Bottleneck

by Henry, Max

  Only unrequited love can foster hate so deep that you sacrifice all that you are for a chance at everything they have.

  E: What starts every day the same as it ended the day before?

  It takes fifteen minutes of watching Rey repeat the same bars over and over until he gets the timing down to the microsecond before Alice answers.

  A: I don’t know, Emery. Humor me.

  E: Me. Missing you.

  A: Jesus … here we go again.

  She doesn’t give me a chance to answer before her name lights up my screen. Checking the guys aren’t paying attention, I lift the phone to my ear.

  “You were the one who left!” she hollers through the earpiece. “How the fuck does your brain work, Emery? You take off, no explanation, and then turn up in my inbox, telling me you miss me. What, the actual fuck?”

  “You wanted space to work things out,” I whisper.

  “Where are you?” Her voice softens. “Are you … Is that Rey playing?”

  “How can you tell?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “He has a definite sound.” A sigh punctures the conversation. “You could have left a note or called to say thanks for letting you stay.”

  “You didn’t want me there, to begin with, remember?” I tease. “Figured you wouldn’t mind if I left.”

  “I thought you went home to her,” she admits. The pain is apparent in her words.

  I cut a path across the room toward the exit, drawing Toby’s curious eye as I bust out the door. “I told you that’s over, babe, and I meant it.”

  “Why leave then?”

  “Like I just said, to give you space to work things out.” My feet itch with the need to move to get this agitation out one way or another. Not so long ago, a bottle of liquor and a willing body would have been my outlet of choice.

  Last week I took up running. Yeah—running.

  “So?” I ask, a hair’s breadth short of begging. “Have you worked it out?”

  I can’t wait any longer. I need to know. We wrap up here in four days, and there’s only one place I want to be while we take a break to review what we’ve got.

  “I did.”

  “And?” I hang on her next word.

  “I need more time, Em. A lot is going on right now.”

  Fuck me dead. “Tuesday,” I growl.

  “What about it?” she sasses.

  “Be home and be alone so we can talk about this face-to-face.”

  “And if I’m not?”

  I laugh darkly. “I’m done waiting, Alice. I’ll see you in four days.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Alice

  “I hate Myself for Loving You” – Joan Jett & The Blackhearts

  Tuesday. Fuck. Tuesday, we’ll be six hundred miles from home playing at a biker bar twenty miles from the nearest airport.

  I definitely won’t be home, but this could be a good test of his resolve. If he’s serious about me, about this, then he can start making up for the bullshit he’s dealt me—now.

  “Alice, you’re needed out front.” Shanae shifts between her feet, leaning in the dressing room door. “Fria’s got herself in a situation.”

  Shit. I leap from the wooden chair and follow my bassist toward the front of the nightclub. Smaller venues mean no security and no private areas to get away from the crowds. It also means that incidents like this happen a lot more often.

  I arrive on the scene to find a dirty blond guy leaned back over the bar, Fria’s forearm at his throat. She’s fierce on any ordinary day, but with her hair teased into a fauxhawk, the sides braided as though she’s going in for battle, and enough leather head-to-toe to hold her own against any weapon—yeah, this guy is right to look as though he shits his pants.

  “What’s the issue?” I holler over the noise of his pals catcalling.

  “This creep thought he had a right to unlace my goddamn corset.” She shoves her arm into his throat harder.

  I lean back, and sure enough, the top four eyelets hang loose. Goddamn it. I spent a solid fifteen minutes tugging her into that thing.

  “I think he has the message now, though, right?” Either I get her to back off, or we could lose tonight’s profits altogether.

  We’ve had payment withheld for less.

  “I told you I’m not interested,” she grumbles at the guy who foolishly thinks now would be a good time to laugh.

  “Fria, come on.” I reach out to pull her arm away at the same time as Shanae blocks his friend from entering the mix.

