“That’s okay, we’ll just go,” Naomi says.
“You’re here to see Magic 8 Ball?” the sexy stranger asks, smoke spilling from his mouth. He has this British accent that makes me want to melt into a puddle right here, right now.
Naomi sighs. “Our friend Jane is the drummer.”
“You do realize it’s just a shitty cover band, right?” the guy says. I could watch his lips move and hear him talk in that sexy accent all night. He says “shitty” without pronouncing the Ts in the middle.
Naomi laughs, and she rarely laughs with strangers. “We know it’s a cover band. Whether it’s shitty or not, that remains to be seen. We haven’t seen them play before.”
“I’d save your money,” he says. “Though I guess if you’re on the list, you could get in for free…if you’re a sucker for punishment.”
“Not on the list,” the bouncer interjects.
“That bad, huh?” I joke to the sexy stranger.
He shrugs and looks off. He has this cageyness to him that only adds to his mystique, like he’s too cool for school but not even trying. “Their singer is a real arsehole. Total wanker. I’d stay away from the likes of him. Thinks he’s better than David Gahan.”
“Well, it is a Depeche Mode cover band, so I’ll give him a pass on that.” I pause, remembering that it’s actually Jane’s brother who is the singer of the band. I had no idea he was an…arse. “And anyway, like we said, we’re here for Jane. To support her. Be a good friend.”
He nods slowly, looking between the two of us with a look I can’t quite figure out. “Then she’s going to owe you a mad favor.”
“She’s worth it.”
His expression turns. It’s like he’s approving of me now.
I like it. I want his approval. God knows why.
Oh yeah. The dangerously handsome and edgy thing.
His lips twist into a smirk that somehow only turns on the charm. “What was your name again?”
“I never gave it. It’s Marina,” I tell him and shrug my shoulder back toward Naomi. “And that’s Naomi.”
“And you are?” Naomi asks him pointedly.
He grins. “Just an arsehole,” he says, taking a long drag of his cigarette and looking off down the street at the passing cars, their headlights briefly running over us.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, arsehole, but—” Naomi starts to say.
Suddenly the door to the venue opens again, the sound of instruments tuning, sound check in progress, ringing out into the night air. A guy with a Magic 8 Ball shirt and red handlebar mustache sticks his head out and waves at Mr. Arsehole.
“What the fuck are you doing, Laz? We’re going on, now.”
Laz?
“Your name is Laz?” Naomi asks. “You mean, like Jane’s brother, Lazarus? Like the singer of the damn band?”
He manages a tiny smile and takes out the pack, stubbing his cigarette out on it. “I’m coming,” he says to the ginger-mustached man, who makes a huffing sound and disappears back inside.
Then Laz taps the bouncer on the shoulder and points at us. “They’re with me.”
The bouncer looks like he’s about to ask him who he is but decides against it. He sighs and turns away, his bald head gleaming in the overhead light. “Fine.”
Laz looks back at us, gestures to the door. “You girls coming or what?”
“Your name would be Lazarus,” I remark.
His brows raise, eyebrow ring glinting. “What?”
“You have to pardon her. She says the wrong things,” Naomi says, putting her hands on both my shoulders and trying to steer me inside.
“Hey, he called himself an arsehole,” I point out as she pushes me inside the venue. “He could have told us he was with the band. Or is the band. Instead of playing that little game.”
“I’m with the band,” he corrects me, walking slightly ahead of us, his eyes right on me. “I play guitar, I sing, and they aren’t even my songs. And you’re right. I guess Lazarus is kind of a douchey pompous rock star name. I like to think it’s because my father listened to a lot of Nick Cave and not that my mother has an obsession with myths.”
The room is crowded and very dark, even the closer we get to the stage. “I’d buy you girls a drink,” he says, “but it will have to wait until after. I’ll let Jane know you’re here.”
And at that he walks smoothly through the crowd and gets up on the stage, grabbing his guitar from the stand.
