Purple Method

by Victoria Milne

  Stopping and turning, Max stared at him with one eyebrow raised and a slight smile. “You’re swearing now? I must’ve pissed you off.”

  “Have you never met parents before?” he asked, exasperated.

  “Uh, no, not really.”

  He was about to groan, but there was a sadness to Max’s answer that made him bite his tongue, reminding himself that Max’s background was very different from his own.

  “My parents don’t drink a lot. They don’t understand the whole partying thing, okay?”

  “Oh, okay.” Max kicked at the dirt. “What do they do, then?”

  Rick held back a laugh at the confusion in Max’s voice. “Their lives revolve around dance, mostly.”

  “What do they do to chill out if they don’t drink?”

  “My dad fixes up classic bikes, and Mom likes watching sitcoms on television.”

  Max frowned. “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Not everyone likes to party.”

  Max huffed a laugh. “Well, that explains why you can’t hold your drink.”

  “Me?” Rick gently poked his chest. “You’re the one who was so drunk you couldn’t even climb the stairs that night we met.”

  Max’s cheeks colored. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have had so much to drink.”

  “It’s my fault? Should I feel flattered or guilty?”

  He shrugged. “Up to you, but if you’re feeling guilty, you could give us a hand lifting the smoker out of the ambulance, and we can forget it.”

  “Max,” Rick sighed, “listen to me. You need to make a good impression with Dietmar, okay?”

  “Why? He’s not your dad.”

  “No, but trust me, okay?” He didn’t want to tell Max why, especially after their meeting just now, didn’t want to get his hopes up if nothing came of it.

  “Okay.” Max dragged out the word and squinted at Rick. “Why are you being so mysterious?”

  “It’s part of my charm.” He threw his arm across Max’s shoulders, but Max shrugged him off. “Too much?”

  “You know it is. Don’t make me regret this. You’re not that charming. And you’d better tell me what this is all about.”

  “I will, but not yet.”

  After getting Sian her drink, they walked under the gigantic fluorescent banner advertising the Barbecue Cooking Contest, and wove their way through groups of people meandering past the entrants, who were at various stages of setting up. Some booths were still empty, and others were hives of activity with people cooking breakfast on their fancy contraptions and decorating their plots. It all looked very serious, and Rick was glad he was a spectator.

  “That’s us.” Max pointed to a plot on the left-hand side. The ambulance’s back doors were open, the huge steel smoker still inside, and Tony and Kyle were sitting in yard chairs, watching Sian paint a sign for their booth in massive stylized letters in purple glitter on a black background. It had the same feel as their band logo.

  “The Porkaholic Method?” Rick raised one eyebrow. He couldn’t quite decide whether it was a ridiculous or an ingenious name.

  “What are you talking about? It’s an awesome name—better than any of theirs, anyway.” Max gestured toward their competitors in the surrounding booths, and took another gulp of coffee.

  Rick snickered. Max was right; their name fit right in. The Piggy Protection Agency was on one side, and opposite was Pearls Before Swine. Pearls Before Swine, consisting of five rather straightlaced looking ladies, didn’t look impressed by their booth location, and honestly, Rick could understand it—Tony and Kyle looked as tired and hungover as Max had before his caffeine hit.

  Stepping over the rope marking their area, Max headed over to Sian, and Rick followed.

  “Ready to move the smoker?” Max asked and handed over her drink.

  Sian straightened up and admired her work. “Sure. What do you think?”

  “It looks great. That glitter paint is awesome.”

  “Are you helping us?” Sian smiled at Rick.

  “Yeah.”

  “No,” Max said. “Not with the cooking at least. Just with the smoker.”

  “That’s a bit mean, don’t you think?”

  Max pointed at Rick. “He can’t cook at all. He even burns bread, like, all the time. He’s not touching Lorette.”

  Sian looked between the two of them, frowning, and then grinned.

  “Who’s Lorette?” Rick asked. The whole thing was becoming very confusing.

  “Our pig.” Max sighed in exasperation.

  Rick snorted a laugh. “You named your pig? Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” Max said. “Are you gonna quit asking stupid questions and give us a hand?”

