At Lars' request, Frieda spun around and ended the spin by raising a hand to her forehead and cocking her hip. With a flutter of her eyelashes, she asked in a singsong voice, "So, kind sir, what's the verdict? I know I've gotten prettier, but nothing sounds better than hearing you say it."
Lars released a laugh. Frieda was indeed beautiful. With her mocha-coloured skin, friendly dark eyes, head full of long braids and her love for short skirts that showed off her long, tanned legs, she looked like a runway model.
"You look beautiful, Frieda. It's useless asking because the evidence is right before me. It's obvious you enjoyed your vacation. How's the family? And did Ethan finally meet the love of his life in the Caribbean like he had always dreamed he would?"
"Everyone's fine," Frieda said as they began walking towards the parking lot. "They miss you, and mother told me to extend a dinner invitation to you. Ethan, unfortunately, didn't meet his love after all. But he did make a decision when he noticed that Prince Charming would not be from the Caribbean."
"And what decision is that?" Lars asked. Ethan never failed to amuse him with his caprices; when he was eleven, he, after reading a novel about children living on a farm, had harangued his father for months about purchasing a farm. In a fit of frustration, their father decided to rent a cow. After Ethan had a taste of daily milking at five in the morning, he got over his farm craving pretty quickly, and there was no more mention of farming.
"He's decided that his prince has been waiting for him since he was little but he just hadn't noticed. He really beat himself up for his obliviousness. So, now, he's trying on different outfits to choose the one that would be most appropriate to seduce you with."
Lars felt his jaw slacken in disbelief. Immediately, his mind began to calculate the things he would have to say to get Ethan to turn his eyes to someone else, and he mentally groaned as he also thought about how long it would take Ethan to change his mind about his choice. It wasn't like Lars could turn himself into a cow.
"How could you let this happen?" Lars fairly screeched as he pointed a finger at Frieda. "You're my best friend. It's your job to ensure that something like this never happens. What happened to defending my honour and keeping me from men I didn't want and who would try to force me to hook up with them anyway? You kept on yapping about that stuff throughout high school when I really needed to get laid, and now that you're actually meant to do your job, you do nothing."
Frieda's grin was positively wicked as she replied. "But Lars, Ethan is my baby brother. A girl always hopes that her friend will hook up with her sibling. That way I get to keep you in the family, and you would get a man who knows your worth and would worship you. That is what you'll get with Ethan. Trust me Lars, my brother would be perfect for you."
"Yes, until he discovers that I like cows, keep cow-shaped clocks in my house and want to spend every summer until I'm fifty at a farm somewhere far away, milking cows. In fact, I'll give up trying to get my bachelor's and just become a farmer," Lars replied. They had almost reached his Prius.
"No, you don't like cows. You hate them almost as much as Ethan does. And Ethan knows that you hate cows as much as he does."
"Not anymore, I don't. They shall be my best friends until Ethan finds someone else to be in love with." Once they arrived at his car, Lars opened the door, settled in his seat, pulled on his seatbelt and returned his attention to his friend.
"Well, I wish you the best of luck. You know how tenacious Ethan can be," Frieda replied.
"He would be less tenacious if we convinced him together that I'm not the one for him. He listens to you, Frieda."
"I know that very well. But what would be the fun in that. It will be entertaining watching you trying to escape from my brother's clutches," she said and grinned.
"You are hopeless," Lars said as a laugh escaped. "Hopeless and incorrigible. And I missed you."
Frieda smiled, blew him a kiss and began to walk to her car. She called out over her shoulder. "I missed you as well sweetie. I really missed you. Don't forget, dinner, this Saturday. It starts at eight."
"I wouldn't miss it for anything in the world," Lars shouted back and started his engine.