“Break a leg!” I call out after him, but my voice is lost in the crowd and that’s a good thing because I sound like an idiot.
The Mint is a small place. The stage is barely a few feet above the ground. The lights are low and everything smells like beer, and it’s already too loud in here and they haven’t even started playing. But still, I feel like this night is becoming the beginning of something. What, I don’t know.
“I can’t believe that’s Jane’s brother!” Naomi yells at me above the noise.
“Stepbrother!” I correct her, watching as he walks across the stage and says something to Jane. I can barely see her behind the drums, just the top of her pink head, until she stands up and waves at us with both hands, enthusiasm turned up.
We wave back.
“Still!” she says. “I’m surprised we haven’t met him already!”
I’m not. Jane, her brother, and the two other dudes, only formed this band five months ago. Before then, Laz was apparently studying abroad, though I’m not sure where. England, I’m guessing. Jane hasn’t really talked about him much, either, so I assumed they aren’t really close. I do remember her saying that she was honored that he invited her to play drums, especially since a lot of bands won’t give a female drummer the time of day, even those as talented as Jane. Anyway, she has a younger brother, Noah, that she’s a lot closer to, so Laz has always had this mysterious air to him. Which, after meeting him in person, I can totally understand.
“Hiya,” Laz says into the microphone after he gives his guitar a hard strum that fills the room and makes my teeth vibrate. “We’re Magic 8 Ball and we’re here for your pleasure.”
All the girls in the room erupt into rising waves of giggles and cheers, and it’s only then that I’m noticing how many of them are crowding the stage, staring up at him with heart eyes, vying for his attention.
But for one moment, when he looks across the room and meets my eyes, I have it.
Then the band launches into a rolling, bass-heavy version—“Policy of Truth”—and our moment is over. If it ever was a moment. You see, I tend to have these moments with guys where I think, yay maybe he’s actually into me, he’s been giving me some good eye fucking. But then it turns out that he actually has something in his eye.
For a cover band, they’re really good. Color me surprised. Jane is great, of course, and everyone holds down their instruments really well, but Laz steals the show. Not only does he have the swagger, this panther-like domination of the stage, but his voice is amazing and completely on point. Even with the shitty sound system and acoustics in the venue, he brings the songs to another level, like they were always his to begin with.
“They don’t suck!” Naomi yells at me as they go into their last song.
“No, they don’t! I’m so glad we don’t have to lie to Jane now!”
We had come up with our straight faces back at the house, prepared to tell Jane how awesome she was and all that, wrongly assuming they weren’t going to be any good. I mean, you know how it is when it comes to your friends and art. You want to encourage them at all costs, even if they’re terrible, and while we knew that Jane was talented, you never know how a band will perform as a whole.
When the show is over after a blistering forty-five-minute set, my ears are ringing and Naomi is telling me we should go say hi to Jane and then leave. I should listen to her. I have to be up early for work tomorrow and I’ve only been working at the garden center for a week, so I’m still trying to make a good first impression.
; But while Jane works her way through the crowd to come and say hello, I’m watching Laz, the girls in front of him parting like Moses parting the Red Sea.
“I’m so glad you came,” Jane squeals, even though she’s not the squealing type. “God, I hope the sound was okay? It wasn’t shit, was it? It’s so hard to tell from up there.”
“You were amazing,” I tell her, my eyes going to Laz who has stopped just behind her. “Both of you.”
“So, I see you all know each other,” Jane says, looking between the three of us. “That should cancel out any awkward introductions.”
“You should have seen the awkward introduction we had before you played,” I tell her. Laz raises his brows at that but I plow on, “Anyway, you were both awesome. Band is awesome. Sound was…loud. I’m glad we came.”
“Yes, totally,” Naomi adds. “But we really shouldn’t stay out so late. You have work in the morning, Marina, remember?” She’s giving me the let’s go look.
“You’re not going anywhere. I promised I would buy you both a drink,” Laz says. “What you havin’?”