  “How much does that thing weigh, anyway?”

  The smoker looked like it barely fit in the ambulance, and it was bound to be heavy. He was glad he’d been in training.

  “Getting on four hundred pounds, I think. Don’t worry. Pete said he’d give us a hand too.”

  “Four hundred pounds between four of us?”

  “Six. You, Kyle, Tony, Sian, Pete, and me. I was kidding when I said I wasn’t going to help. Don’t look so panicked.”

  Rick tried to smile and hoped Pete was more awake than the others.

  “Max, we’ve got fifteen minutes before the judges will be around,” Sian said. “We need to get Lorette.”

  “Rick, can you help me?” Max asked and walked toward the front of the ambulance while shouting over his shoulder, “Sian, get the folding table set up?”

  “I’m on it.”

  Max opened the passenger door, and Rick gasped. Lorette was strapped into the seat, her body wrapped in a silver emergency blanket. He shook his head and watched Max lean across to unstrap her. “What have you guys done to that poor pig?”

  “She wouldn’t fit in the back with the smoker, so I wrapped her in ice packs; the blanket helps to stop them from melting—keeps her cool for longer. Can’t have the meat turning bad in this heat before we even start.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that.”

  Max grinned. “Thinking outside the box isn’t crazy, it’s awesome.”

  “Whatever. Come on, let’s get poor Lorette out of here. Is she gonna fit in that smoker?”

  “Yeah, just. I checked yesterday.”

  Lorette was ready for inspection as the judges reached them, and Rick unfolded a yard chair and sat next to Kyle, who was snoring. Max and Sian dealt with the judges, and Pete had wandered off.

  “You got a problem with your hearing?” Tony asked.

  “Only after your gigs.”

  Tony pursed his lips. “’Cause it’s looking awfully like you hadn’t heard me when I told you to stay away from my brother. Didn’t you get how serious this is?”

  “Yeah. I did. That’s why I’ve been giving him self-defense lessons.”

  “You’ve been what?”

  “He didn’t tell you? He’s actually picking it up really quickly.”

  “Rick, don’t encourage him. Please. I’m begging you. You must have seen how he looks at you.”

  “You need to tell him that you know. It’s doing more damage to him by not knowing the truth. How do you think he’s going to feel when he finds out? It’s only a matter of time before he’s tired of hiding—”

  “It’s none of your business. You’d better not—”

  “If I was going to tell him that you know, I would have by now. You can’t protect him by lying to him. You need to talk to him. Soon. He needs to know. I’m not your enemy, Tony,” he said, working hard to keep his voice steady and quiet enough that nobody overheard them.

  Rick held Tony’s stare until, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pete approaching.

  “Everything okay?” Pete eyed them suspiciously, and with Tony showing no intention of looking away, Rick turned to Pete.

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “Good,” Pete said.

  “Lorette passed inspection.” Max ran over to
them and bounced on the spot. “It’s smoker time. I hope you’re feeling strong. Hey, Pete, how’re things?” He gave Kyle’s ankle a kick, and Kyle groaned. “Tony, wake him up, will you?”

  “Kyle, move your ass.”

  Kyle opened his bloodshot eyes and frowned. “I’m awake. There’s no need to shout.”

  “Max is right, we need to get that monstrosity out of the ambulance so we can get our gear for the gig. They want us set up and ready to go by one.”

  “Can’t believe we got such an awful slot,” Kyle said, yawning and stretching as he stood.

  “You were lucky to get a slot at all,” Pete said. “I heard that was the last one.”

  “Well, we told everyone about it”—Max shrugged—“so hopefully we’ll have a good crowd. Come on. Me and Sian need to baste Lorette before the gig.”

  The smoker was as heavy as Rick had feared, but somehow they managed to get it into position in the booth. Tony and Kyle then went back for the gear. Helping set up for the gig was easier. Rick was in charge of hauling the stuff from the ambulance to the stage while Tony and Kyle set it all up and Max and Pete did a quick sound check.

