys press conference. Their manager was a good friend of his and he was not going to have enjoyed having his star music journalist attacking the band.

  Practicing my excuses, “I’m an old friend of the band blah blah,” I almost walk into the glass door of my editor’s office.

  “Shit!”

  “Ah. My star writer! Come in, come in!”

  He sounds, and genuinely looks, happy to see me. How many drinks did he have with lunch today?

  I open the door and step into his office.

  “Hey, Phil…look, I know what you’re going to say—”

  “Emily. This is my old friend, Dennis.”

  I spin around, noticing the figure sitting on the couch for the first time.

  “Dennis…”

  “Emily, nice to meet you.”

  We reach across the room in a handshake. But of course, there’s no need for introductions.

  He smiles at me, holding my gaze, and then lets go of my hand, sinking back into his seat on the couch.

  Fuck. I’m so going to get fired.

  “So, Emily…” My boss starts, and I don’t want to hear it. Not after the day I’ve already had.

  “This is so unfair, Phil. You hired me to be honest, you hired me for my ‘fresh opinion’ as you put it…well, that was it. And I’ll be damned if you’re going to censor me!”

  The two men stare at me. Mouths open. And the silence is unnerving, so I try to fill the void by continuing my rant.

  “And who are y—”

  “Wait. What? What are you talking about?” Phil cuts me off.

  “Wait. What what? What are you talking about? Didn’t you call me in here to tell me off for what happened at the press conference today?”

  The two men now chuckle in unison.

  “Far from it. We thought it was great.”

  That can’t be right.

  “Your question and Brad’s response has been on the airwaves and newsfeed since it happened. It’s all over the place. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it yourself,” my boss tells me in a manner I can only describe as gleeful, something I can’t say I’ve experienced from him before.

  “Rolling Stone even tweeted that it’s about time music journalists stopped kissing the asses of artists for the sake of their careers and go back to asking the important questions.”

  In the corner of my eye I can see Dennis nodding along. It’s not the reaction I expect from him.

  “Okay, so I get why you are happy, bloodsucking editor that you are,” I say to Phil and get a grin by way of reply, “but what about him?” I gesture toward the band’s manager. “He can’t be thrilled I insulted his precious boy violin band.”

  Dennis stands up again and walks over to where Phil is leaning against his desk, facing me.

  “Emily, I’m not going to tell you that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Because there certainly is, well, there is if you don’t know how to control it. But what’s going on right now? This is good publicity. Your dialogue with Brad was unexpected but entertaining. And it’s got people talking about the Rock Chamber Boys. And that, that is what I want.”

  My eyes narrow at him. He can shove what he wants right up where he doesn’t want it.

  “But I know, your job isn’t to please me.”

  He’s got that goddamned right.

  “But it is to please me,” Phil speaks up.

  “So what am I here for?” I try to say lightly, not wanting them to hear my impatience.

  “You’re here to accept your new assignment. Six weeks following the band, covering the launch of their new album and their European tour,” Phil says, without a hint of a joke.

  “No,” is my immediate response, shaking my head. Over my dead, rotting, stinking body.

  “Yes. It’s the kind of assignment you’ve been begging me for,” my editor says plainly.

  “Abso-freakin’-lutely not.” My head shakes are double time now.

  “Give me one reason why not.”

  “Because I’d rather have my intestines sucked through my nostrils and then wrapped around my throat than be a glorified groupie.” I don’t add, “To my ex-best friend slash one-night stand.” It’s probably not pertinent.

  “You won’t be a groupie, you’ll be reporting and writing an in-depth piece on the Rock Chamber Boys, music’s biggest stars right now,” Dennis says, seemingly oblivious to the ridiculousness of it all. But I know him. Even eight years ago he was wily as a fox.

  “Says you,” I sneer.

  “Says the two Grammys they just got, and an album they’re about to launch that’s going to get them their third one.”

  I scoff, because it’s the closest thing I can do to show my disgust without having to lie and say they suck. The truth is, he’s probably right.

