Page 25 of More Than Scars
I chuckled at that, while Pressley shot a guy the bird for talking on his phone while going well under the speed limit, backing up a lane of traffic while drawing the ire of more than just our manager, who I was learning did not like to be late. In fact, not being early seemed to be the same thing as being late in Pressley’s eyes, and something I was not about to forget anytime soon, not with the way he was scowling out the windshield.
“Turn signals were invented for a reason, asshole,” Pressley cursed beneath his breath. “I swear Monday mornings bring out the idiocy in people, especially when they get behind the wheel.”
It was hard not to snicker, and a few did slip out, from me and from Tony, several times before we pulled up to the building. Apparently two minutes early did not qualify as early enough in Pressley’s book, so there was a bit of a dash getting inside, with me lugging my favorite practice guitar as we headed in.
Tibby was there, sitting in a chair, checking the tuning on his bass, while Claude finished taping the setlist we’d put together in our group chat to the back of his drum kit. I was glad to see he’d come in early enough to have it ready on time. I’d tuned my guitar last night, which meant it only needed a few tweaks after I’d plugged in before we were ready to try out our first song together.
Mark another point in the win column for Joey and Stoli when it came to being on-the-ball mentors, because the advice they’d given us had allowed us to handle all our preplanning before we walked through those doors. Only there Claude was, one fucking song in, showing off all the things he hadn’t been able to show off at the audition, and yeah, dude could play, better than we’d even recognized, but seriously?
Thinking back to what Tony had said in the hallway on Friday night, I did the only thing I could think to do, and that was put my guitar in the stand and approach the fucking drum kit.
“Okay,” I said, keeping my tone calm and even. “You’ve made your point, you’re good. Every one of us got here because we impressed somebody. That’s in the past. This is today. Today it’s not about making an impact; it’s about being cohesive, which is what we need to be before we can even think about creating our own music together. Now, I’m certain Diamond has Slade on speed dial, and I’m willing to bet he’d jump at the opportunity to have a second chance, especially if all he had to do was follow simple instructions, so here’s your challenge for the day, let’s see if you’re up to it. Play the songs the way they’re written, nothing more, nothing less. Forget about trying to be flashy,forget about trying to make a point, just keep the fucking beat for us so we can all find a rhythm together. Can you do that, Claude?”
I’d done something today that I hadn’t done for any of the previous auditions: I’d worn my hair back in a ponytail, and I’d let the goddamn scars show. The elastic wasn’t tight, I’d deliberately put it in loose enough that I could tug it free if I started to feel too self-conscious. In this instance though, it actually seemed to work to my advantage. Maybe because the hair wasn’t there to detract from or partially obscure the fierceness of my stare, or maybe he was busy trying to figure out if those scars were the result of one hell of a brawl. Either way, he nodded solemnly and didn’t even open his mouth to try and offer up a bunch of feeble excuses I didn’t want to hear anyway.
“Alright then,” I declared as I strode back to my guitar, “let’s take it from the top.”
This time, when we launched into Pantera’s Walk, Claude kept to the classic tempo and didn’t lay a stick out of line. He took direction, yippee, but I still wasn’t sure how this was all going to work out for us. On one hand, I could tell that he truly did want to be here, on the other, I felt, deep down, like he truly believed he had something to prove. What he hadn’t figured out yet was that he’d be able to do that if he toed the line and worked with us to bring this band together into a cohesive unit. Until we could function as one, no one, not even me, would be able to freelance. I got it, I did, the temptation was right there beneath my fingertips. What musician didn’t want to shine on their chosen instrument, but patience and practice were key. Still, that little burst of improvement Claude had displayed had shown me something that truly called to my creative side, and I found myself wanting him to keep it together and conform, because I could see the possibilities he could unleash in a song once we started creating together, and damnit all, I wanted to get there with him.
Chapter Twelve
Pressley
That was one hell of a week. I was so damn proud of Bowie for not only handling Claude the way he did but also for not hiding behind his hair. I think seeing Bowie’s scars gave Claude enough pause to second-guess his showboating nature. Everyone has their own demons to fight, but seeing Bowie’s firsthand, I believe, may have beena turning point for him.
By the end of the week, the guys were feeding off each other and really vibing as a solid unit. I’d fired off a few videos of them playing to the Social guys. Joey and Stoli popped in a couple of times but said they’d be here next week to work with them on the new material. Claude had a session with Diamond and Shadow scheduled for this weekend. And me, I had plans to take Bowie out on our first official date. At least, I hoped so.
Probably better start off with asking him out first.
“You were quiet on the drive home,” Bowie said as we stepped inside the house. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, I was just trying to figure out a way to ask you out.”
Tony threw his head back and laughed as he walked by us. As soon as he reached the hallway, he hollered, “It’s about damn time!” Poor Bowie’s face turned a frightful shade of red.
“I kinda think you just did.”
Random unfiltered blurts for the win? Quite possibly.
“Oh, yeah, sorry about that, but I want to do this right.”Deep breath, Pressley. You’ve basically already asked.“Bowie,” I took his hand in mine and gazed into his eyes, “would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he grinned. “That’d be cool.”
“Yes? Great.” Now to figure out where to take him. I had a few ideas but had to narrow it down, or I’d overwhelm both of us with too much crammed into a single day.
“So, are you ever gonna kiss me again?”
Bowie’s question completely erased my brain.
“Huh?”
“All week I waited for you to kiss me again, and you never did. What gives?”
Guess breaking the seal last weekend brought out Bowie’s snarky side, a sweet addition to his ever-changing personality, even if it did throw me under the bus.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to push. All week I’ve been hoping to get some alone time to ask you out. Being an overthinker,” I slid my fingers through the belt loop on his jeans and pulled him toward me. “Is hard work.”
“I bet. So is waiting for something or, in this case, someone you want to come around.” Was Bowie afraid I had rejected him? What a fool I’ve been.