What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 3)

by Lauren Hawkeye

  I’d be lying to myself if I said the mystery bass player didn’t intrigue me. I caught myself thinking about him when I bought the ticket to the gig. It was all wishful thinking on my part. I would never know him. I mean, I’d never approach him in the first place and why would he look twice at me? How could you go up to a guy in a successful band to say hi when they probably think you’re another groupie looking for a quickie. And I don’t think I could ever have a quickie with a stranger, no matter how hot they were.

  I stood awkwardly in the semi-dark as people milled around me. No one looked at me and no one would probably remember me, but I still felt uncomfortable. Alone in a crowd. I busied myself looking around, waiting for the support band to come on.

  The thing I hated about this venue…I mean dislike. Hate is too strong a word for architectural detest. There is a pole right in the middle of the floor. Right behind the mosh. Sucked if you get stuck behind it, worse than inadvertently positioning yourself behind the only seven-foot tall bloke in the whole place. What a stupid place to put a pole. What I do like about The Corner is the curtains. It makes the whole experience feel like you’re at the theatre. These red velveteen curtains that swung open and closed after each support. Who’d stand at the philharmonic anyway?

  My phone vibrated in my pocket then, saving me from staring vacantly at nothing. That’s what I disliked about going to shows on my own. Not knowing anybody and standing around between sets. I mean, what do you look at? Get a drink so you have something to do.

  The text said, Look behind you. It’s from Frank. Frank was the drummer in a punk band called The Deadshits and to tell you the truth he was the least deadshit-est of the lot. I turned around and there’s Frank behind me with four bottles of Bulmer’s balancing in his arms trying to launch himself onto me laughing like a madman. He’s got a shaved head and wears an assortment of flannel shirts and he’s buff, all muscle. Tonight it’s a blue shirt with beat up black jeans. Frank kills me, he really does, but I’m glad to see him. He’s one of the few who seemed to like me.

  “Thanks for the drinks,” I joked and took two from him before they ended up on the floor. “Why you got so many? I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

  “Zoe, babe! I know this guy in the support, put me on the list.” He hugged me and slapped me on the back and gestured to the bottles in my hands. “Keep ’em and drink up!”

  That’s the thing I love about Frank. He’s hard as nails, but over the top generous. He makes everyone feel included. He stood beside me and called out to some guy who was walking past with his girlfriend trailing behind in her stiletto heels and tiny dress. I looked at her and I looked at me and it’s no wonder I get along with guys better.

  To be honest, people at gigs kind of annoy me. There are always groups of girls dressed up like they are going to a mainstream club, high heels and all. And somehow I always stand behind the people taking the piss out of the support bands. Bands that are just starting out and just good enough to get a great slot, you can tell they are stiff on stage. What I hate are people in the crowd trying to be funny about it and not giving them a go. Laughing and not listening. Plenty of times I’ve heard these bands and later on they’ve got headline slots and become the next big thing and the same people suddenly think they’re amazing.

  In this case, the support is a whiney Joy Division/Smiths wannabe band. I swear the singer wants to be Morrissey on a bad day. They’re okay, but have to find their own thing.

  Despite the crowd, I do love to go and see bands. I like to watch them play. I mean, really watch. How they play their instruments, how they move onstage. I like to see what they do, so I can try it when I get home. What I don’t like especially is if the songs sound the same as on their record. Like they are all miming to a backing tape. It’s about the moment, isn’t it? The feeling and emotion of whatever song they’re paying, the little variations in the vocals, an added riff or drum fill that makes it a unique experience. That’s what I love.

  As the curtains begin to close on the support band, someone shoved me from behind and I turned around to glare, but they’re whispering in my ear, “Zoe, sweet lips.”

  I get an eyeful of Dee laughing like he’s a comedian and slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

  “Frank got me in.” He winked, taking one of my drinks and I knew he thought I was here because of that guy. What I didn’t admit is that he’s right.

