by Meg Ripley
A week had passed since the raid on Big J’s house, and as I walked into the rehearsal space the band had taken with help from the label, I felt nervous for the first time in years. It was a weird feeling; even though I was still dealing with odd kinds of numbness as time went by, certain things were way more overwhelming than they used to be. Normally, right up until my stint in rehab and my time with Mary, I’d have already had a buzz going on by the time I went in for rehearsal; as I walked into the building the band had taken, I was clean as a whistle.
Mary and I had agreed that after I did thirty days of complete sobriety—starting over from the night when we’d both done coke that night of the raids—I would see if I could manage to drink alcohol. I’d never had a problem with managing my intake on that before, and Mary had admitted that most programs insisted on complete sobriety, but that she had seen a lot of users who didn’t seem to have a problem with alcohol. If I showed signs of trying to find a fix, though, I would have two choices: go sober again, completely, and stay that way, or end the relationship.
“Yo! Looking good, North,” Jules said from a corner of the rehearsal room. Since the record label had put it out and around that we were working on new material for an album, the band and I had agreed that we might as well make the fiction into fact, now that Big J was behind bars. His bail had been set at three million; they’d managed to raid the rest of his houses the same night as they’d busted in on my meeting with him, and they’d rounded up so much of so many kinds of drugs that even at the most optimistic, he wasn’t going to be out this side of my eightieth birthday. If I lived that long.
“Has Mary got you on a cleanse?”
“Asshole,” I muttered; then I grinned, “She’s got me on a cleanse all right; I sweat all my toxins out every night under a fucking down blanket.”
The rest of the guys were almost done setting up, and I snagged one of Nick’s spare guitars while I waited for them to work out all of the sound. I wasn’t ready to admit it to Mary yet, but I’d already noticed, since I’d been clean for a week—not even any ‘buffering’ drugs in my system—that ideas were starting to flow. Melodies, little dribs and drabs of lyrics. Smiling to myself, I started picking out the meandering, musing melody of Silverchair’s “My Favorite Thing,” playing it to myself. None of the other guys in the band were even paying attention to me. Got my fever down/ and weighed it up/ And I know the sounds remaining/ won’t strain all the silt from my eyes…You’re my favorite thing/ You’re my favorite/ the one that I love, the one so I’d die for your love… I closed my eyes as I played, losing myself in my memory of the bright, shining strings, the darker undercurrent of the piano melody. Open my heart, won’t fall apart/ so don’t fall apart… As cheesy as it was, for the first time in the more than decade since I’d first heard the song, I could understand it completely.
I couldn’t be sure that I could hold up my end of the relationship with Mary; I didn’t know what the future held. We had told the police what we suspected about her former boss, and even though she had told me that she couldn’t possibly be my full-time counselor, the label had insisted on paying her to be my “life coach” while the band worked on a new album. I hadn’t said it to her directly, but even though we’d only been together for a few weeks, I knew—knew deep down in the pit of my heart and in the depths of my soul—that I loved her.
After rehearsal, I thought I would make good on the things I’d prayed, the things I’d thought on the night that we’d both been under threat of death; I would buy her flowers, and I would get her the biggest box of chocolate I could find, and I would tell her over and over again how much I loved her. It was the least I could do for the woman who had brought me kicking and screaming into real, true recovery.
“Yo, North! Where’s your head at? We’re ready to go.” I shook off my thoughts and stood, bringing Nick’s guitar with me as I crossed the room.
“Before we get started, I want to show you guys a new bit I’m working on.” I grinned to myself; I wouldn’t admit it in a million years, but I knew they’d know anyway.
The song was about Mary.
THE END
Nick
Am I just attracted to a woman I can’t have? Or is Olivia the one who has the power to bring me to my knees once and for all?
Our singer Alex landed our band on every major gossip tabloid and website with his crazy antics. Now, we’re tasked with running an insane amount of press to run damage control with the hopes of cleaning up our image.
So when this chick Olivia Grant showed up—representing yet another magazine—I expected to hear the same lazy questions we’d been getting for months.
Man, was I wrong. Not only was she way smarter than anyone else we’d talked to in the press, but she caught me off guard—somehow she was able to resist my charms, and I gotta tell you, you could smell and taste the electricity and sexual tension between us.
One night after a few rounds of drinks, we found ourselves alone together. Before we knew, it we dismantled every bit of resistance and doubt and were fully committed to being absolutely consumed by a night of pure debauchery and pleasure.
I’ve never been the long-term relationship type, but for sex this absolutely mind-blowing and life changing, I’m willing to compromise—but how do I convince her that she’s different than all the others and that she alone is my addiction?
CHAPTER ONE
“Dude. If I never have to do another interview in my life again, it’ll be too fucking soon.” I laughed at Mark, letting my head fall back against the couch cushions. He had a point; none of us particularly wanted to do any more interviews. Of course, we’d all known that there’d be interviews coming up when we finished recording the album—we’d gone through that wringer the last time, too. But ever since Alex lit up the news with his part of shutting down a major drug syndicate a few months ago, suddenly Molly Riot was golden. So of course, when the album started wrapping up, the phones began ringing off the hook.
