The Rock Chamber Boys : The Complete Series

by Daisy Allen

  But then she looks at me while we're making love, or she reaches out to me in her sleep, and I know, it was never like this.

  We spend the days exploring Las Vegas; she's never been here. I laugh so hard when I hear that, she's lived in California for almost four years, and never been to Las Vegas.

  "I never had a sugar daddy until now," she says, pouting.

  "You don't now!" I reply, abhorred that she would think of me that way. "Sugar daddies are old and hairy and balding and live on a diet of vitamins and Viagra."

  "Fine, sugar brother."

  We both scrunch up our faces pretty quickly at that.

  "Never mind. You can just be my sugar, baby."

  And I try. To give her as much as my sweetness as I have, to offset the times when it's not so easy to be with me. Such as the hours of PT she forces me to do every morning before breakfast and every evening after we come back from a day of exploring. She’s a hard task master and sometimes I wonder if I’m working hard to help myself or to please her. Either way, I couldn’t do it without her.

  "What do you want to do today?" I ask her the next morning, her body still hot and sweaty in my arms after she’s rewarded me for my PT exercises by a particularly vigorous fucking against the large glass window looking out at the Eiffel Tower.

  "Hmmm,” she thinks, wriggling against me, getting comfortable under the sheet. “I want to do something you've never done."

  "You mean, like work an honest day in my life?"

  She laughs and tickles my stomach with her fingertips, which is quickly becoming my favorite thing she does to me. Favorite G-rated thing. Well, PG.

  "Hey, you might not be sitting in a cubicle or standing in a factory line, but I bet you guys work pretty hard," I smile, no longer surprised every time she understands something without me having to explain it to her. "What's your favorite thing about it?" she asks.

  "About what?"

  "Your... work."

  "That it's not work, I guess. As glamourous it might sound, as much money as we make, as many benefits as we get from the fame, if it felt forced or like work for a moment, I'd be the first one to cut loose, followed very closely by the rest of the guys. It wasn’t about the money or fame when we were thirteen years old and sneaking out of our houses to jam in any abandoned house, hall, side alley we could find. And even then we knew if we had to work ten hours shifts at the local fast food store so that the remaining fourteen hours of our day could be spent doing what we want to do, we'd do it. The important thing is that it never feels like we have to. I think it comes through in our performances, too.” I smile, in a rare moment of reminiscing that doesn’t plunge me into a pit of doubt about my future. “We're just lucky that there are people out there willing to pay us to do it. But we couldn’t do what we do if the end goal was the money. Our music doesn't work that way. Our creativity doesn't work that way. The money and fame kill it, really. It's important to not let it do that."

  I take a breath.

  "Huh, I've never really said that out loud before." I look down at her, and she's listening, her eyes closed, her head on my chest.

  "I love listening to you," she says.

  "Talk?"

  "Well, yeah. What else?"

  "I'm not really used to people wanting to listen to me talk. My cello playing, yes. Talking, not so much."

  "That's stupid.” She crinkles her nose up and I reach out and touch it, making her yelp quietly.

  "Maybe that's why they don't want to listen to me talk."

  "No, not 'you're stupid,' though that last comment wasn't so smart. I meant, you thinking people only want to listen to your music and not what you've got to say, is stupid."

  "It's a little bit true."

  "I think you're underestimating people."

  "Hmmm, I don't like this conversation. I’m not coming off too great."

  "You started it,” she finishes, knowing I’m not going to argue since it’s clear I’m in the wrong.

  I scrunch up my face which seems to trigger something in my brain and I get an idea. A fucking brilliant idea.

  "Then I'm ending the conversation." I jump out of bed and throw the robe at the end of the bed to her. "Let's go!"

  "Where?" She sits up, rubbing her eyes.

  "Somewhere neither of us have gone!"

  "Balls," she mutters under her breath as she drags herself out of bed, and I have to restrain myself from dragging her back to it. “I was just getting comfortable.”