  A squeal from our bassist cuts short when her ass hits the ground with one hell of a thud, the offending asshole towering over her. He reaches for his buddy, drawing Fria’s attention. She swings back with her free arm, collecting him in the side of the face with her elbow. Fuck. We’re drawing onlookers, which is not a good thing when we’ve yet to play.

  “Hey, enough!” I call out, reaching over the guy on the bar to pull Fria back from his friend.

  The guy on the bar decides that now is the best time to get to his feet since she no longer has him pinned. His rising body shunts mine out of the way, my foot tangled in Fria’s as she steps back to steady herself. The guy has no consideration for anyone around him; he’s hell-bent on taking Fria down.

  My feet fail me, my legs losing balance. I realize what way I tumble when it’s too late to do a damn thing about it. The girl behind me moves to the side; people scatter in the ruckus to open up the perfect path.

  My shoulder hits the underside of the bar first, my hip collecting the brass foot rail next. The kicker is when my head crashes into the barstool behind me, ricocheting off the solid iron top made from an old tractor seat.

  I hit the ground with barely enough time to cover my face as Fria comes tumbling back on top of me. She fails to catch her balance, the enraged groper with his hands wrapped around her throat. Arms back, she reaches for stability, yet finds nothing as her elbow comes crashing down hard.

  On my fucking face.

  I hear the crack before I feel the pain radiate from the center of my face. “Fuck!” Warmth spreads down my cheek—I know its blood; I don’t need to touch a thing.

  The groper takes a step back, shirt askew, and eyes wide. Fria rolls off in a split second, but the damage is already done. I reach for Shanae when she rushes between two burly guys to pull me up.

  “Alice! Fuck!” Red hair sweeps my face as she whips on the crowd. “Get out of the fucking way, you assholes!”

  People move aside like a wave as she drags me through the front of house toward our dressing room. I collapse onto the chair at the same time as Fria tears into the room, a couple of the bar towels clutched in her hand.

  “Tip your head.” She grabs the back of my skull to support the weight, pushing her fingers against the wound from the stool.

  “Jesus. Fuck!” I swat her hand away, blood pouring into my mouth.

  “Oh, my God,” Shanae whispers. “Um, Alice?”

  “What?” The night is fucking over. Ruined.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Of course, it fucking hurts,” I holler. “My goddamn nose is pulverized.”

  “Not your nose, hon.” Fria presses a palm to the back of my neck and then brings it around for me to see.

  Her palm is crimson from fingertip to heel. Holy shit.

  “I think we better take you to the ER,” Shanae mutters as Fria flies into action.

  “Already on it.”

  Holy shit. Holy shit.

  “Holy fucking shit, girls.”

  I’m gonna be okay. Right?

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Emery

  “Good Girls Bad Guys” – Falling In Reverse

  Shoulders rubbing up against people of all walks of life, I nudge my way into the venue. The underground bar can’t hold more than eighty people at a time, but for a small place, they sure have one hell of an atmosphere.

  Probably why I remember playing here in our early years, unlike most other sites.

  The stage sits t
o the left, but it’s not three hot-as-fuck chicks banging away up there. I frown at the overweight guy hollering out Irish folk music, people jostling into me from behind.

  I’m sure I got the right place. One swipe through recent searches on my Google app confirms what I read last night: Letters from Alice were billed to be here tonight.

  “Hey.” I half-turn, leaning over to holler at the skinny bartender. “What happened to the other band?”

  He shrugs, moving on to serve another patron. I scour the room in search of somebody who knows what the fuck they’re doing and spot the woman on a sound desk concealed to the right of the stage. Whether she’s with them or not, she’s bound to know what’s up with tonight’s line-up.

  I weave my way through the dance floor until I reach her, waiting until she seems to have a second free and tap her on the shoulder.

  Bright eyes lift, her mouth opening as she spits out some insult.

  I can’t hear a fucking thing over the music. Fuck me.

  “Why are they playing?” I holler, crouching down to her height.

  “Because they’re a band, idiot,” she screams back.