*~*~*
Phil wished he was anywhere else but here. He wished he was surfing, riding his bike, chilling out at a casino. He even wished he was at his parents' house. Anywhere was still better than being here and passing through the curtain to pay homage and seduce a crowd he had no interest in seducing in the first place. He wished he were anywhere else but here for his own sake and the sake of the thousands of people who were there to listen to Terr perform. He wasn't ready, and as far as he was concerned, he wouldn't be ready for a long time. Why couldn't Howard see that?
The only thing Howard seemed to be concerned with was his job as the manager of the band. He wanted to see concert tickets sold out and records going platinum. He wasn't concerned about the fact that Phil needed a break from it all. Shit! He still hadn't been given enough time to mourn. He needed to mourn. Was everyone blind? Couldn't they all see? Didn't they notice his pain? Phil felt like screaming, but he gulped in air. It wouldn't do to get hysterical. The fans were there to listen to the band perform, and they paid good money for that, too. It wouldn't be fair to them for him to suddenly suffer from a mental breakdown, although that would probably do him a world of good.
The crowd on the other side of the curtain was humungous. At first, he had only assumed it, but since Terr, his band, sold out their first concert, the fans had simply continued to grow. Howard had to keep making the venues larger in order to contain the audience, but the space was never sufficient. And it would seem like tonight would not be any different. Jason had spread the curtain open slightly, and Phil found his eyes drawn to the crowd. His assumption had been correct. It was a large crowd tonight.
Phil took in a deep breath. He wished he were outside. Breathing in the night's air and communing with nature. There was nothing that inspired him and strengthened him better than a stroll or a run in the dead of the night. It reminded him that he was tiny compared to the massiveness of the universe. It made him feel insignificant. The stars didn't care how much he had in his bank account. The stars didn't care about his cars or the houses he had, nor did the stars care about the success of Terr. That was, strangely enough, comforting.
He wondered if there was a way he could convince Howard to allow Terr to have their next concert beneath the night sky. It would be brilliant, and it would help with the hollow feeling he still had.
He felt someone bump into him and turned around. Carlos, their drummer, gave him a grin and held up two bottles of whiskey.
"Having an after-party in my hotel room," Carlos said. "Scandinavian girls. You're welcome to join us if you want. I'm sure we can scrounge up some gorgeous men for you as well."
Phil shook his head. "Thanks Carlos. I think I'll pass. I need to call it an early night." He walked away. He didn't look back because he knew that if he had, he would see the worry that would cloud his friend's eyes. Phil was certain that Carlos would report the conversation to the others, and they, too, would be worried.
It was strange really. The way everything had changed. It had been a year already, yet it still felt like yesterday. There were days when Phil wished he would just wake up and discover that it was all a dream. He would be the party animal he had been, and there would be nothing wrong with getting drunk and waking up with men he wouldn't see again after a night he wouldn't even remember. But, it wasn't a dream. And reality had an amazing way of knocking a person on his ass.
He got to the mini-fridge, pulled open the door and grabbed a bottle of cold water. He then proceeded to down half of the bottle in quick gulps. With quick strides, he walked to an available chair and dropped into it. He saw technicians running about in haste to make sure that everything was working perfectly. They had probably done a dozen times, but those in the trade knew that any little thing could screw things up. It was better to be seen as a fool who wou
ld never stop crosschecking than to be known as the fool who was negligent with his job. The higher-ups might fire such a tech, but it was the fans to look out for. They could easily go from calm to hostile in a nanosecond if they noticed that things were off with the sound and acoustics of the hall. After all, what's the point of paying to see a band play live if you cannot hear anything? And who else would they blame for the screw-up but the technical crew.
Phil felt his eyes closing when a tap on his arm woke him up. He opened his eyes to find Jason holding two bottles of beer.
"Here," Jason said and took the second seat. "Did you see the crowd? It's going to be a real crazy one tonight."
"Yeah. But you will enjoy every moment of it. You live for this moment, Jason. The power, the rush, the knowledge that all these people are here to pay homage. It makes you feel like a god on Olympus."