  “Hey!” I protested.

  “Hey, yourself.” He elbowed me, took a swig and offered it back.

  “Eww.” I feigned disgust. “I don’t want it now.”

  As much as I kept to myself, it’s nice to have someone here to talk to between sets and hang out with. Before long, it’s time for the main act to come on.

  The Stabs is made up of four guys. Two guitar players, bass and drums. They play straightforward indie rock, nothing overly complicated, but whoever writes their lyrics is a genius. Each song plays out like a story and it’s hard not to get sucked into it. The crowd was going nuts and the mosh pit at the front is jumping so much, the floor felt like it was shaking.

  What’s also hard not to get sucked into is watching the bass player. My eyes glued themselves onto him and I can’t find it in myself to look away. I watched his fingers slide across the strings and my mind wandered to imagining them doing something else. I’m suddenly horrified at the image in my head and force myself to look away.

  “That guy,” Dee whispered in my ear, “is Will Strickland. He’s bad news Zo Zo. Wom-an-iser. Takes it and leaves it, from what I’ve been told.”

  “I’m just looking,” I told him, because I was. The last thing I needed was an unattainable crush on a known womanizer.

  What happened then was this Will Strickland, known man-whore, looked at me watching him, but kept on staring while playing the song. The thing about someone staring at you is that you have the overwhelming urge to look around to see if there’s someone else behind you. In this case I’m jammed between Frank and Dee and a few hundred people. I raised my eyebrows and he raised his. Then I looked away kind of embarrassed. You read about these kinds of things in soppy romance novels or in hipster chick flick movies. The lonesome plain girl in the crowd and the handsome indie guy in the popular band chases her despite all the advice not to from band mates and vice versa. Then again, people shouldn’t read too much into a look.

  The show was that good, it was over before I knew it. The singer and drummer seemed to milk the encore a little too much, but I mean, who wouldn’t? As people started to mill around and leave, Frank shot off into the mass and left me and Dee to our own devices.

  “What did you reckon?” he asked.

  “Pretty good,” I said. “I liked them.”

  “Why’d you come here, Zo?”

  I scowled at his question. “I wanted to see a band.”

  “Plenty of other bands on tonight, you know.”

  “Then why are you here?” I snapped.

  Before we could get into a fight, Frank reappeared with another guy.

  “This is Chris,” Frank clapped the guy on the shoulder. “Bass player extraordinaire.”

  “Hey,” he said and shook my hand. He seemed nice enough. He’s got sandy blonde hair that fell in his eyes and a kind smile.

  “Oh, you were in the support, right?” I asked, suddenly recognizing his face.

  “Yep. Empty Hands.”

  Frank sniggered and Chris shot him a warning glare.

  “I like it.” I shrugged.

  “It was nice to meet you, Zoe,” Chris said. “I gotta go take care of the gear.” He shoved Frank in the shoulder playfully as he disappeared into the band room.

  “C’mon, Zoe! Stick around for at least one more drink!” Dee picked me up around the waist and I had no choice but to agree. He seemed to have let go of his earlier outburst and I was thankful.

  The security guard came in and attempted to push the last few punters out the door as we went into the b
ar next door.

  I know staying around would mean a high likelihood of the guys from the band sticking around as well. I felt a bit on edge about it. The last time I met someone from a band that I liked turned out to be a real idiot. Then it kinda ruined their music for me. I can’t listen to any of their records without thinking about how much of a twat that guy was.

  “That guy keeps staring at you,” Dee whispered in my ear. “By the bar.”

  I glanced covertly to my left, and there was Will Strickland himself with the wild curly hair quickly glancing away.

  “If he so much as talks to you, I’m punching him in the face.”

  “Dee, I admire your protectiveness, but I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

  “Why?”

  “He wouldn’t talk to me in the first place.”

  I could see he was torn between reassuring me of the opposite and his obvious need to keep scumbags away from me.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I know.”