  “I’m gonna head back to the booth and give Sian a hand with Lorette,” Max said to Rick as he jumped off the stage. “We prepared the mixture a couple of days ago, but it still takes a while to inject it.”

  Rick gaped at him. “You inject that poor animal?”

  “Yeah.” Max laughed. “Come on, I’ll show you. We’ll take the ambulance around to the booth.”

  They jumped in, and Max drove them back along the dusty paths, through the crowds, and parked up behind their booth. But he showed no sign of getting out.

  “What’s up?”

  “I don’t really have to give Sian a hand with the basting. She’s got that.”

  “What? Why are we back here without the others, then?”

  “I needed an excuse to get away.” Max stared down at his hands. “You know what it’s like, right? You can’t just get up and go straight in the octagon.”

  “Yeah.” Rick drew out the word, totally confused. Then he shook his head. “No. No, what are you talking about?”

  Max looked up at him. “Promise not to laugh.” Rick nodded. “Singing’s the same. I need to warm up first. It’s kinda like I’ve got a six-pack on my vocal cords. I can’t sing as well cold.”

  “You sounded great at sound check.”

  “That’s not the same. We only tested the midrange notes.”

  “So warm up. What’s the big deal?”

  Max huffed a laugh. “You can’t tell Tony and Kyle.”

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t know I do this.”

  “Ah.” Tony may have been doing his best for his brother, but he was doing more damage than good, in so many ways—he was sure of that. It was so frustrating. “Pete helps you?”

  “Yeah.” Max grimaced. “You can’t tell anyone that either.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me… all of them.”

  “Thanks. They’d better be.”

  “You’re camping here tonight, right?” Rick put his hand on Max’s knee and squeezed.

  “You’re not staying in my tent, if that’s what you’re asking,” Max said and moved Rick’s hand away.

  “That’s a shame.” Rick put his hand back on Max’s leg, sliding up the inside of his thigh and leaning in as if to kiss him.

  “Out! Now!” Max leaned across and opened the passenger door. “You start doing that and I’ll never get my warmup done.” Rick climbed out of the ambulance, laughing. “And don’t touch Lorette.” Max slammed the door closed and climbed into the back, out of sight.

  Rick gazed around. The smells coming from the other booths made his mouth water. Pearls Before Swine seemed to have a military operation going on. Everyone had a particular job, their booth was spotless, and it was decorated to perfection. He didn’t know much about barbecue competitions, but they had to have a shot of first place with that kind of precision. He wandered over to Sian, who was holding a syringe that looked like it belonged in the hospital.

  “How’re you getting on?” He watched as she sucked up a load of green mixture from a large tub into the syringe. It looked disgusting but smelled delicious.

  “Okay. I’d be better if slacker over there was helping.” She nodded toward the ambulance. “Can you give me a hand?”

  “Um, Max told me not to touch Lorette.”

  “You really gonna pay attention to him?” She raised an eyebrow and wiped strands of hair from her forehead with her arm. “You’d be helping him out more if you give me a hand. Honestly, it’d be impossible to do any damage to Lorette at this stage. He’s being ridiculous.”

  Rick smiled and scanned Sian’s work area. “What do you need?”

  “Help me lift her so I can inject underneath?”

  “Sure.”

  To the faint sound of Max working through his scales, Rick washed his hands, lifted the pig, and wondered when his life had become so bizarre.

  “ARE YOU sure your friend is going to be okay performing?” Dietmar asked as he and Rick made their way through the stifling midday heat toward the stage.

  “Absolutely. I’m not sure what came over him earlier. He takes his music very seriously… you’ll see. They’ve been working really hard on their new album. That’s why they were up so late last night.”

  “Oh, I see. They don’t make a habit of it, then?”

  “They’ve been figuring out a new sound since their bassist left. They reckon it’s unique.”

  “I’m looking forward to hearing it after everything you’ve told me. It could be a good fit for the Scarab Lounge.”

  Rick hoped Purple Method didn’t make this their one dud performance, and wondered whether he should have told them what was on offer so they were better prepared. It was too late now.