“I don’t see why you’re so glum about it, Marky-Mark,” Dan said from the corner of the room. He had taken up his usual position there long before the interviewer had arrived, and now that the guy was gone, he was sketching in his notebook. “Half the questions were for Alex anyway.”
“It just takes so much out of the day,” Jules groaned, slumping over onto the console.
“Where’d Alex disappear to?” I looked at the time on my phone. “We’ve got another one of these in like, twenty minutes.” The label, of course, wanted to maximize the exposure we were getting from Alex’s big adventure. He got most of the attention for the fact that he had basically gotten abducted in the line of leading the cops to the big man in charge.
“He’s talking to Mary,” Jules said, halfway rolling his eyes. Of course, Alex was talking to Mary; I was only surprised she wasn’t actually at the studio with us.
None of us exactly resented Mary—hard to resent the woman who’d managed to drill through Alex’s stubborn ass mental block to get him to understand that he was taking his drug-love way too far—but of course when you’ve been in a band with a guy for years, and breathed his damned farts in a tour van, there’s a bit of friction whenever someone new comes into the picture. Especially when that new someone distracts the lead singer of your band on occasion.
“I’ll go get him,” Dan said, standing up and stretching. He wandered out of the control room, headed for the little courtyard outside where we usually took any calls; it was the most private place in the studio complex—more even than the bathroom.
“You ever talk to that Bianca chick after last week?” I yawned, turning my head to look at Mark. I shrugged.
“She texted me like twenty fucking times, man.” I shook my head. “I played along for a day or so, but Christ.”
“Don’t worry Nicky,” Alex said, coming into the room fast on Dan’s heels. “One of these days you’ll find that special lady who can suck a watermelon through a hose and then sneak out of your bed in the morning before you wake
up without even leaving a note.” I laughed.
“But will she leave me a cold beer to wake up to? If not, I’ve still got my hand,” I said with a smirk.
“Your hand, Mark’s hand, Dan’s socks…” I threw an old, cigarette-smelling couch cushion at Jules.
“That was one time,” Mark said jokingly. Everyone settled in to wait the fifteen minutes or so before the next interviewer arrived at the studio: I fished my cigarettes out of my pocket and lit one, Dan went back to sketching, Mark started tapping on the arm of his chair, and Alex and Jules started talking about mixing one of the songs differently.
We’d been at it since the ungodly hour of eight o’clock in the morning, and none of us was particularly excited about another interviewer. The last guy who’d been in the studio to talk to us had wanted to know a bunch of shit we’d already told about fifty people about over the years: how we’d all met, what our process was like, whether we liked recording or touring more, whether we preferred big shows or small venues.
“If the next dude doesn’t show up soon, I’m taking a nap,” Jules said, yawning as he sprawled across the control panel, letting his head come to rest on his arm.
“Yeah,” Mark said, tapping in a beat that was becoming more complicated and faster-paced every second. “Let’s all pile on the couch with Nick and let the dude see us like that. Next month’s Record Spin headline: ‘Is Molly Riot Gay?’”
“Psh,” Dan said absently, not even looking up from his sketchbook. “Of course we are. Like that’s even a question.” I watched him for a minute, as he somehow managed to take a cigarette out of his pack, bring it to his mouth, find his lighter and light the end of it without ever taking his gaze away from the sketch in front of him or slowing with his pencil.
“We just stopped getting questions about that after that one guy from Miami Scene saw Jules kiss Nick,” Alex said with a sigh.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Though true story: after that article came out, I got so much tail. It was great.”
“How can you tell a difference?” Jules smirked at me. “Skinny Nicky with the big blue eyes and supermodel lips. When did you lose your vcard again? Fourteen?” I rolled my eyes.
“I lost it at the civilized age of sixteen, thank you. You should remember; I hooked you up with that girl’s friend.”
“If we’re going to keep waiting, I’m going to grab a beer,” Mark said finally, finishing off the staccato drumming with a flourish.
“Grab me one too,” Jules called as Mark started for the door, headed to the kitchenette.
“Me too!” Dan thirded the order, and Alex asked for a coffee, and we settled in to wait for the interviewer to finally get there.
CHAPTER TWO
“Guys, next interviewer is here.” Katie, our manager’s assistant, poked her head through the door as she called into the room.
“Let him in, then! We’ve been waiting an extra ten minutes,” Jules said, taking another gulp of his beer.
“Her, actually,” Katie said archly, opening the door wider. It was a good thing she’d given us the warning; I was at least prepared to see a woman walk into the room. What I wasn’t prepared for was a cute-looking girl with short, magenta hair and dark eyes, and a body that could have come out of a Playboy from the 60s. Her cheeks were almost as pink as her hair, and she was wearing a tight Unsung Zeros tee shirt with a pair of jeans that fit her like a fucking glove and a beat-up pair of Docs that had to have come from her older sister or something—they looked that ancient. “Unsung Zeros!” I snickered at the excitement in Mark’s voice. “Holy shit, I haven’t seen one of those shirts in like, ten years.”
“Did you get it from your sister?” The woman rolled her eyes at Alex’s question.