  “I reckon we could give them a run for their money,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  “What?” I turned around.

  “I reckon we could form a band ten times better than The Stabs. Frank? Wanna play drums?”

  Frank’s eyes light up. “DO I?”

  “Zoe, you can belt out a tune.” Dee looked at me with his big eyes. The same way he did when we were twelve and he wagged school and wanted me to cover for him.

  “Shit, Dee. There’s a difference to fronting a band and singing like an idiot in the car.” Shit, the last time I sung in front of a crowd was never.

  “C’mon, Zoe! Just give it a shot. Just one shot. I’ve got some songs we can work on.” Those eyes again.

  “You are a manipulative asshole.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Pick you up tomorrow arvo.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No time like the present.” He slapped me on the back and I choked on my cider. “Hey, that Chris guy plays bass, right?” He looked around the bar and wandered off when he saw him.

  Somehow, I think I’d just been tricked into joining a band.

  Chapter Two

  Will

  The one thing I hated about life was that it took every opportunity to kick you in the gut. Then it smacked you again while you’re down for the count.

  Pushing my curly hair out my eyes, I pulled out the copy of Beat I’d picked up and found the article they’d printed. It was the typical ad for ‘we’ve got a gig come and see’ type thing. Being interviewed was fast becoming my least favorite part of being in a band people wanted to know about.

  Ahead of Saturday nights show at The Corner, we caught up with Will Strickland, one fourth of the band The Stabs, to see what they’re up to next.

  That interview had been full of the stock standard questions about influences, the next album, when are we going to tour again. The same inane stuff over and over. I remembered saying a lot more interesting things, but when they give you a third of a page for nothing, I guess they could write whatever they wanted. At least I wasn’t misquoted. The facing page had a full-page color ad for our gig tonight. It still flipped me out, seeing stuff like that.

  Right now, I was on my way to sound check at The Corner in Richmond. We were doing a couple of shows just to tide us over until the next tour. We all thrived on the high of being on stage, playing to a packed out venue. When I got up there, I could just lose myself and after all the shit with my ex, it was the only thing I wanted. To lose myself.

  I’d been floundering for far too long and music was the only way I knew how to deal with it. Trying to fix something that was irreparable had destroyed me. Ending it had taken a new kind of courage. Now I didn’t know what to do, so chucking myself headfirst into the band was it.

  I wasn’t sure where I’d be if it wasn’t for The Stabs. I played bass, though when we’d started I’d been going to Uni studying Filmography. I wanted to be the next Tarantino, but music took over the day we were signed and it had been recording, touring, interviews, photo shoots and all kinds of crazy stuff since. I dropped out, but still wanted to at least make a film clip for the band at some point. Just had to find the time. Now that we were about to start recording again and commercial success was trickling in, there was less and less.

  My phone vibrated in my back pocket and I pulled it out. It was a text from Pete: Where are you mate? We’re at The Corner already.

  I texted back: I’m coming now.

  Pete was my best mate. We’ve known each other since prep. You know, since we were six. We grew up on the same street in a small country town, went to the same schools, hung out all the time. We’d even formed our first band together. He was this tall guy, messy hair, always had a hoodie dragged up over his head, but he was one of the nicest guys anyone was ever likely to meet. He was the guitarist and lead singer in the band.

  The other guys that made up The Stabs were Louie and Sticks. Louie we met when we first moved to Melbourne eight years ago. He’s this clean-cut alternative guy, slicked back quiff and traditional tattoos all over him. He plays guitar. And Sticks was a mate of Louie’s to begin with and when we needed a drummer he helped us out and ended up sticking around. He was a typical meathead drummer, shaved head and buff. I mean, I’m pretty built, but no one has anything on Sticks.

  It wasn’t long before we began playing together permanently and formed The Stabs. The rest was history.

  In a couple of weeks we were going to start recording our third album and go on yet another tour. We’re all extremely lucky that we’re able to play music for a living. I mean, not everyone makes it. We’ve played some amazing gigs, met some amazing people and been through a lot.

