Off Bass

by KC Enders

  “I grabbed a hotel room. I can’t go back to the house, not right now. Not with that asshole still there.”

  “Why? What happened, Nate?”

  I don’t want to get into all that right now. I just want to get her into my shower, into my bed. I want to fall asleep early—or not … maybe I’ll write, fuck around with some lyrics—knowing that she’s sleeping peacefully between my sheets.

  “Just need some space,” I tell her. “Grab something to eat and go upstairs.”

  It’s late in New York. The sooner I have her fed and in bed, the better.

  I tap the key to the door lock and push my way into the room. Ocean view. Balcony and fully stocked bar. Just about everything I need for the night. On the concierge tablet, I type in my requests for food, beer, a notebook, and a handful of pens. A bass or guitar to borrow, if they have one. And I have no doubt they will find one for me in short order.

  “How do you have fresh food in your fridge? You’ve been gone for more than a minute.” Bottles clink and rattle as Alex pokes around for dinner.

  “I forgot to tell my grocery and cleaning services that I was out of town.” I laugh.

  I would love to tell her I magicked this in a big, romantic gesture. But the fact is, I’ve been so preoccupied with everything else that it just slipped my mind.

  “There should be wine in the fridge too. Something white and crisp maybe, nothing heavy.”

  She moans around whatever she popped into her mouth, the sound shooting straight to my dick.

  “Mmm. Holy shit, that’s good,” she mumbles. “You don’t mind if I take food up to your room? Because the thought of sinking into that tub with a plate of snacks and a glass of wine sounds heavenly.”

  Jesus, fuck, does it ever.

  “Go ahead.”

  I could run this thing. Push her and direct her from the opposite side of the country. There’s not a doubt in my mind that I could talk her into a full and dirty phone sex sesh. Switch it back to FaceTime, so I could watch, enjoy. Stroke my dick to the vision of Alex fingering herself.

  But I want more than that. Not to be anything other than truthful, if Alex takes things in that direction, I am here for it. Wholeheartedly fucking here for every moan and gasp. Every clit pinch and slide of her fingers.

  A light rap sounds at the door. I swing it open to find a bellhop and the girl from the front desk, laden down with everything I requested and then some. Quietly, they push through and arrange the food on the coffee bar, the notebooks and pens on the coffee table, and guitar case on the bed.

  I pull a wad of cash from my wallet and tip them both generously.

  I get an enthusiastic, “Thank you,” from the bellhop, but the concierge lingers, smiling. Biting her lip, sticking her chest out, looking for something more.

  “Nate, baby, are you still there?” Alex asks through the phone speaker.

  I open the door and direct the front desk girl out. I have important things to attend to.

  “Sweet thing, I am right here. Are you running a bath yet?”

  “Is that okay?”

  All I’ve had swirling through my head is the image of Alex slipping into a hot bath, water beading up on her flushed skin.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I tell her. “Whatever makes you happy.”

  Water spilling into the tub is the only sound filtering through the phone. I open a beer from the stash just delivered and toss a notebook and pen into the hammock strung across the balcony. I click open the guitar case and pull the instrument from its nest.

  Once I’m settled with everything I need around me, I start picking at the strings. Fucking around, running scales, bending them and twisting them to suit the way I feel.

  “I love listening to you play,” Alex says softly. The sound of running water is gone, replaced with an echo that tells me she’s in the tub, her voice bouncing around my tiled bathroom.

  “Not nearly as much as I love watching you dance.” I pull the notebook to my lap and jot down a few lines—thoughts really—and just the hint of melody.

  • • •

  I don’t even make it completely through the front door before the digs start.

  “Man, where were you? We were, uh … we were worried.” Rand paces, stalking a handful of steps forward before backtracking and then doing it all over again. Almost like he actually gives a shit if I disappear again.

  Maybe he should be worried because the past twenty-four hours have been restorative in a way that has me questioning whether I want to deal with this shit anymore.