  "Then you’re going to hate this. Now, come on! And trust me, you're going to want to brush your hair for this."

  "Ba. Double balls.”

  "That's how they usually come.”

  ***

  "No. Absolutely fucking not in a million years of pigs flying through a frozen hell filled with snowballs. No."

  "Noémie, you said to pick something neither of us have done."

  Her eyes shift from side to side, trying to think of an argument, and coming up empty.

  "Well, this seems a little more like something I've never done and you watching."

  "Well, technically, it's true. I've never watched you do this. Totally fits.”

  She sighs and puts her hand on my shoulder, "Ok, so listen super carefully, okay?"

  "I'm listening, baby,” I say, leaning for a kiss.

  She lets me kiss her and rolls her eyes before yelling, quite emphatically, "For the last time, NO!"

  "You're cute. Even with your clothes on. You ready?" I hand her her ukulele. "You might want to check the tuning. That thing runs sharp."

  "Die,” she hisses, taking her ukulele in hand.

  "Not yet, maybe after this,” I chuckle. My cheeriness is annoying her. Which is, in turn, amusing me considerably.

  "I don't think you're hearing me, Jez.”

  "Actually, my hearing was the one thing that wasn't affected at all. You can do this. I heard you play Bumblebee on that thing, so I know you can do anything. Which, by the way… insane. But we'll talk about that later."

  "JEZ! I can't do this! I'm not..." She stops, mid-sentence.

  "What? Good enough? I say double balls to that and you know it."

  "Why? Why did you do this?"

  I calm myself, and pull her into me, squeezing her tight. "Because, I want to prove something to you."

  "What's that?" she asks, her voice small and scared.

  "That I don't underestimate people. And least of all you. You can do this." I kiss the top of her head. She can do this. I have no doubt in the world.

  The sound of loud applause drowns out my words.

  "Ready?”

  "Hell,” she sighs.

  "Good girl. You’re doing this for me," I add, to give her that last dose of motivation but I can tell from the way her shoulder pushes back and her heads tilt up, that she’s in. She really does have a set of double balls.

  "Double hell,” she curses under her breath, and her hands grip the ukulele so tight, I can see the individual crevices of her knuckles.

  The voice over the speakers have us turning to the stage from our spot in the wings.

  "I'd like to introduce a very new friend of mine. Her name is Noémie, and she's going to join me on stage for this very special song. Noémie?"

  She doesn't move, I look down at her feet and they’re rooted to the spot.

  "Why don't we all give her a little encouragement!"

  The cheers and claps fill our ears and I give her a soft kiss on the cheek and whisper into her ear, "For me, please."

  She takes a breath and walks on to the stage.

  A star.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Noémie

  Celine Dion is smiling at me, and touching my hand.

  And I haven't fainted yet. She's so beautiful I think I might be falling in love. But I can't.

  Because she's saying something and I think should listen.

  "My very good friend Pink wrote this song for me, in the toughest time in my life,” she’s saying. Her voice
full of emotion, of memory.

  I know exactly what song she is talking about. And now I know why I'm here.

  "The name of the song is Recovering." She nods to me, and smiles and I nod back. A nod of understanding. Of people who'd known what it’s like to break.

  And have recovered.

  I count it in, and play.

  Play with everything I have.

  Everything I want to be. Everything I want to say to Jez, in this moment.

  Who gave me this moment. I don't know how he did it, but he gave me the one thing I needed.

  Belief in myself again. The song is over almost before it began. Celine’s voice soaring over my last chord and then it’s done.

  And I soak in the applause.

  The moment.

  And then I walk off the stage and return to my life.

  My new life.

  With Jez.

  "You were phenomenal," he's yelling at me over the cheers as I walk into his arms.

  "I can't believe what just happened!" I scream, trying to make sense of what I've just experienced.

  "It happened. Every single fucking moment."

