Franco

by Kim Holden

  "No. I've never seen him this drunk, but he's the type who gets chatty and giggly when he drinks. He doesn't have a violent bone in him."

  I suspected he wasn't the fighting type by our brief interaction, but I needed to confirm. I look at Gemma. "What's his name? I feel bad not calling the dude by his name."

  "Jeremy," she says. "In my mind at the moment, though, because I'm a selfish cow, I'm calling him Jeremy, the mood slayer."

  "I don't know, Gem. You looked fucking hot in latex, down on all fours, scrubbing vomit from the carpet." I use my most convincing, sexy voice.

  She counters with her sexy voice, which honestly isn't much different than her regular voice because the accent makes everything sound like she's trying to slay me. "Mmm... Vom is dead sexy. You can call me the filthy, domestic duty seductress."

  I toss the trash in the dumpster and then turn to her, close my eyes and rumble out my best, over the top, porn-worthy moan. "I love it when you talk nauseatingly and literally dirty to me."

  She keeps up the exchange, "Totes filthy." Until she can't and cracks a smile, which fades to sincerity. "I really am sorry, Franco."

  Pulling her into a hug next to the dumpster, I kiss the side of her head. "Don't be sorry. You fed me the best stew I've ever eaten and let me touch your boobs."

  Laughter bursts through her, and I feel her body vibrate against mine. "Shut up, naughty American boy."

  I laugh with her because it's contagious and whisper in her ear, "Tomorrow night I've got band stuff, but can I take you out Sunday night? I'm not much of a cook, but I know a great burrito place, and I'll let you touch my boobs."

  She pulls back from the hug and her eyebrows rise while she looks longingly at my chest before asking, "Promise?"

  I nod solemnly before I give her a peck on the lips. "Go shower. You smell like someone puked a low-grade, skunky brewery on you."

  "You're so romantic," she deadpans.

  "To my core. And then some," I tease.

  I don't miss the glance she steals at my midsection before she turns to make the journey back to her apartment. "See you Sunday night. I should be home by eight. Waiting to fondle your spectacular breasts."

  "I've been working out. They're a solid seven on a scale of one to ten. I hope the anticipation keeps you up all night," I call back over my shoulder.

  I hear her laugh. "A seven? I can't imagine that level of splendor, definitely not sleeping tonight."

  "You're welcome," I yell because we're far enough apart now we're shouting to be heard.

  "Sweet dreams, naughty American boy."

  "Night, Gem."

  Saturday, January 20

  (Franco)

  I woke up a little after five this morning and couldn't go back to sleep. So, I showered, and I'm sitting in my bedroom ready to go for the day, and it's only six o'clock. We don't have to be on the road to the studio until seven-thirty. Which gives me plenty of time to think.

  And worry. I'm a quiet worrier like my dad—I blame him for the hereditary affliction. I tend to keep negative feelings tucked away behind my smile.

  Today's significant. It's a day we all knew was coming, but refused to discuss. Sometimes when a situation is potentially explosive, it's best to leave it alone and deal with detonation at zero hour instead.

  It's hard to think it was a year ago today that Kate died. Some days it feels like yesterday, and some days it feels much longer than a year—either way, it sucks. We all miss her. She was an unofficial, but integral, part of this band. Whether she was writing with Gus, or singing with us at practice, or cheering us on from the crowd or side stage at one of our gigs, she was part of us. We wouldn't be half the band we are if it weren't for her influence and inspiration. She pushed Gus, she pushed all of us, to be more creative, to play from the heart. I miss that.

  And besides being crazy talented, she was one of the best people I've ever known. She would do anything for anyone, whether she knew them or not. And her sense of humor was off the charts. She left her mark on everyone, we're all better for having known her.

  Today is a reminder of all that. The passage of time has healing powers, though. It can turn grief into gratitude. Giving thanks for knowing and loving a friend like Kate. The tattoo on my wrist is a reminder of her legacy and will be with me for the rest of my life. I look at it often, Do epic. Two little words that make me feel powerful.

  Today I'll celebrate her. Jamie and Robbie will be with me.