I try not to smile as I look at Naomi, silently pleading for her to stay.
She sighs, giving me a dirty look before she says to Laz. “A beer. Cold.”
“Not very picky,” he says. “I like that. And you, blondie?”
My smile widens. I’ve heard that nickname a million times before but with his accent, it’s to die for. “Anything.”
He cocks his head, considering that before looking inquisitively at Jane. “Drink?”
“Vodka soda,” she says to him, and as soon as he walks off to the bar, her attention is on me, one brow raised.
“What?”
“You know he’s my brother, right?” Jane says.
“Yeah, we got that part,” I tell her, hoping she’s not going where I think she’s going with this.
“So…” Naomi adds.
“So, I’m just saying, don’t get any ideas.”
“What, about Laz?” Naomi says, looking disgusted. “He smokes, Jane. You know I can’t stand that.”
“He’s in the process of quitting,” she says. “But I was talking to Marina here with her googly eyes.”
“Googly eyes?” I repeat, but I’m blushing. “Oh, come on.”
“I know he seems like your type,” she goes on, totally ignoring me. “And I think you guys would get along well. You’ve both got a lot in common and you’re kind of…well…odd. But—”
“Jane,” I interrupt her, trying not to be bothered by the odd thing. Actually, I’m more intrigued now that she called him odd. Like he’s more attainable now. “You’re jumping to conclusions. I just met him. He seems nice. And yeah, he’s cute, but he’s your stepbrother. That shouldn’t gross you out.”
“Oh, but it does,” she says, making a face. She looks over the crowd at him as he gives cash to the bartender. “And anyway, I’m not saying this because I’m protective of him. I’m protective of you.”
“Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong with him?”
She rolls her eyes as if to ask, what isn’t?
Then he’s back beside us, holding out three drinks with perfect balance.
“Here we are,” he says as everyone takes their drink from him. “Blonde ale for the blondie,” he says to me, handing me the beer.
“Thank you,” I tell him, hyperaware now of the way I’m acting around him.
“Where’s your drink?” Jane asks him.
“I’m driving home after,” he says.
“Where’s Shannon?”
Who is Shannon?
Laz gives her a sheepish smile. “No Shannon. It’s Vanessa.”
Who is Vanessa?
“What happened to Shannon?”
He gives a slight shake of his head and covers his smile with his beer. “Shannon was months ago.”
“Shannon was at the last show. Two weeks ago. And you were together then.”
He shrugs and gives me a mock apologetic look. “You’ll have to excuse my sister here, she lives to give me a hard time.”
“Only because you deserve it,” she says, but she’s smiling, so apparently this is just good old-fashioned sibling ribbing. Which is cute and all, but I can’t help focusing on the fact that Laz has a girlfriend. Named Shannon. Or Vanessa.
And of course he does. I mean, look at him. He’s dressed like a rock star, has great hair, devious dark eyes, and I’ve seen a flash of a tongue ring. He’s tall, over six feet, and he’s got some mad thick arms and pecs that are straining against his T-shirt. He’s the real fucking deal.
Story of my life. I’m picky when it comes to guys, meaning it’s so damn rare that I feel a spark of any sort. Naturally, it has to happen with someone I can’t have, let alone a friend’s brother.
“There she is now,” Laz says, waving at someone near the door.
I crane my neck to look and see a pretty brunette waving shyly back at him. She’s definitely got a sweet face, but she’s by no means thin. Not that there’s anything wrong with that—I’m on a cleanse every other week to drop my freshman forty—but for some reason I expected a tall supermodel.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Laz says to Jane and then nods at Naomi and me. “It was nice meeting you guys. Come to the next show, you promise?”
Naomi makes a grumbling sound while I nod and say, “Sure” with another big stupid smile.
“Why are you nodding so violently?” Naomi asks me as he disappears into the crowd to meet his Vanessa.
“I’m not,” I say, willing my head to stop moving. I clear my throat and look at Jane. “So, is that why I should stay away from him? He’s a manwhore?”