  Fuck. Any other band and this’d be my dream come true. As it is, nightmarish would be the only way to describe it. Why them? Why now?

  “Emily. This isn’t a chance I’m going to give you again,” Phil says, softly, but firmly. “This is it. And it’s perfect for you. The kind of article you want to write, about the music you want to write about. You have this unexplained chemistry with the band. Don’t give up this opportunity. I can’t say if it’ll ever come again for you.”

  I know he’s right. I take a step back and take Dennis’s spot on the couch. Is there any way I can make this work? Can I just focus on the job for six weeks and then move on? Do I really want to regret not taking this assignment? My phone beeps and I look down. Notifications fill the screen, among them I see news headlines, “Journalist calls Grammy winners glorified cover band”; “Rock Chamber Boys Tainted Love Battle.” I can’t help but feel a thrill at the recognition.

  “So. How ‘bout it?” my editor presses.

  I know I should be thanking him. He’s been supportive of me from day one. So he should know why there is more than one reason why taking on this assignment is impossible for me.

  “Phil…you know why I can’t go galivanting around Europe for six weeks at a time,” I say pointedly.

  “I know, and we’ll do whatever needs to be done so you can make it work.”

  “But—”

  “No, stop thinking of reasons to say no. Just say yes.” Yes. Say yes, Emily, my head tells me.

  “Exclusivity?” I ask Dennis.

  “Well, we can’t stop other outlets writing reviews and even articles, but you’ll be the only one coming along for the tour.”

  “I want total access.”

  “Is that your way of saying yes?” Dennis asks, a smile starting to spread across his face.

  I take a breath. And hope I don’t regret my answer. “Yes.”

  Chapter Seven

  Brad

  I’ve always felt as if I have two sets of ears. One of
everyday noise, and one for music. How my brain decides which is which I don’t know. Because sometimes I find the most beautiful melodies in the most mundane of life’s experiences.

  I remember one time almost being late for school because I was riveted by the metallic percussive symphony of a garbage truck going about its business on a cold winter morning—the crash bang clang of its talons clamping around the cans, and then the deep mechanical whirl of its pistons firing as it lifted its cargo into the air.

  Rattle rattle rattle like maracas as it shook the contents of the can into its cavernous body, then, with a low, dull thud, like a muted timpani, it placed the can back on the ground, before taking a gas-cloud breath and moving onto its next victim. Over and over, the same musical pattern as the truck lumbered down the street, creating a rhythm against which the rest of the waking neighborhood’s sounds danced.

  Music is everywhere. You just have to know how to weed out the noise.

  A kick to my shin brings me out of my daydream, and I see the boys are ready. They roll their eyes at my wandering attention and lift their bows in preparation. A nervous shiver runs through me, and I take a breath that fills my lungs and leaves no room for anything but anticipation.

  I make the count in my head.

  One, two, three, four.

  I pull my bow. And then there is nothing else in the world.

  The opening to our new album, our four-string arrangement of “It’s a Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World,” has fast become one of my all-time favorite pieces. All four of us playing that sound blast in the very beginning, and then cascading down in a dizzying rollercoaster of notes.

  Then we break apart. Jez and Seb’s cellos pound out the strong pulsing beat as Marius’s viola weaves in and out between us, and my violin belts out James Brown’s melody.

  We have no vocals, no sung lyrics; the meaning has to come through the soul in our fingers, our instruments, the pauses in our notes, the fluttering highs and pounding lows. I close my eyes and let my fingers do their thing. They know what they’re doing, just get out of our way, I sometimes hear them tell me.

  The burn on the tips of my fingers thrills me as we come to the chorus.

  Marius throws me a quick look out of the side of his eyes, and I know what he wants. I nod and I see him take a breath as his bow dances over the strings, taking over the melody and I drop back, strumming an arpeggio, bum bum bum bum, the soft driving beat to match the quickening pace of all of our pulses as we race to our finish.