  "Ahh!!!!” I yell, pumping my fists into the air.

  "Quiet!" Someone with a headset shushes us and Jez grabs my hand and we run giggling out of a side exit.

  "Is that... is that how it always feels?"

  He nods, his eyes sparkling. "Yeah. It is."

  "Thank you. My sugar guardian angel." And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to repay him.

  ***

  There's a cello in the middle of the foyer when we get back to the room after a helicopter ride over the strip a few days later.

  Jez opens the door and it's just sitting there.

  He stops in his tracks for a moment, and then walks past it and into the bedroom, as if it's the most normal thing to happen in the world. Having a cello appear out of nowhere.

  I give him a few minutes and then follow him into the bedroom.

  He's sitting on the bed, shoes kicked off, flicking through the channels on the TV.

  He doesn’t say anything, even as I slide onto the bed next to him and tickle his stomach.

  Barely a smile.

  "Hey. So, um, I don't know if you noticed but, um, someone must've planted a cello seed in the middle of our foyer during the night and... well, it's sprouted."

  He just keeps flicking through the channels, barely giving each one more than half a second before he's flicked to the next one.

  "I wonder who sent it."

  He just shrugs.

  I raise an eyebrow. "Do you want to..."

  "Nope.” Click. Click. Click.

  "Okay. I mean, maybe just take it out of the case and look at it?"

  "Nope."

  "Okay. Just a suggestion." I go into the bathroom for a few minutes, just sitting on the stool in front of the dressing table.

  "Fucking Dennis," I hear him mumble after about five minutes.

  I walk out and stand by the bed. “What did you say?”

  "The cello. I know it's from him. He's trying to force me into playing again." He throws the remote onto the bed and glares at the wall.

  "Maybe he's just trying to encourage you. How does he even know you're here?"

  "Oh, he knows. He knows everything. He probably knows what we're going to have for breakfast tomorrow morning."

  "Oh really. Could he tell me? I have such a hard time deciding between the crois-..."

  “Bah!” He grunts and reaches over and picks up the phone.

  "What are you doing?"

  He shakes the phone in front of him, "I'm calling him to yell at him."

  "Jez, is that really necessary?"

  "Yes! He said it himself, he should give me some time to recover! Why is he pushing this? I've only just left the hospital. Give a man some time!"

  I watch as he punches a number angrily into this phone. Shit.

  "Wait," I say, putting my hand on his arm.

  "Not now, Emmie. I just need a minute.”

  "Put down the phone, Jez."

  "Why?"

  I grimace. "Because. Ugh. It wasn't Dennis. It was... it was me. I called the concierge and asked them to organize a cello rental. They must’ve brought it up while we were out."

  "What? WHY?" He’s angry. He was angry before, but now it’s directed at me. And I guess he has a right. But that doesn’t mean I’m not right as well.

  "Because I want you to stop thinking you can't do it, Jez. Not until you've actually tried."

  "Noémie. You... you had no right." He shakes his head, running his hand through his fringe.

  "No right to what?"

  "To do this! I'm not ready!"

  "Oh, you mean no right like you had no right to force me onto the stage with Celine Dion and in front of thousands of people? Well, let me remind you, I sucked it up and did it anyway, because I knew you would never do something to hurt me, humiliated me. Well, it goes both ways, asshole." He huffs and throws the phone across the room. We watch it crash against the bureau and land onto the ground.

  I shake my head at him. "I was wrong. You don’t underestimate people, Jez. You just underestimate yourself.” I get up and walk over to the window, watching his reflection in the window for a moment before I turn around, swallowing before I deliver the next line.

  "Or maybe you don't underestimate yourself. Maybe you really are just done.”

  There’s a pause and then he gets up and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving me watching Jimmy Kimmel lip syncing along to Tupac.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Jez

  The cello is talking to me, mocking me.

