by E. M. Moore
Finnick pauses, then moves his gaze up to find mine. “Cool,” he says, a genuine smile twisting his lips.
His reaction does something funny to my insides. I try to ignore it, but I think that’s the most genuine response I’ve gotten out of any of them since I got here. “How long have you known you wanted to be in a band?” I ask. I find myself leaning forward. This is the kind of talk I’m comfortable with. I don’t want to fight or feel like I have to be on the defense all the time. I wanted this job for the music, and I still stand by that.
“Ian and I have always messed around,” he says. “Then we met Archer and Sean and we just clicked. It was almost natural. The Rowdy Rogues are the first and last band I’ll ever be in.”
“How long have you been playing the guitar?”
“Since I was three,” he says, his face lightening the more we talk about this.
I can see it in my head, a cute little guy with a mop of brown hair, plucking at guitar strings.
“It was a Christmas present.”
“Nice parents,” I say.
He smiles at that. “I couldn’t agree more.” He wipes his fingers off on a napkin and then leans back in the chair, moving it to balance on two legs. “So, what do you want to do, Aisley? I take it you don’t just want to assist people.”
“I already told you,” I say. “I want to write songs.”
His eyes widen, like maybe he hadn’t taken me seriously before. “Can I hear something you’ve written?”
My stomach plummets. “No.”
His face flashes with amusement. “I don’t know any songwriter that doesn’t want to share their stuff.”
I bring my glass to my lips and take a swig of orange juice. “Maybe I just don’t want to share it with you.”
He laughs. “Damn. You’ve got a sharp tongue.” When I give him a look, he says, “Not that we don’t deserve it. I’ll give you that. Seriously, though,” he says. “I’ll listen sometime, if you want me to.”
My stomach churns. I place my hand over it to try to calm it down, trying to tell myself that letting one of these guys listen to my songs is not the avenue I want to take. For all I know, this could just be a trap to pull me in. They probably want to tell me how much I suck. “What about you?” I ask. “How far along are you guys on the second album?”
His eyes narrow. I just look at him expectantly. He asked me a question, so it’s only fair I ask him one. He must be paranoid like his cousin and the rest of his bandmates though because his response is cryptic. “We have a few songs.”
I ignore his half answer. “It must suck to have all this pressure,” I say. “Everyone wanting you guys to just finish up the second album already.”
“Yeah,” he says, looking away. “With everything else going on, it’s just too much.”
“That must be why Nolan wanted me here then,” I tell Finnick. “I can take care of the little things while you guys worry about what you’re supposed to be worried about.”
“It’s not that easy,” Finnick says, his amber eyes clouding over. In this light, they’re almost a dark chestnut. “There’s a lot more going on that you don’t know about.”
Immediately, Sean’s words come to mind. He said he just wanted a break.
I look away to try to hide my thoughts. Maybe that’s what Finnick is trying to work against. Maybe Sean wants out of the band.
Jesus. That would be a catastrophe, and definitely something Mr. Nolan would want to know…
12
For the next week, I talk with Mr. Nolan as little as possible. What Finnick told me at the diner hit me hard. I think the guys might be onto something. Maybe I am a spy for the record label. Nolan told me he wanted me to check in with him about them. I still do that, but I don’t tell him anything of value, really. I definitely don’t mention my instincts in thinking that Sean wants out of the band. I wouldn’t have done that in the first place, but besides that, I’m not even sure if I’m right.
The guys just kind of accept that I’m here now. They still get after me and give me shit, especially when Ian figured out I hadn’t been the one to clean up the mess and that I’d used the incidentals card to hire someone to do it. I feel absolutely zero remorse for doing that though. If Mr. Nolan wants to tell me it wasn’t a good idea, I’ll pay it out of my own pocket even though the guys are the ones who should be paying for it, considering I hadn’t even been allowed to stay.
Bottom line, I didn’t have to clean up whatever was in the bathroom. You just can’t put a price on that.
