Page 11 of The Deviation
I brace myself for the anger that’s sure to come. “I lied to you, Calum. I’m a musician.”
SIX
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CALUM
I lurch backwards. This has to be some kind of twisted joke. He’s saying he’s a musician to get a rise out of me. “You have a truly awful sense of humour.” I let out a rough laugh, ignoring the heavy weight already settling in my stomach. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
He shakes his head. “I wish I were joking, but it’s true.”
Adrenaline streaks through my veins and I spin in a circle, searching the darkness for anyone who could have seen us making out. Like Arthur, for instance. Or another Rush manager. One of the interns, or an artist we represent. The chances are so slim as to be ridiculous, but they’re still greater than zero. I’ve never been one to take risks when it comes to my job.
The closest people are at least twenty metres away. They’re paying no attention to us. My eyes close as I release a slow breath. Where else could we have been seen? At the picnic table where we first met? We only talked there. At the stage where we watched that shitty band play? The memory of Johnny’s hands on my hips plays through my mind. We were so close to each other. I wanted to taste him so badly.
But I didn’t. We did nothing overtly sexual there. Even if someone did see us getting all up close and personal, I would be able to explain it away. Concerts and personal space were never meant to co-exist.
This isn’t a problem, I remind myself.No one will know. Everything’s going to be fine.
“Calum, wait.” Johnny calls out from behind me, and I look up to find I’m already halfway back to the exit, my legs pumping in determined strides. “Let me explain.”
I glare at him over my shoulder as I continue walking. “Explain what? Lying to me? Telling me you’re a fucking pharmacist?”
“Iama fucking pharmacist,” he insists, catching up to fall into step beside me. “During the day. But at night, on weekends, I also happen to be in a band.” He tosses his arms in the air, as if dismissing the word. “It’s only ever been a side gig, a hobby.”
I come to an abrupt stop, though my limbs continue to vibrate with a mix of anger and thwarted lust. “You said you’re performing here tomorrow. That doesn’t sound like a side gig to me.” Bands don’t play in festivals of this size for kicks. They do it to increase their exposure, to make a name for themselves. They do it to get the attention of labels, or managers like me.
My already heated blood catches fire. “What else have you lied about?” I stalk back towards him, hands clenched at my sides. “Did you know who I was when you started eye fucking me back in the VIP tent? Is this some kind of set-up?”
His eyes spring wide and he lifts his hands between us. “No. Absolutely not. I had no idea who you were until you told me, I swear.” He pauses before adding, “Even if I’d known, I already told you… we’re not looking for a manager.”
My eyes narrow. “The band you were talking about earlier. The one that’s all talent and no ambition. That’s your band?”
“Yeah, but it’s not… I mean we’re not…” He nods his head at the festival stages in the distance and the longing on his face is clear. “We’re a pub band, Calum,” he says with a sigh. “We spend most of our time in back rooms and beer gardens. That’s all we’ll ever be. You don’t have to worry.”
“Oh, don’t I?” My eyebrows raise at the profoundness of his bullshit. “Do you think I give a crap about your insecurity or yourimposter syndrome or whatever the hell you’ve got going on? Tomorrow you’re going to be on stage performing at Autumn Skies. Side gig or not, that makes you a musician. Of a debut band. From Brisbane. With no management.” The blood that so recently filled my cock pumps through my veins in a rush of professional frustration. “You had better not be as good as you say you are.”
The contrition he’s been so busy displaying melts away as pride shines through the serious. “We’re better than good.” His various brands of uncertainty were charming and sweet, but his confidence is a seduction I would have been better off not knowing about. “We’re fucking awesome.”
Of course they are, because that would be the rotten cherry on the top of this clusterfuck of a cake. “Give me a name, Johnny.”
“Fifth Circle,” he says, with zero hesitation now.
The corner of my mouth tugs upwards in a sneer. “Never heard of you.” I’m not sure that’s true. The name rings some kind of bell, but I’m not about to admit it.
He shrugs. “We’re not big on promotion.”
A bark of laughter erupts from my chest. “A manager could help you there, you know.”
“Yeah.” His own laugh is quieter, more resigned. “I know.”
Shaking my head, I stare at him in confusion. “If you and your band are so happy hiding your supreme talent in the back of suburban pubs, why are you even here?”
His gaze drops and he shifts on his feet in that way he does when he’s uncomfortable, or horny. It’s too soon for me to be recognising his tells. I shouldn’t have spent the last three hours focusing on him quite so completely.
“They did it for me,” he says, looking everywhere but at me. “When the opportunity came up, I was in the middle of my divorce and my life had gone to shit. I needed… something tolook forward to.” His gaze lifts to meet mine. “They’re here to support me.”
Bitterness wells inside my gut, under my skin, behind my teeth. “How nice that you have so many people who wish to love and support you.” There is nothing nice about my tone. It’s all glass shards and barbed wire. “But this job isn’t a hobby for me. There is no side gig, no back up. This is how I put a roof over my sister’s head and food on our table.” Anger ricochets around my body, tearing me up from the inside out. “I asked you flat out, the moment we met, if you were a musician and you said no. Why did you lie?”