  I'm laying here on the couch staring out at a view of the replica of one of the most beautiful manmade objects in the world, and all I can hear is, “Fucking coward."

  I turn to face the inside of the couch, pulling the cushion over my head, trying to drown out the taunts.

  "Yeah, a cushion is going to drown out a hallucination. You're dumb and a coward. Geez."

  For fuck's sake. I can't even blame it on alcohol. I'm completely, utterly, sober

  And a pile of wood and strings is mocking me

  Fuck this. I jump up from the couch and walk over to the cello. I grip the handle as tight as I can and drag it back to the couch with me.

  "Alright, you and me, we're gonna talk," I tell it, my voice only wavering a little.

  I lay the case down onto the floor and push down on the latch.

  Click. Click. I ignore the shiver that travels up my spine.

  I lift the lid and there she lays. A cello. A stranger, but beautiful. Familiar. I run my fingers along the smooth, polished wood and lift it from the case, ignoring the twinge in my wrist.

  It's not too bad.

  But it's there. just reminding me. It's there.

  I release the bow from its hold.

  A smile spreads across my mouth before I can stop it.

  "Hello old friend," I whisper. It's not mine, but it doesn’t matter. We'll all old friends.

  My right hand grips the bow. My fingers are a little stiff but I bend them anyway, breathing a sigh of relief when it holds. Loose, but not falling from my fingers like in the early days of trying to hold the pen.

  "That was the easy part," I say to the cello. Who's stopped taunting me, by the way; instead I feel it now urging me on. Rooting for me.

  I position the cello between my legs, letting it fall back to rest against me. A musician's relationship with his instrument is one of symbiosis.

  Give. Take. Forward. Back. Play and be played. Life and birth. Of music.

  My hands run up the strings all the way up, to curve around the neck. I grip the fingerplate tightly. It hurts, but it is bearable.

  One more step forward.

  My neck cradles the neck of the cello. Partners in arms.

  I lift the bow and take a breath.

  Have courage, Jez. I say, but it's Noémie's voice I hear.

  If
not for you, do this for her. Like she did for you on that stage. Believed in herself. And trusted you.

  It's time.

  I don't have to tell my fingers what song to play.

  They know.

  It was always going to be this song, always.

  I pull my bow.

  The first note screeches, protesting. Months of rust clinging to movements.

  I ignore it.

  I play another note.

  The bow moves more smoothly, my elbow bearing the brunt of these first few movements, my wrist still wary, stiff. The tuning is off, but I don't care.

  I'm playing.

  I'm playing the cello.

  My fingers press down on the strings, the pads causing a deliriously satisfying deep tremor in the sound. The vibrato echoing my jagged breath. I pull the bow faster, my wrist pushing through the pain, to flex and bend. Taking point, dictating the sound.

  The song takes form.

  Johnny Cash's arrangement of Nine Inch Nail's Hurt. My anthem of hope, of recovery, of reclaiming of self.

  I just play. Ignoring the hesitant notes, the accidental screeches, the fumbled melody.

  I just play. And the gaps in the perfection fill up with the broken pieces of my soul.

  And I just play. Play until the tears from my face drip unashamedly onto the wood of the instrument.

  Until my fingers feel raw and torn.

  Until the pain in my wrists is from fatigue not injury.

  Until every lyric I sing along in my brain becomes the reality.

  Until hurt is just a word.

  I drop the bow when I'm done and it clatters onto the marble floor, the hairs pulled loose in the chaos, tousled, used.

  The cello slips down my body gently on its end piece to lay on the ground, spent.

  And I stand, towering over it, master once more.

  I can play.

  I walk over to the bedroom door and press down on the handle gently pulling it toward my body and peering into the dark room, expecting to see a moonlit silhouette asleep on the bed.

  But she's awake.

  Sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, her knees bent to her chest, her head tilted, staring out the window, the lights dancing in the white of her eyes.

  She doesn't move as I approach her. Not even the rise of a breath.