With our thin truce, either Finnick or I make breakfast. I make them some sort of easy lunch, and sometimes they barbecue outside or order pizza for dinner. I’m allowed what’s left over when that happens, which I’m fine with.
I try to go outside every night, sit in the sand, and watch the sun go down. When the stars start to twinkle and the fierce heat dissipates, that’s when I go inside.
They haven’t had another party since the first one, but for the first couple of days after that, a few girls start showing up to the house, asking for them. I don’t know if anything happened between them. That is one thing I absolutely agree is not my business, but a pang of jealousy blindsides me each time a girl shows up, eagerly looking around me to see if they’re there. Of course, the guys have given me strict instructions not to let the girls in or tell any visitors anything about them. Eventually, they stop coming.
I try not to dwell on why the girls coming here bothers me. Maybe it’s because they seem so carefree. Hair in top knots, bikinis on full display, and bronze skin that shows off the hours they’re able to spend in the sun and in the sand. Or maybe it’s because I think that if the band and I had met in any other instance, we could’ve been friends…or more. We have the same interests and hobbies. Sometimes, I sneak up the third level stairs to listen to them play. With my head resting against the wall, I’m reminded of the way I felt when I played their album over and over again on the flight here. They have something. They’re really good. It would be a tragedy if Sean—or any of them—wanted to leave the band. They are just that talented.
For some reason, when they’re not being dicks, I can differentiate their cruelty from their talent. Ian, who sings like an angel, is definitely no fucking angel. But when he’s warming up, and his voice cuts the air, I see a whole other side of him. It’s like the way they are around me is just a mask, and their instruments break down those layers until they’re raw and real underneath.
Mr. Nolan has been calling them more and more lately. The tension around the house is at an all-time high. I think that’s why the guys have mostly forgotten about me. I’m the least of their worries right now. I hear the one-sided conversation, and I know Nolan is reaming them, urging them to finish their album. Every time I think I should tell them I can help, I hold back. I really don’t want to start World War III in the house again. Not when things have dwindled down to a minor annoyance.
I’m in my room, my ear buds in. Earlier, I sat in the middle of the steps and listened to Ian carry out a note that warmed my belly. So, I barricaded myself in my room, and now I’m listening to their album again, standing in the middle of my room, swaying to the music. It’s blaring in my ears like I can feel them all around me. Now that they’re not outwardly hating me, those same thoughts about how good looking they are have started to creep back into my consciousness. Especially Finnick. He’s actually been nice ever since we ate at the restaurant together. He paid for my meal, even though I protested. Now, when we work together side-by-side in the kitchen, we’ll actually talk. He’ll even seek me out, have a conversation with me about anything and nothing. I think he really does see me as a respite from everything he has to worry about with the rest of the guys. I don’t know what’s going on with them, but they seem angrier than Finnick. More emotional, more nervous, more everything.
Who knows, maybe it’s just their demeanor in general and I’m just trying to find excuses as to why they act the way they do, but then pla
y like this.
I close my eyes and move to the music some more. I do this sometimes. I feel it all around me, letting the words and the tempo consume me. It helps me get in the mood to write my own stuff. It’s more like feeling the emotion in the words and the music than anything else. I let it wrap me up in a bubble until I have my own story to tell.
There’s a brush against my arm, and my eyes fly open. My mouth opens to scream, but it’s Finnick right in front of me, his lips pressed together. Shit, shit. I try to shut my music app off, but there’s something about the look in Finnick’s eyes that captures all of my attention.
Finally, I pull the ear buds out of my ear and then fumble with my phone to finally turn the music off.
“Are you—are you listening to us?” he asks. His amber eyes seem like they’re glowing behind his glasses.
“No,” I say automatically, looking down.
He doesn’t say anything, and then I finally get up the courage to raise my eyes to his. He blinks. “Aisley. You were, weren’t you?”