  I ignore him and take the stairs two at a time up to my suite. The fact that the door is locked and I have to wait for Rand to catch up to me is just a little bonus.

  “Room’s been cleaned top to bottom, everything sanitized or replaced, just like you asked. I had a lock installed, and you and I are the only ones with keys, so—”

  “Give it,” I demand, my hand hanging between us.

  Rand’s head bounces in agreement. “Yeah, of course, man. Let me just …” He pulls a simple ring with two brass keys on it and fumbles, trying to remove one of them.

  I snag the ring from him before he has a chance to separate them and laugh coldly. I unlock the door and tuck both keys in my pocket before pushing inside.

  “Thanks,” is all I say. I don’t honestly care whether he hears me through the door as I lock it firmly behind me.

  The room looks clean. The faint scent of what I’m sure were organic cleaning products hangs in the air. Good.

  A quick rap of knuckles hit the door, and Rand’s voice filters through. “So, the guys are all out in the studio. They’ve been, uh … they’ve been working hard since you took off … and, uh … you know, there’s some good stuff.”

  I pull my t-shirt off and chuck it at my hamper. It hangs on the edge for a split second before falling to the carpet, just missing its goal. I laugh, thinking of all the times I miss the fucking mark. In my life. In my career. All of it.

  Grabbing a fresh shirt, I step out into the hall and lock the door behind me.

  Rand is still standing there. “You, uh, want me to hang on to one of those keys? Just in case of …”

  “No, man. I’m good,” I say, pushing past him.

  The house is empty, eerily still, as I make my way through. I stop by the fridge and pull out a bottle of water for myself. Half the bottle is gone by the time I traverse the pool deck and stalk into our makeshift studio.

  In the few moments it takes for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room, I take stock of those who are present.

  And more importantly, who is not.

  “You all right?” Ian asks from behind his kit.

  He’s calmer than I’ve seen him in a long time, and that kind of freaks me out. His phone is nowhere to be seen, and there’s nothing but empty water bottles lined up on the floor by his feet. No whiskey bottles. No beer bottles.

  Gavin looks up, worry lines etched into the corners of his eyes. “Good to see you.”

  If anyone else had uttered the words, I’d have bristled. Second-guessed the meaning behind them. But Gavin doesn’t play that passive-aggressive shit. He’s perched on a barstool, his guitar cradled in front of him, and Ed, one of our crew, is off to the side. He stands quickly, quietly, and hands me the bass he’s got plugged into an amp. With a nod, he snags his keys from the table and takes off, closing the door behind him.

  “Where’s Kane?” I ask. There’s no need to fuck around. I’m taking attendance.

  Rand said they were all here, and by my count, Rand’s full of shit.

  “Told him to fuck off for a while.” Gavin lifts his chin at the spot vacated by Ed.

  I take a seat, settle the bass against my gut, and as if on autopilot, start plucking at the strings.

  “You all right?” Ian repeats, more insistent this time.

  He adds to my seemingly aimless bass line. The result is good, but I knew it would be. We have a stupid kind of symbiosis that other bands can’t seem to rep
licate.

  “I will be.” I know it’s not enough, not the assurance either of them is looking for, but as Gavin kicks in, layering guitar that eerily captures what was playing through my head last night, everything else is forgotten.

  The pieces combine to become an effortless compilation, each of us anticipating the highs and lows, complementing the lift and expansion of what promises to become an immediate hit.

  Gavin starts to hum some vocals in as we go through the piece again, but before he gets too into it, I suck in a deep breath and launch into the lyrics I worked on last night after Alex fell asleep.

  We spent hours in each other’s company. Chatting softly. Silently listening. Sharing space, thousands of miles apart. And while there’s still a lot we need to figure out, like the logistics of being together despite the challenges, decisions were made. At least discussed openly for the first time.

  As the music fades away, the feel in the room is distinctly different from what it was.

  Gavin stills the last vibrations of his strings. “Where’d that come from?”

  “And is there more?” Ian sets his sticks down on the floor.