  Jesus—the woman manages to be crabby even when hollering over the pounding drum.

  “No shit.” I frown. “But why them? What happened to the other band that’s supposed to be here tonight?”

  “Bailed,” she snaps before turning her attention back to the stage.

  “When?” I shove her in the arm when she doesn’t acknowledge me. “When did they cancel?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know. We got called two days ago.”

  So, she is with the band, then.

  I spin and power my way toward the exit, bodies flying off my stiff shoulders left and right. I fucking figured Alice would have been on the circuit by now and in a moment of Deanna-inspired curiosity, Googled Letters from Alice.

  Turns out, my girl has a handy website telling me where I could find her tonight, and it wasn’t supposed to be at home.

  “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” I twist sideways to get out the damn door, edging past the line of people waiting to get in.

  Her number rings out.

  “Fuck!” I’m miles from her place, in totally the wrong place.

  Thought I’d be a smartass and show her for the liar she was, and now here I am looking like a right dick because Alice is exactly where I asked her to be.

  I wait five minutes, sucking back a cigarette while I pace the rain-soaked sidewalk. Her number dials again, and I lift the phone to my ear while jerking another cancer stick free.

  “Emery. Hi.”

  That doesn’t sound right. “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Shanae.” She sighs. “Look, Alice is asleep right now. Can I pass something along?”

  “Why the fuck are you answering her phone?” I hesitate, lighter poised beneath my cigarette.

  “Because you rang twice in, like, ten minutes. I thought it might be an emergency.”

  Damn straight it is. “Why aren’t you playing tonight?”

  “We had to cancel.” A beat passes before she adds, “Hold up. You knew we were booked tonight?”

  “Yeah. I’m at the fucking venue wondering why some bearded dude belts out Irish jigs instead.”

  “You’re at the bar?” she asks with a hint of a chuckle.

  I’m so not in the mood for fucking around. “Why did you cancel?” Burning smoke held above me; I signal a cab.

  “Some shit went down a few nights ago, and the girls got hurt.”

  “What?” My phone creaks in my fist. “Talk to me, red. I’m on my way to the fucking airport.”

  “Damn, you must have some frequent flyer miles by now.”

  “Less chit-chat,” I bark, stamping out my smoke when a taxi pulls up with the no-smoking sign. “More fucking explaining.”

  “Ugh. Hang on.” She covers the mouthpiece, saying something to I guess Fria since Alice is out to it. “Let me take this outside.”

  I drop in the back seat and give the driver directions. “Fria not want you talking to me?”

  “She thinks Alice should decide if you know.”

  “Know what?” I’m about ready to fucking hit something if she doesn’t stop stringing me along.

  “Some guy gave Fria trouble, and when we turned up to help, Alice got smacked in the head.”

  “Some guy punched her?” I roar, causing my driver to twist and glare.

  I wave him off and slump down the seat as he navigates into the flow of traffic.

  “No. Not that bad. She got knocked over and smacked her swede on a barstool.” Shanae chuckles. “Dude. There was so much blood. I never knew how bad head injuries bleed.”

  “Not helping,” I grit, breaths coming way too quick and far too short. “Why the fuck didn’t anyone call me?”

  “What were you going to do, superhero? Wind back the clock and undo it? She’s fine.”

  “Why is she asleep then? Does she have a concussion?” I need finite details, and I need them now.

  “Just tired. She’s been getting a lot of headaches lately.”

  “Well, have they done a scan?” Jesus. Tell me the quacks looked for bleeds on the brain.

  “What do you think? Of course, they checked her out.” Shanae sighs before starting again, a hell of a lot quieter. “She was getting them before it happened. She never tells me anything, but I know she has issues with her back. Do you know what that’s all about? I wonder if the two were connected.”

  Possibly, but I won’t tell secrets that aren’t mine to share. “Not more than you, it sounds like.” I let my eyes close, exhaling heavy. “It’ll take me a couple of hours to get there, red. You okay waiting up to let me in?”