  It's Gus I'm worried about. This anniversary will mark the progress he's made. Or set him back like a sonofabitch. I'm scared to walk out of this room and find out which one.

  I can hear his muffled voice through the wall. He's awake and talking on the phone. I can't make out words, but I would guess he's talking to his mom, Audrey. I'm sure she's celebrating Kate today, too. I'm glad she's the first person Gus is talking to today. If anyone can put you in a good mood, it's Audrey.

  There's movement out in the hallway now, Jamie and Robbie must be up and around. I find them in the kitchen. Robbie is always quiet, but for the first hour or so he's awake he's zombie-like. I nod at him because speaking to him is like poking a bear with a sharp stick. He nods back, opens the fridge to pull out a Red Bull, and retreats with it to the bathroom to shower and rediscover his communication and social interaction skills.

  "Morning, Franco," Jamie says when we're alone. There's a fragile look in his eyes, today is messing with him too. "You talk to Gus this morning? How is he?" He's not just wearing his heart on his sleeve, he's serving it up on a platter for the world to see. He's a good dude, who's just as worried as I am.

  I shake my head. "Nope, haven't seen him yet."

  He nods his concern and takes two English muffins out of the bag on the counter. The dude is addicted to English muffins and has two every morning, toasted with orange marmalade, no matter where we're at. He's like an eighty-five-year-old woman. When we travel, he brings his toaster for Christ's sake. "Want one?" he asks.

  "Sure, why not. Let me in on this geriatric obsession."

  The English muffin and orange marmalade is tasty, I can see the appeal now. We eat them while scrolling through the photos on our phones and sharing old pics of Kate. It's funny how many we have between the two of us. And in every single one, she's smiling like it's the best day of her fucking life. That's how she looked all the damn time. All smiles. And after trading shots for a few minutes, we're both smiling too. It's impossible not to. Her spirit is infectious.

  "You still have the video of the karaoke battle between Kate and Gus in Minneapolis?" he asks.

  I laugh. "Hell yes, that's one of my prouder moments. I'm keeping that video for-fucking-ever."

  The video that I filmed one night when were in Minneapolis recording "Finish Me" with Kate the month before she passed, is buried deep in my history but I find it in no time and hit play. The footage that follows is priceless.

  On the screen, the hotel suite we all stayed in is panned, and the following faces come into view: Keller, Kate's boyfriend; Gus; Robbie; Jamie; and Kate's friends Shelly, Duncan, and Clayton. They're all sitting on chairs and a couch forming a semi-circle—a rapt audience for the epic battle about to take place.

  After capturing the audience's enthusiasm live, I focus on Kate standing before them with a microphone, while I announce the rules. "Tonight's battle pits amiga," she raises her fists up over her head, taunting her opponent, and the crowd goes wild, "versus amigo." I boo Gus loudly and his, "This is rigged, goddammit," is loud enough that it's picked up on the video. I laugh through his protest and continue with the rules. "Each contestant will sing one song. The only criteria for song choice is it must be insanely sexy. Sorry, Gus, I know this puts you at an immediate disadvantage, since you struggle desperately in that arena. Winner will be decided by applause and will be forever hailed as Karaoke Royalty and will reap whatever benefits the title generates, including, but not limited to, taunting the loser unmercifully."

  Kate, despite being t
ired as hell from a long day in the studio, is bouncing on the balls of her socked feet. She was always that way, like there was so much happy energy buzzing inside just waiting to be unleashed on the world. "Without further ado, I give you, Kate Sedgwick."

  I prop my phone up on a table off to the side to capture all the action and hit play on the karaoke machine. The TV screen lights up with the lyrics as the first note plays. I picked the song for Kate. And I've never been more pleased with myself then when Gus immediately groans, "I'm fucked."

  "You lose," I wholeheartedly agree as Kate starts singing "Sex" by The 1975.

  Because she's here amongst her closest friends, I know she'll play to the crowd, and she doesn't disappoint. She goes down the line and pauses on each person, directing lines from the song at them personally. Which, frankly, leaves us all a bit jealous of Keller. By the time she's done, Clayton's blushing wildly, Gus is graciously accepting his defeat, Keller's on his feet applauding, and I'm high fiving Kate for an outstanding performance.