The back of my neck burns. Finnick’s plain black shirt fits over his muscled chest nicely. His hair is crazy, like usual, but the glasses he’s taken to wearing more often soften his look, or put a little edge onto it, depending on how you look at it. The way I look at it, he’s downright sexy. I’m suddenly aware at how close we are to one another, and my breath hitches. He glances down at my mouth, then his tongue plays over the cute little dimpled frown in his bottom lip.
“Finnick!” a voice yells.
Finnick straightens, shaking his head like he’s just come out of a coma. He reaches for me, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. Where he touches me, heat blooms. But instead of telling me how much he wants to kiss me like I want him to, he says, “Sean…” He bites his lip. “There’s a mess upstairs. We need your help.”
I should be sighing because all they want me to do is clean up after them, but I can tell there’s worry in Finnick’s eyes, so I follow after him without balking. When I get up the stairs, several of the finer decorations in the house are smashed against the floor. There’s glass everywhere. Archer and Ian are standing in front of Sean while he sits on the couch, shaking.
Sean’s not wearing any shoes and there’s blood running down his feet and onto the tile, pooling there. “Don’t move,” I say instinctively.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Ian says.
“Ian, shut up,” Finnick grumbles.
I let a smile play over my lips while Ian narrows his eyes at his cousin, then I go into the pantry and grab the broom and dustpan. When I come back out, my gaze immediately finds Sean. He doesn’t look okay. The guys are whispering to him, but his face is completely blank. “Is he alright?” I whisper to Finnick.
Finnick shrugs. “He’s going through some shit.”
He keeps hinting at that, but I never find out anything more than that. If he’s going to be trashing the house, I think it’s about time I was made aware of some of this stuff.
I ask Archer and Ian to step back. Neither of them have shoes on either and I don’t want them to get hurt as I sweep the area with the most damage. The house hasn’t been as clean as when that cleaner came the day after the party. I might have to hire her again just to make sure all the glass shards get picked up, but for right now, I can handle it. It’s the blood dripping from Sean’s foot that’s bothering me. “Is it deep?” I ask him. “The cut?”
Sean stares straight ahead like he hasn’t even heard me. His red hair is sticking up on its ends. His usually loose shirt around the collar is far looser than normal. Most of his tattoo is peaking out, the collar drooping low onto his chest like it’s been stretched out to the max.
“Brother,” Archer says. “It’s not worth it.”
“I know that,” Sean growls.
“She’s trash.”
A growl rips from Sean’s throat, telling everyone what he’s thinking without actually saying words.
So, this is about a girl? It must’ve been someone important for Sean to be reacting like this.
I quickly sweep the room up as best I can and then head toward the bathroom and grab a First Aid kit I noticed in one of the cupboards. I pull it out, go back to the living room, and sit on the floor at Sean’s feet.
Finnick sucks in a breath. “Careful.”
I look up at him with a smile at the same time his cousin glares at him.
“Can I see?” I ask, fitting my palm around Sean’s heel. When I pull up, he doesn’t protest. There’s a glint in his foot when the light catches it, and I realize there’s a small piece of glass protruding from his skin.
I look behind me. “Can you grab tweezers? There’s some in my bathroom if there aren’t any up here.”
Finnick goes downstairs and is back with my tweezers within thirty seconds.
“This might hurt a bit,” I say. I use the sharp edge of the tweezers to grasp ahold of the piece of glass, then I yank quickly. Luckily, it wasn’t a big shard of glass at all. Just enough to be an annoyance. I look at his foot some more, making sure that was the only one. Then, I wet a cotton ball with some hydrogen peroxide and run it over the entire surface of Sean’s foot. After that, I take a Band-Aid, and place it over the spot where he’d gotten the piece of glass stuck in it.
His chest is heaving now. His face, too, is flaming red, making his freckles more prominent. I lift his other foot and glance at it, but there’s nothing to be worried over on that one. I set the First-Aid kit on the coffee table and then move to the kitchen to grab some disinfectant wipes before moving over to the blood-stained tile. I wipe it up, throw out the used wipe along with the shards of glass, and then look at Sean with the rest of them. The remnants of what he did are all gone, but everyone can tell he isn’t over whatever happened.