  We’d played heaps of gigs at The Corner, so when I finally got there and walked in, it felt like home. Sound check was the easiest thing for us. We’d done it so many times, it was just a matter of getting the gear right, then letting the sound guys do their thing. We were a well-oiled machine.

  Upstairs, the guys were talking non-stop about the new songs and how excited they were. Usually, I’d be just as amped up as they were, but I found my mind wandering and my focus shifting. Truth was, I still didn’t feel like myself. I picked at my food, but downed my beer. Life just seemed…pointless right now.

  “You okay, mate?” Pete asked.

  “Yeah,” I slumped back into my chair. “I’m just…” I shrugged.

  “Something’ll come along and change everything when you least expect it.”

  “You reckon?” I grimaced, not sure about that.

  “I reckon. Shit, when we start recording things will be awesome.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Bloody hell, Will. Cheer up mate.” Sticks kicked me under the table. “We’re on soon. No moping in the corner of the stage. I’ve still gotta look at ya.”

  His words managed to coax a laugh out of me and I shook my head, but by the time we were ready to walk onto that stage, I’d picked myself up enough to get on with it. Right now, all I had to think about was the gig and if I didn’t perform, the rest of the guys would suffer for it. Time to get my ass into gear, big time.

  The thing I like about playing a show is that moment right before we go on, the lights go down and the crowd cheers. It’s a quiet moment of anticipation. When I was the one in the audience, it was my favorite bit as well. Going to see huge bands from overseas, watching them walk out and pick up their instruments. It was that feeling of knowing what was about to happen that got me every time.

  We played the opening two songs of our set and I was back in the game. The music was so familiar to me, the notes just came without any thought and I was free to look out over the crowd and see the effect our music had on all of those people. The way they sung back the words. The way they jumped up and down. The way they got into it. My eyes flew over the crowd.

  That’s when I saw her. She was tall and slim, her long almost-black hair was pulled into a haphazard braid flipped forward over one shoulder. She wasn’t
moving or doing anything. Maybe that’s why my eyes had latched onto her. She was my type, more than my ex had been. This woman was a rocker and I was indie through and through. I had wild curly hair and beat up combat boots and an arm of tattoos and I found myself imagining how we’d look together. I wondered how her face would light up when she smiled.

  She was standing in-between two guys, but her eyes were plastered on me. Running all over, burning right into my skin. As I played each song, I realized she wasn’t only watching me play, she was checking me out and had been for six songs straight.

  When her eyes locked with mine, I couldn’t look away. She raised her eyebrows as if she was questioning if I was actually looking at her. So, I raised my eyebrows. Yes. Yes, I was. To my surprise, she shifted uncomfortably and looked away.

  I don’t know what the hell it was about her, but for the rest of the gig, she was like a beacon of light in the crowd. No matter how many people jostled her, I could still manage to find her again. My heart thumped a million miles an hour and it was like I was falling head first into my pent up sexual frustration. What did Pete say earlier? When I least expected it something would come along and change things.

  As soon as our set finished, encore and all, I hurried from the stage to pack up our gear while Pete and Sticks milked the crowd for every last drop of applause. Sometimes they really were full of themselves, but they were my brothers. Let them enjoy it.

  I fumbled with the latches on my guitar case and shoved leads into their bags, not caring if they knotted. I hoped to God that when we went out to the front bar, she would be there. If I saw her, then she might be real.

  Pete was watching me with a confused expression on his face as I bashed about in the band room. He probably thought I was losing it and to tell you the truth, I think he was right.

  When we were done, the guys followed me out to the front bar, my eyes scanning the crowd of people that had stuck around. At first I didn’t see her and this odd sensation of disappointment shot through my gut. So, now I was hallucinating? Lost and floundering in my Groundhog Day life, I was dreaming up beautiful women? I was beginning to worry about myself now.