  I hit stop on the video because that's where it ends. Gus didn't even sing his song—he conceded, punched me in the shoulder, fucking hard, and hugged Kate instead.

  "It's hard to believe she's gone, isn't it?" Jamie says, bringing me back to the here and now. "How could someone that full of life, have it taken, robbed," he corrects, "from her? It's not fair."

  I shake my head as my smile fades. "It's sure as hell not fair."

  "I need another English muffin," he says it like they have healing properties.

  "Me, too."

  Robbie rejoins us as we're finishing up and we move to the living room to wait for Gus. It's almost time to leave and worry's set in again. We stand as a united front of concern and support when Gus walks out of his room. He looks relaxed, but I can't read him. "Morning. You okay, big man?"

  He nods. "I'm okay, dude." He is. I can hear it in his voice. "I'm always gonna miss her, but she's right here." He pats his chest. "Which has me thinking, I know we're supposed to finish up 'Judgment Day' today, but I think in Bright Side's memory we should just jam. We should just play. See what we come up with. You know that she's been watching us in the studio. So today, let's do something she loved."

  That's the best idea I've heard in a long time, and apparently, I'm not the only one because Jamie and Robbie are nodding their agreement beside me. I head for the door, ready to get this Kate celebration underway. "Let's do this. I'm officially declaring it Kate Day."

  It's mandatory that Kate Day begins with coffee, because it was the girl's life blood, so we hit up the drive thru at Starbucks on the way to the studio.

  Our producer, MFDM (the Motherfucking Dream Maker), is reluctant when Gus pitches his idea that we jam today, but it's short lived because he had a soft spot a mile wide for Kate too.

  It begins with Gus and his acoustic guitar. He's strumming one string of notes and humming another. His musical mind is a complex space. And his talent is scary. I can see the gears turning in his head and whatever he hears inside is ten steps ahead of what he's playing. He quickly swaps out his acoustic for his electric and immediately starts adjusting his effects pedals and delay until they mimic the sound he's looking for. When he begins playing again, I can hear it coming together and my head's bobbing along to the beat that I'm tapping out on my thigh. Gus nods to me and gives me instruction to play along. It's a struggle at first—what he wants and what I'm playing are two different things—but as he talks me through it, and I make adjustments, it doesn't take long before I can hear his vision. And I'm all over it.

  Over the next several hours Jamie and Robbie join in, and a new song is born.

  And by two o'clock in the morning it's birthed. Recorded. Its name is "Redemption" and it's aptly titled. This entire album feels like redemption. We're coming back stronger than we were before. This is it. This is our moment. And the best thing is, we all feel it.

  Sunday, January 21

  (Franco)

  I texted Gemma this afternoon from the studio to set up dinner plans for tonight. Gus read the texts over my shoulder and now he's relentlessly riding my ass about it. When he gets excited about something he won't let it go, so I know this is his form of approval. I do the same thing to him—paybacks, I guess.

  "Three dates in four days? This is serious, dude. I hope you're not proposing tonight, we haven't met her yet." Gus is blocking my bedroom exit with his hands resting on the doorframe above him. He fills the space and I'm forced to talk or put my head down and try to bust through like a linebacker. I might have the slight edge on him where muscle and mass is concerned, but he's got an inch or so on me height-wise.

  "Gonna grab some burritos and then we'll probably pick out china patterns and baby names after she gets handsy with my boobs."

  "Second base, shit wit? This is serious."

  I shrug. "She's been eyeing them for days. Sometimes when it feels right my shirt comes off and I get slutty on the third date."

  "Don't let her pressure you, son. Your virtue is a precious, precious gift," he teases.

  Just then the doorbell rings and when Gus takes off in an all-out sprint for the front door, I have a bad feeling.

  And then I hear her sweet voice. "Hiya. I'm looking for Franco."

  I pat down my pockets for my cell wondering if she texted to say she was coming over. No phone. Shit.

  "You must be Gemma. I'm Gus." They're shaking hands when I walk in the room.

  "Nice to meet you, Gus," she replies politely.

  "Hey, Gem. Sorry, I didn't get your text about meeting here," I say. I need to get her out of here before Gus embarrasses me. It's coming, I can sense it.