It would be nice if we could just sweep up emotions to throw them away like we can dirt, but we can’t.
The guys are all just standing there. I don’t know what they saw or said before I came up, but it’s obvious Sean needs someone right now. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
Sean finally looks at me, pinning me with a glare. “You mean you want to talk about the girl who used me? The one who just wanted to use my status to get ahead?”
I bite my lip. I remember him saying I was just like any other girl when I told them I wanted to be a songwriter. He must’ve thought I was using them. “Well, that’s fucked up,” I say.
He blinks a couple of times. His hazel eyes are darker than usual, and the lighter green tints around his irises look emerald right now. “She just called me,” he says, half laughing. “She thought—Actually, I don’t know what she thought. I just hung up on her ass.”
“Probably for the best,” I tell him.
“I told him he needs to get laid,” Ian says.
I turn to give him a dirty look. That’s probably the last thing Sean needs right now. If this girl hurt him, which she obviously did, he probably feels like he can’t trust anyone. A fuck isn’t going to help that, not even a good one. It’s not his dick that’s broken, it’s his heart. “Some people are just fucked up and only out for themselves,” I say, sitting on the couch next to him. He hasn’t pulled away from me yet, or told me to mind my own fucking business, so I’m counting this as a win.
“I loved her,” he admits softly. He clamps down on his jaw, suffocating all the emotions inside him. I wonder if he’s even let himself feel anything yet, or if he’s just been doing this. I don’t understand why some guys think it’s terrible to cry, to show a little vulnerability. He looks like he’s a volcano about to erupt, which is probably why he smashed everything in the room. He didn’t know how else to deal with his emotions.
“If it helps, I never really liked her,” Archer says. He sits down in the leather couch opposite us. “I thought she was a bitch from the beginning.”
Sean turns his gaze to his bandmate. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. She just…ugh.” He shakes like he’s got the chills. “Kind of fake.”
/>
“And you didn’t say shit?”
“Say what?” Archer fires back. “That I didn’t like the girl you were infatuated with? That would’ve gone over well,” he says sarcastically.
“I didn’t like her either,” Ian says.
Sean laughs at that. “You just didn’t like her because I got her.”
Ian shrugs, but he doesn’t deny it. “Meh. I’ve had hotter.”
“She was fucking hot,” Sean says with a quick shake of his head.
“Looks aren’t everything,” I protest, feeling the need to stick up for the girls who maybe aren’t as classically good looking as others, like me. Okay, maybe I’m just sticking up for me. “She turned out to be a raving bitch, and I’m sure you’re a really nice guy when you’re not being a dick.”
All the guys stop, then they laugh at once. Sean’s lips even turn up, smirking. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Assistant.”
“Actually, he’s kind of a dick all the time,” Finnick says.
I look over at him, and he gives me a warm smile.
“Let’s face it,” Archer says, putting his hands behind his head. “We’re all a bunch of fucking dicks.”
“Maybe that should be the title of your next album,” I suggest. “A Bunch of Fucking Dicks. It’s catchy.”
Ian mulls it over, his eyes not saying he hates the idea. “I kind of like it,” he admits.
I refrain from rolling my eyes even though I really want to. Of course, he fucking likes it. Misogynistic asshole.
“Did you like her?” Sean asks Finnick.
Finnick squirms. He seems to be the most level-headed out of all of them, so I can see why Sean wants his opinion. “I didn’t hate her,” he says finally like he’s chosen his words carefully.
“But you didn’t like her either?” Sean questions.
“Not really,” Finnick says, shrugging. “She grated on my nerves. And you had it so bad. It was—”
“Alright,” Sean says, cutting his friend off. “I get it. Maybe next time you assholes can tell me when you think I’m dating a bitch. That might be helpful.”