  The bleachers were full of metalhead types, some Rick recognized from the Torrens Club. Angelo was sitting on the grass with Joe, and they were drinking beer already. Rick caught his eye and gave him a wave. Things hadn’t been at all weird between them since the night they’d spent together, thankfully, because it was impossible to avoid each other. He’d had a chat with Angelo at the Villains gig and had made it very clear that for him it had been a one-time hookup. Luckily Angelo had felt the same.

  Clusters of fans clutched the rails at the front. It was good to see that Purple Method had such a lot of support.

  Pete came rushing over to him carrying two buckets. “Hey, Rick, would you mind helping us out and holding one of these by the exit over there when they’re done with their set? Tony thought it would be good to raise money for the air ambulance.”

  “Tony suggested that?”

  “Yeah. Don’t ask.”

  Rick took the bucket. “Sure, I can help out. That’s fine.”

  “Thanks, bud.”

  Pete rushed off, heading for the backstage area.

  Craning his neck, Rick could see Max waiting in the wings. He was wiping his mouth and shouting at Tony. Max hooked the strap of his six-string fretless bass guitar over his shoulders and caressed the strings.

  “Here we go.” Dietmar pointed to Tony, who was taking his place onstage. Kyle followed, and finally Max took his place at the microphone stand at the front.

  Rick cheered along with the rest of Purple Method’s fans.

  “There’s only three of them?” Dietmar asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Dietmar snorted. “You need another guitarist to make a decent sound. Especially in a heavy metal band.”

  Rick prayed Dietmar wasn’t right.

  “For those of you who don’t know us, we’re Purple Method, and we want to thank you folks for joining us and coming to see what we can do,” Max drawled into the microphone. “For those of you who do know us”—he winked at Rick, and the groupies at the front cheered, thinking it was meant for them—“we’ve got something a little different for you. We hope you enjoy our new sound. He
re’s some melodic metalcore to wake you up this fine afternoon. This one’s called ‘Busted, Bolted, and Burned.’”

  Max signaled to Tony, whose eyes glinted wildly as he raised his arms high and struck down hard against the drums, the first beats driving the power and energy of their new sound. Rick felt the excitement rise a notch as Kyle began their smooth, yet heavy, guitar riffs, and Max waited for them to finish the intro, a touch of a smile on his lips. He took a breath, and his powerful vocals above the complicated arrangement of indulgent yet meticulously precise notes of the swinging, punchy, slap-bass rhythm were mesmerizing. Rick had never heard anything like it, and judging by the volume of screams from the crowd—neither had they.

  “You know.” Rick jumped at the sound of Pete shouting close to his ear. “They may not be the most organized or dedicated, but they sure can pull it together when it matters.”

  “I heard Max warming up earlier,” he shouted back. “You’ve been coaching him, haven’t you?”

  Pete held up his hands and grinned. “Guilty as charged. I’m surprised he told you. I don’t think anyone else knows. It would be a crime to let a talent like that waste away. I wish he wouldn’t hide how hard he works.”

  “Yeah, but I kinda get why he does. Tony’s not the easiest to get along with.” Dietmar’s arm brushed against his. “Oh, sorry. Pete, this is Dietmar. Dietmar runs a chain of clubs over in England.” Dietmar shook Pete’s hand. “Pete’s a vocal coach.”

  “Oh, nice to meet you.” Dietmar moved so he was standing closer to Pete. “Are you responsible for Max?”

  “I’m not sure ‘responsible’ is the right word for it, but yeah, I help him out sometimes.”

  “I can see that might be something of a challenge.”

  “He’s a good kid.”

  “Incredible voice.”

  “One of a kind.” Pete chuckled. “Don’t tell him I said that, though.”

  “Tell me something, do you think they’re ready for the next step?” Dietmar nodded toward the stage.

  “Honestly… I think it’s exactly what they need.”

  Rick smiled and his heart lurched a little as Max slid across the stage on his knees, his T-shirt riding up and exposing his abs. God, he was sexy. Perhaps Max hadn’t blown it after all. Purple Method would finally get the break they were after, and so would he, with any luck.