“Nope, I just went to an all-ages show. Pompano Beach Skate Park let in five-year-olds, they weren’t going to keep a teenager out.” The woman slung the strap of her bag around to her front, taking a quick breath that strained the fabric of her shirt. She smiled. “I’m Olivia Grant from Record Spin, by the way.”
“At least they sent us a cute interviewer,” Mark said, grinning at Olivia.
“But are you any good?” Jules pulled himself up off of the console, leaning back in his chair.
“I’m not really the best person to ask,” Olivia said. She glanced around the room for a moment until they landed on one of the few unoccupied chairs. “After all, even if I was bad, would you expect me to say so? That’d doom the interview right from the start.” I snorted. Olivia grabbed the chair and pulled it into the middle of the control room.
“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Katie said, ducking back through the door and closing it behind her.
“So,” Alex said, looking at our interviewer speculatively. “How are we going to do this?”
“You guys have been doing interviews since eight o’clock this morning,” Olivia said, glancing at each of us in turn. I fought back the urge to grin at her. Feisty, feisty. Might be fun. For an instant, a flash flitted through my head: she’d be totally in control in bed; not afraid to tell a guy what she wanted. I imagined her underneath me, head thrown back, dark eyes closed, magenta hair tousled and mussed against my pillow, moaning out. She probably gets soaking wet at the drop of the hat, if you kiss her just right. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how an interview goes by now.”
“Well yeah,” Dan said, uncrossing and then crossing his legs once more. “But we want to see how you handle the situation. Your—like—original spin on the concept.” Olivia grinned, and there was the devil of a glint in her dark eyes that made me want to grab her and kiss her just right, right then.
“How about this?” Olivia opened her bag and took out a recorder. She tucked one foot underneath the rolling chair and propelled herself a little further into the middle of the room. I glanced around at my band mates: we were all more than a little intrigued at her movements as she plugged two microphone into the machine, pointing them at the opposite ends of the room. “We’ll chat. You can ask me questions—though I don’t promise to answer—and I’ll ask you questions, and whatever ends up being relevant to my article goes in.”
“What if we want something to not end up in your article?” Olivia looked sideways at Jules; he always hated interviews.
“Then say ‘off the record’ and I will make sure it never gets transcribed.”
“But if it’s recording, then by definition it’s on the record.”
“I’ll give you a copy of my edited recordings before I submit them to the magazine, so that you know it didn’t make the official record. How about that?” I looked at Jules sharply, and I knew Alex was doing the same—but for a different reason.
“That’s fine,” Jules said with a shrug. Olivia pressed a button on the recorder and it let out a beep.
“If you guys would take turns saying your names and your willingness to be recorded, we can get started on this,” she said, pushing back from the machine and looking around the room at each of us.
We each took turns doing as we were asked. “Can we ask you a question first?” Olivia snorted, shaking her head with a smile.
“One or the other of you have asked me about four questions by now,” Olivia pointed out tartly.
“Yeah,” I said, getting into the teasing mood, “but that was before the interview started.” Olivia looked at me and raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch.
“Okay,” she said. Her tongue darted out over her lips. “Fine. Go ahead.”
“Are you single?” I stifled my laughter at Dan’s question.
“I am,” Olivia said, pink-red color lighting up her cheeks again.
“Come on guys,” Alex said, his voice a bit sharp. “Let’s keep it a little bit professional, right?”
“I just wanted to get my chance in before Nicky charms the pants off of her,” Dan said with a shrug. I saw Olivia’s blush deepen, and there was something so cute about it. She glanced at me and I saw her eyes narrow distrustfully for just a fraction of a second.
“Oh!” Mark beamed, throwing his arms up in a victory pose. “Let me get you some ice, Nicky.” I rolled my eyes.
“That wasn’t a burn,” I said, throwing my spare lighter at Mark.
“Can we get started on the actual interview conversation now?” Olivia glanced at each one of us. I could see how difficult it was for her to push down the embarrassment she was feeling.
“Yeah, let’s get to work on this,” I agreed.
CHAPTER THREE
An hour later we were all still chatting; for a minor miracle, Olivia had even managed to get Jules to open up a bit. “Guys.” We all turned to look at the door; Katie was there, looking a little concerned. “Time’s up.”
“No, it isn’t!” Mark jumped up. “If our interview sessions are over, then we’re free, right? So we can decide how we want to spend the rest of the day.”
“I’m down to keep talking,” Dan said.
“Me too,” I agreed. “We could always head to Lost Weekend, see if they’ve opened up yet.”
“What time is it?” Olivia looked at the watch on her wrist at Jules’s question.
“It’s just after four,” she said. “They should be open. Barely.”
“Then let’s head over there. Katie—is the van still in the back?” We’d somehow managed to hold onto the huge van we’d used for our last tour of the state before Alex had had his little “adventure.”
“It’s still back there,” Katie replied with a shrug. “I can’t promise it still works.”
“So, let’s all pile into the van and make North drive since he’s the default DD anyway,” Mark suggested.
“I can follow you over,” Olivia said, closing the notebook she’d taken out somewhere along the way; I’d barely even noticed, everything had flowed so naturally.