“Actually no,” she says thoughtfully. “He’s not a manwhore. He’s a serial monogamist. He doesn’t date around, doesn’t sleep around. He’s just never single. He moves from one relationship to the next.”
“How long was he with this Shannon for?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. A month, maybe two. There was Sandra before that. Then it was Kristen. You get the idea. And that’s why the two of you would never work.”
“But you just said we’d get along well,” I point out.
“Yeah. Maybe as friends. But if you guys dated, knowing Laz, you’d be together for a few months at most, then you’d break up and it would be that awkward Ross and Rachel situation that Naomi and I would have to put up with. No, thank you.”
“Agreed,” Naomi says. “Now can we go home?”
I sigh and raise my beer. “Bottoms up.”
We finish our drinks, say goodbye to Jane, and then make our way over to the door. Along the way I catch Laz talking to Vanessa, listening to her yell in his ear about something.
His eyes meet mine.
He gives me a mega-watt smile I feel all the way to my toes.
I know this won’t be the last I’ll see of him.
Laz
Four Years Later – Present Day
“Happens All the Time”
* * *
It’s over.
We need to break up.
I think we should see other people.
It’s not you, it’s me.
The funny thing about that last line is that it’s the truth. It’s almost always me. It’s never the girl. To be honest, I’m pretty good at picking them.
They have to be pretty, or at least I need to be attracted to them, plus smart, interesting, and have a love or at least tolerance for the music I play.
They need to be independent.
They have to understand my process, a need to be alone and be creative.
They need to be sexually confident, or at least willing to experiment and have fun in bed. Sex is important.
And above all, they can’t get too serious about me. To borrow a phrase from Trooper, I’m here for a good time, not a long time.
I know that all seems like a tall order, but in Los Angeles there are a ton of girls who fit my criteria and with my Instagram account growing after going viral
last year, they’re popping up everywhere, sliding into my DMs every day.
So, it’s not them. It’s me. Sometimes this happens at the one-month mark, often it’s three, but this time we just passed five months. It’s hard to predict and I don’t try. It’s not that I go into these relationships thinking it can’t progress into something serious, it’s just that it never does, and so now I expect that. Simone, of all my girlfriends, was the least clingy and most supportive of my artistic needs, and that’s probably why it lasted as long as it did.
But the sad fact is, today is the end of us.
As much as I really like Simone—she’s so easygoing and we have a great time together—I just don’t see it going anywhere. In fact, I know it won’t. She’s gorgeous and sweet and I know any normal guy would be lucky to have her by his side. But I’m not a normal guy and I just don’t love her. I like her and respect her, but the love thing isn’t happening. To keep it going would be unfair to both of us.
So, I’m standing outside the door to her apartment in Pasadena (secretly glad this will be the last time I’m stuck on the 134), running through all the things I have to say to her. I know I sound callous about the whole thing, but it’s honestly hard and something I don’t look forward to. I don’t want to hurt her, I don’t want to make her upset. I can only hope that somehow she knew this was coming, that I was putting out the signals, that it was inevitable.
Still, I’m nervous. I hate this. I take in a deep breath and steady myself before knocking on her door. The key to her apartment is in my pocket—she gave it to me a few weeks ago, the biggest commitment we’d made to each other yet—but I’m not about to use it for this.
Simone opens the door with a wide smile on her face. It’s the kind of smile that usually makes me smile in response but tonight I just can’t manage it.
“What’s wrong?” she says immediately. “Bad traffic?”
“It’s always bad traffic,” I tell her, stepping inside before I get cold feet.
She gently closes the door behind her and then folds her arms across her chest, her breasts popping out of her low-cut top. Simone has implants and they’re always on display. My friend Marina once asked if it bothered me that she walks around guys like that, but I said hey, if you’re going to pay to get that shit done, might as well get your money’s worth. I’m not a jealous guy.
Take Me To The Beach Page 26