  I lean forward, pulling a stack of notebook pages from my back pocket. As they hit the floor in the center of the room, the pages splay out. Lyrics, complete songs, chords and progressions.

  “Jesus.” Gavin slides to his knee, rifling through the papers. Looking, nodding. “How long have you been hiding this shit?”

  I don’t say anything, instead giving him time to really look at what’s in front of him. Ian asks a million questions without uttering a single word. I shake my head and watch Gavin.

  There’s no missing the moment it registers.

  “These aren’t in the right key. Not all of them anyway,” he says, looking up at me through the fall of his hair.

  “The right key for who?” I ask. Because there is no doubt that the key is undeniably right for certain songs.

  He sifts through several of the completed pieces, separating them into different piles as he goes. Through it all, Ian silently watches me. Understanding what I’m laying out for us. For all of us, even those who aren’t here at this goddamn moment due to a severe case of being a twat.

  “Are you saying you want Kane gone?” Gavin asks finally. “Are you throwing down?”

  I roll my bottom lip between my teeth and stare out the picture window, the pristine water of the pool glinting in the sun. “That’s not me,” I tell him. “But I don’t doubt that he was. I heard Rand and Vince talking back in New York when I went back in to grab my ball hat after that meeting.”

  “The one Kane stormed out of?” Gavin slides back into his seat, shuffling through the pages, reordering them again.

  “Yep.”

  Ian shifts on his stool, but it’s Gavin who keeps the questions going. “You think he was trying to ditch you. Boot you out.” Not questions actually.

  Statements of fact.

  26

  SHAWN MENDES

  ALEXIS

  As the plane circles and prepares for landing, the view that greets me as we break through the cloud cover is nothing but a patchwork of farmland. It’s not confidence-inspiring at all.

  When Mademoiselle said Kansas City was a smaller market, I still expected to see an actual city.

  If the airport is any indication of the town, I’m going into this interview as unimpressed as I can be. It’s old. Outdated and inefficient. The security area is run-down. The concourse is … there is literally nothing redeemable about the terminal.

  Baggage claim is small, bags already spilling out onto the conveyor by the time I pee and give myself a little pep talk. I grab my suitcase and hike my tote high on my shoulder.

  To the left of the sliding glass doors stands a gentleman dressed in black and holding a sign that reads, KC Ballet. I approach and smile tightly, nerves bubbling up through my chest.

  “Miss Thompson?” At my nod, he continues, reaching for my suitcase, “Mr. Raspeau arranged for me to collect you. I’m Stanley. Welcome to the City of Fountains.” He guides me out to a black town car parked at the curb. He opens the back door, tucking me into the backseat before settling my case in the trunk.

  We slide away from the curb, traffic practically nonexistent.

  “Pardon our construction. The city has grown, and it’s taken far too long for the airport to catch up.” He indicates the piles of rubble and line of cement trucks waiting to unload their haul. “Is this your first time visiting us?”

  “It is,” I answer simply.

  Stanley seems proud of his city, speaks fondly of it. I don’t want to offend him by saying I never dreamed of being here … and not in the good way.

  Each mile of scrubby Midwest terrain that passes only confirms my thoughts that this is a demotion … I’m being shipped off to the Midwest version of Siberia.

  Stanley chats nonstop as he winds us through suburbia and industrial hell. I check my phone, but with how our flight times lined up—or didn’t actually—I have nothing from Nate beyond a see you soon text.

  I pull up my thread with my sister to pass the drive.

  Me: I’m here. Landed safe and on the way to the ballet.

  Camille: Awesome! It’s an opportunity, Lex. Don’t forget that.

  Me: I don’t think I want to be here.

  Camille: Give it a chance. Don’t write it off before you test-drive that bitch.

  Me: But …

  Camille: Nope. No buts. Enjoy the ride.

  Camille: And tell Nate I said hey!

  I shove my phone back in my bag after that less than helpful exchange. Sometimes, a girl just wants her sister to bitch and complain with her. My sister? Ever the bright-side girl. Maybe it’s the new-mommy thing she’s got going on.