  I don't miss that her eyes rove up and down my body before she says, "You texted me."

  I'm confused for half a second before Gus hands me my phone with a wink. "You kids have fun tonight."

  Shit. That wink was evil. It said, You're fucked—I hope you enjoy it as much as I have. I take the phone with narrowed, accusatory eyes. "Thanks?"

  "The pleasure is all mine." His smile is too pure. Too happy.

  Jesus. I don't even want to know what that means. Gemma takes my hand when I offer it. "Let's go, I'm starving."

  Gemma waves at Gus, naïve to the fact that we're likely knee-deep in a Gus created fiasco. "See ya, Gus."

  "Later, Gemma. Take care of my boy. Don't let the tattoos fool you, he's a delicate little blossom."

  I shake my head. "Night, shithead."

  He laughs. "Night night, you sexy beast."

  I wait until Gus shuts the door behind us before I open my texts to Gemma on my phone. The last one was sent thirty minutes ago. It's a photo of me from the back. Naked. Getting in the shower. The text that accompanied it reads, Just grabbing a quick shower. Drumming all day like a god makes my ass sweaty. Meet me at my place at 8:00?

  Gemma's reply reads, I approve. O.O See you at 8:00.

  "That fucker," I say under my breath.

  Gemma laughs at my outburst. "What?"

  I slip my cell in my back pocket. "Goddamn Gus. He filched my phone, snuck a nudey shot, and sent you those texts tonight."

  Her smile hasn't faded. "Remind me to thank him next time I see him. I don't know about your boobs, but your backside is a ten. A solid ten."

  I cover my face with my free hand and scrub at it to relieve the tension. "I suppose it could've been worse. You're not running away."

  She pries my hand away from my face and raises her eyebrows. "I'd have to be mental to run after being presented that kind of teaser."

  I open the passenger door to my truck and help her in since it's lifted.

  It only takes a few minutes to drive to Chubby's Burritos and my stomach is growling by the time we walk through the door. "What's your poison, Gem? Pollo, carne asada, carnitas, barbacoa?"

  "In English please, for the Brit? I've never eaten a burrito." The way she pronounces burrito sounds like she's adding an extra syllable. She decimates the word.

  "What?!" I know it w
as a loud exclamation when everyone in the small restaurant turns and looks at me, so I tone down my shock. "That's unacceptable. You haven't lived, my dear. Chicken, cow, or pig, call your meat first and then we'll add the rest."

  She doesn't hesitate, "Chicken."

  "Do you like rice?"

  She nods. "Love it."

  "Refried beans?"

  She looks slightly confused again.

  "Jesus, how have you survived without Mexican food?"

  She looks down at her gorgeous body. "Fantastically, it would appear."

  Her confidence makes me smile. "You've got me there," I agree. "So, no to beans is what you're telling me?"

  She shakes her head. "No beans."

  "Guacamole?"

  Her face squishes up in disgust. "God no, guacamole is vile."

  I'm wounded, truly wounded. "Avocados are sacred. What do you mean guacamole is vile? I'm pretty sure repentance is required for speaking such blasphemy in a holy place like this."

  "Chubby's Burritos is holy?" she asks.

  "Yes, heathen, it is. Wait until you taste your burrito. It'll be miraculous, life changing. You'll likely weep from sheer happiness."

  "I had no idea. Suddenly this dinner date feels like a baptism. I feel underdressed. I should've worn my fascinator."

  "What the hell is a fascinator?"

  "It's a fancy headband with ornamentation like ribbon, netting, or feathers. It looks similar to a hat, but not such a fuss to wear. They're worn for special occasions, like a wedding," she explains.

  "Yes, you definitely should've worn it, what with all the blessings and burritos to celebrate tonight."

  "You forgot boobs," she adds.

  "Damn, you're right. This is shaping up to be a momentous night—"

  The older woman at the counter interrupts. "Que puedo servirle?"

  I order in Spanish while Gemma tries to hold back an amused smirk. Color her impressed by my bilingual skills.

  We find an empty table to wait on the hallowed last supper, before she says anything. "Spanish, huh?"