Phil remembered when he and Jason had met. He had gone to a concert with Daemon and stood at the back of the hall listening to a band's rendition of a Led Zeppelin song that was atrocious and had most people in the audience cringing. He and Daemon had been standing next to a dark-haired man who had suddenly turned to them and said, "Fifty bucks says that we three can start a band that would show everyone in this crowd what real rock music is." Phil had accepted the deal, and the rest was history.
"Yes. I feel like a god. Carlos certainly feels like Zeus, if Zeus could sit in his toga on a drum seat and crank out the beats to our songs, that is. But you don't."
Phil wiggled slightly in his seat. Howard had attempted to have this discussion with him. Carlos had tried but had gotten distracted by a drunken girl who had fallen into his lap and asked him in Dutch if he was interested in seeing her give a strip tease to one of Terr's songs. But Jason had left him alone, and Phil had been secretly glad about that. Jason was the only one who knew Daemon, and he was the only one who could actually get to Phil, and Phil did not care for it, nor did he want to listen.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Jason," Phil said as he attempted to stand, "and we don't have the time to decipher the meaning behind your words either. Time is wasting, and we need to get ready for the concert. We're the main act."
"Sit down, Theophilus. We both know it would not cost me anything to tackle you to the floor right now. Luckily for me, my T-shirt is black, so I won't need to change. You on the other hand will have that white tee all dirtied up along with your bloody nose. So, make yourself comfortable, shut the fuck up and listen to what I have to say."
Phil gave Jason a long look. Jason had his jaw set in the stubborn way that proclaimed to all that he really would make good on his threat. Besides, Jason only called him by his full name when he meant business. Phil released a sigh as he sank back into his seat.
"Glad to see that you still have some sense in your head. It will make this easier for me," Jason said. Phil glared at him, a glare that Jason ignored as he continued. "You need to stop mourning, Theophilus. Daemon is gone. There's nothing either of us can do about it, nothing we can do to bring him back. So, it's time for you to accept that and move on. Living your life on autopilot was okay six months ago. Hell, it was okay three months ago. But Daemon wouldn't want you to do that. It's time you got your shit in line and start living."
"And how do you suggest I do that, Dr. Phil? Go back to partying? Fuck any man that crosses my path? Or better yet. Maybe you want me to spend all my days and nights in my study churning out new songs. Or do you want me in the studio practising my craft? How—please tell me, Jason—do you suggest I get over Daemon's death, oh wise one? My brother is dead! I'm allowed to fucking mourn for however the hell long I fucking want to! Obviously, your pain is lesser than mine if you think it's so easy for me to stop mourning him."
Jason moved so fast; Phil wasn't able to stop him. Not like he felt he should. Phil felt the hit connect, and his head moved to the side with the force of the punch. He felt the stickiness of blood gather in his mouth and spat it out. His mouth throbbed, but the pain felt good. "I'm sorry, Jason. I shouldn't have said that."
"He might have been your brother you arrogant, self-righteous, self-pitying asshole, but he was my lover, and I loved him as much as you did. I still fucking do. Don't you fucking dare undermine what I felt for him."
Phil rubbed his aching jaw and nodded. He had felt his head telling his mouth to stop the words and cease the nonsense that was about to pour out of his mouth, but he couldn't restrain himself. The words had still come pouring forth.
"I say you should live again because it is what Daemon would have wanted. He wouldn't want you to put your life on hold for him, just like you wouldn't want him to do the same if he were in your position. He lived for the music. Let the music help you heal. It has helped me." Jason continued to look hard at Phil.
"Easier said than done. I can't even write anymore. The music is gone, Jason. I've always found it easy for the words to come to me, but now, it's impossible. How am I supposed to heal if I don't even have that gift anymore? How am I going to heal if my inspiration is gone? My big brother is gone, Jason, and I killed him. It was my fucking fault!"
"It wasn't your fault." Jason's voice grew soft. "You both had too much to drink. You're not stupid, Phil. Either of you could have died in the crash. Hell. Both of you could have died."