  We cross a river, and finally, the city comes into view. A handful of high-rise buildings, a funky urban area on the other side of the highway, and then it almost feels as if we’re leaving the downtown area behind and entering more of a city sprawl.

  I tune back into the conversation to hear, “… Music Hall with the spires, and the shell is the Kauffman Center, where KCB performances are hosted. And here on the left is Union Station and the Kansas City Ballet.

  “You’re in from New York City, right? Gangsters—the Mob—have heavy ties to Kansas City.” Stanley steers the car off the exit, winding through streets with a mix of old brick buildings and modern mid-century structures. Restaurants and scourge mix with edgy personality. “You have some free time while you’re here. Make sure to take in some of the culture, do the tour. Check out the site of the Union Station Massacre, Liberty Memorial—best view of downtown is from there. And here we are.”

  The car stops in front of a squared-off brick building, reminiscent of a time gone by. I fill my lungs with a bracing breath and repeat Camille’s words as I step out of the car.

  The air is filled with an odd mix of roasting coffee and the sweet scent of grain. It’s not unpleasant, just different.

  “Thank you,” I say to Stanley, taking the handle of my bag, rolling it behind me.

  “Enjoy your stay, Miss Thompson. I hope it’s everything you hoped for.” Stanley holds the black-framed door open for me, disappearing back to his car as the city sounds fade to nothing.

  The silence of a busy ballet company is a low buzz spreading through the vast building. It’s comforting and nerve-racking at the same time. Familiar and foreign.

  “Miss Thompson. Welcome.”

  At the intrusion, I turn to find a middle-aged man, assessing smile and sharp eyes.

  “Mr. Raspeau, thank you for having me,” I say, offering my hand to shake.

  He takes it and bows slightly. “It is my pleasure, I assure you.” He straightens with a warm smile and reaches for my suitcase handle. “Shall we stow this in my office while I take you on a quick tour? Introduce you to our staff?”

  “That would be lovely.” I follow his lead, taking in the facilities as we go.

  And after
that, the day tumbles along in a blur of faces, pleasantries, and information. Classrooms and classes in session. Trainers and teachers, students and staff.

  After a late lunch, I change my clothes and prepare to dance. This is where the true interview happens. Where the dance master can pick apart my technique. Where he might frown and make notes of my shortcomings. Where I’ll be subjected to criticisms and might get told that mistakes were made, that the director overstepped his role, and that there’s not in fact room for me. Not even in this small-town market in flyover country.

  I warm up with the corps class and get my bearings. Music, directions, instructions, corrections fill the rest of the afternoon. To my surprise, I enjoy myself. I like the feel, the approach, and how the class is run.

  Time slips away, and I get lost in the hum of the day’s activities.

  Between class sessions, the other dancers introduce themselves and ask if I have any questions.

  A newcomer joins us eventually. A principal or soloist, if her attitude is anything to measure by.

  “I thought we were having the broken bitch in today.” She stares at me with a critical eye. Finding me worthy, I guess, she allows a smile to tug at the corner of her thin lips. “I’m Cari. Who are you?”

  She pushes up en pointe, extending way over, obviously posturing. And doing so poorly. Darting her tongue out, she licks her fingers and smooths a nonexistent flyaway hair back. She eyes the tightly coiled curl at the base of my hairline and arches a perfectly penciled-in eyebrow.

  I could let it get to me, but this Midwest diva has nothing on the New York City bitches I’ve been dealing with for years. I wait patiently until she lifts her gaze and meets my reflection in the mirror, darting her eyes from mine to my curl and back again. I smile sweetly until she shifts impatiently, opening her mouth—maybe to repeat her inquiry.

  I had a similar introduction when I first met Lauryl. And while we are by no means tight or even like each other, there is a certain amount of artistic respect between us. One that was well established from the initial pissing contest that marks jealousy-based bullshit and dick-measuring.

  Lauryl was the bigger dick.