  “Emery,” she says softly. “She’s fine, okay? I get that you’re worried, but we’ve got this.”

  “I should be there for her.”

  “No offense, buddy, but she got through the past eight years without you just fine. I think she can handle this too.”

  Fuck it. “You won’t let me see her, will you?”

  “She doesn’t need the extra stress. Just flick her a message, and I’ll say you called.”

  “If she gets mad because I didn’t come, you’re taking the fall.”

  “Deal.” She huffs. “How are you doing? Still chasing sobriety?”

  I frown when I realize that I was too preoccupied back at the bar to even think of grabbing a drink. “Getting better at it.”

  “Good.” She sounds genuine.

  I take a moment to appreciate that Alice has a friend like Shanae in her corner. A friend like I should have been.

  “I’ll check in again tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell her you’ll call.”

  “Thanks, red.” I reach to disconnect when she calls out.

  “Hey, Em?”

  “Still here.”

  “If you want to be back in her life, promise me one thing.”

  “Name it.”

  “Don’t break her fucking heart again. If you’re serious about her, stick around. But if you have even the smallest doubt…” She exhales heavily. “Walk away.”

  “I ain’t going anywhere.”

  Walked away once before, and it was the biggest fucking regret of my life.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Alice

  “Song #3” – Stone Sour

  “Don’t you dare.” Fria cuts in front of me, reaching over our heads to retrieve my drink flask from the cabinet.

  Since our bar brawl—what else was it—she’s been strangely precious with me. I’d say it’s guilt for breaking my nose and making me look like Emery’s damn dog with my one really bad black eye, but she’s never been one to regret anything in the past.

  “Thanks.” I unscrew the lid and proceed to pour the cold water from the fridge inside.

  We can’t perform until my face has healed, and on top of that, loud noise still makes my brain ache when exposed for too long.

  “What time is
your appointment?”

  I step out of her way to let Fria continue with breakfast. “Nine-thirty.”

  “You’ll get there okay?”

  I frown a little, screwing the lid back on my drink bottle. “It’s only a few stops down the line. I’ll be okay.”

  “Wake Shanae if you want company. She said she’d go with you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Fria shrugs one shoulder, smearing peanut butter on toast. “I have a girlfriend who might be able to give me a few hours at the salon.”

  “Doing what?” I chuckle. “You don’t know how to cut hair.”

  “Don’t need an education to sweep it,” she replies.

  I cross through the living room to grab my coat, swinging it around my body and threading my arms. Without work, we have no income. Nothing aside from the little bit we make from having our songs available on all the different streaming services.

  It’s not enough to keep a roof over our heads and fed.

  Each morning that I wake into this shit reality, I try not to fall into the guilt trap, but it’s hard when your fucking face is the reason none of us play. I don’t even care if my nose ends up crooked once it's healed properly—I just want to get back under the lights.

  “Hey, before you head out, Emery phoned last night. Shanae was going to let you know.”

  I flick my wrist to check the date on my smartwatch. Fuck. It’s Wednesday; he was supposed to be here last night.

  Why didn’t he show?

  “Thanks. I’ll chase him up later.”

  “Text me,” Fria instructs around her mouthful. “Let me know what they say.”

  I give her a weak nod and snatch up my purse on the way to the door.

  I finally got an appointment to see someone about my constant headaches. At first, the docs tried to write it off as related to the smack on the back of my head—six stitches, thank you very much. It took repeatedly stating I’d had them before the incident to get anyone to pay attention to me.

  Hopefully, today sheds some light on what causes them.

  I scour the band pages during my ride on the subway, replying to the ones I can and generally attempting to keep engagement up. Thankfully, I had a whole stack of action shots from past gigs that we hadn’t shared yet, so I have content to cycle through while we’re on this drought. If we’re to pick up where we left off once my head gets sorted, then we’ll need to keep our fans interested.