"Yes, but if I had taken the wheel, Daemon might be here right now. You might still have a lover."
"Don't be stupid, Theophilus. There is no way either of us can know that. Daemon might have still died, and even if he didn't, I would be with a lover who would be mourning the loss of a brother. Either way, I lose." Jason rose from his seat and began to walk away. "You really need to start living, Theophilus. Take it a day at a time. It gets easier. Believe me. I've been there. Start by getting enough rest. You look like crap, and it does nothing for those pretty boy looks of yours. After the concert, you should take a break. It will do you a lot of good."
Phil heard Jason walk away, but he continued to stare into the distance. The words were lolling about in his head, but at the moment, all he could see was that fateful night. The partying, Daemon getting into the driver's seat, the incoming lights, and waking up later to learn that his brother was dead.
That night had changed things for him. He gave up the partying and the fast life. What he wasn't willing to give up yet though was the guilt. It had become a companion, a familiar weight that he carried with him everywhere. If he followed Jason's advice, he would have to give it up, and if he gave up his guilt, what would he be left with? At least the guilt was comforting. Take that away, and he would be left with a hollowness that was even worse.
Phil heard someone clear his throat and snapped back to reality. One of the techs—Adam?—was standing beside him. The kid must walk really quietly. How on earth didn't he hear him approach? "Howard said the band goes out in ten minutes."
"Thanks, Adam." Phil stood from his chair. He did some stretches and then walked to his dressing room. It was show time.
*~*~*
The crowd was going wild. Phil could hear their screams and their chants. He heard the ardent fans singing along with the lyrics of "Ghosts". They got the lines, the pauses, the melody. Usually, he would be thrilled and would mix things up a bit to confuse them. Another time he would have chosen anyone randomly from the audience, and they would have turned the song into a quick duet. But that was something the old Phil would have done. As he ran through the cords for the song, his mind was taken over by the chorus of the song.
I wish you were here with me,
Keeping me, encouraging me, making me better,
But you're gone and all you've left me with are the ghosts,
The ghosts of your memory,
All I have left are ghosts.
How can ghosts keep me?
They're phantoms. Figments of my imagination,
Things time wants you to become for me.
But I won't let them, because you are not a ghost.
No. Not to me.
All he could see were bright lights. There was a ringing in his head. A sharp blast from a horn. He felt something pull him, and then everything went black. Phil heard nothing and felt nothing—not the screams of the crowd, the shouts from his band mates, nor the sound of his guitar hitting the floor—as his body crumbled to the ground.
*~*~*
The soft beeping sound was extremely annoying. It was insistent and never really increased or reduced. It was just there—a persistent intrusion in his world that did not want to stop, unless he came out and stopped it. Phil debated the idea. He was in a peaceful place at the moment. There were no crowds, no fans, no annoying manager harping in his ear to get off his ass and start churning out songs, no band mates with their insistent questions, no Jason forcing him to start to heal. Best of all, there were no memories of Daemon. Phil gave a mental shrug at that and allowed his mind to drift away again, sinking back into unconsciousness.
He woke to the same beeping sound. He really needed to find where that noise was coming from and put an end to it. Could it be his alarm? What time was it anyway? Phil attempted to open his eyes, only to discover that his upper eyelid was fighting the command. It took more effort than it should have, but finally, he was able to get his eyes to open.
The first thing that greeted his senses was the whiteness of the room. The walls, the curtains, the sheets on the bed he was lying on, everything was a pristine white. The second thing that his senses noticed was the smell of antiseptic that had permeated the room. It brought to mind days when his mother would drag him and Daemon to the medicine cabinet to treat the various injuries they always acquired on their many escapades. The smell reminded him of the morning after the accident. In fact, the entire place reminded him of the morning after the accident.
Besides, when did the colour of his room and sheets change? When did his apartment start smelling like a damn hospital? He needed to get up immediately and find out who the hell decided to take him somewhere other than his place.
Rocking Hard, Volume 2 Page 29