Page 14 of The Deviation

My chest expands as I allow the possibility room to breathe. Autumn Skies is held one weekend a year. It’s two days out of hundreds. Surely, it’s not too much to ask. Surely, we can have that. Excitement streaks through every cell as I lift my gaze back to the rest of the band. Oz and Gavin smile back at me, their expressions open and bright with enthusiasm.

Ned’s eyes are also wide. His face is flushed, his body tense. He looks on the verge of panic.

It’s the same expression he wore two years ago; the day I asked him to join Fifth Circle as our permanent front man. He agreed—on one condition. Ned told me flat out he couldn’t reach higher than where we were right then. Small pubs, small audiences. A small band living a small life. That was all he could offer.

I didn’t understand it. Such a pact went against every dream Ned ever had as a teenager. But, when Gavin and Oz shrugged and left the decision up to me, I agreed. Not only because I was so desperate to ditch the raging dickhead we had behind the mic at the time, but also because I knew it would be an easy promise to keep.

I had responsibilities. A wife at home. A career my parents could be reasonably proud of. There was no room in my schedule to play at being a rock star. Taking the musical world by storm simply wasn’t part of the plan. Not for me. Of course, divorce hadn’t been part of the plan, either.

My circumstances may have changed, but Ned’s haven’t. Whatever demons he brought with him when he came homefrom Sydney, they are alive and well. As of this moment right here, they’re eating my friend alive.

“For now, let’s enjoy this for the awesome experience it was,” I say to the band as a whole. “Let the future take care of itself.”

There’s a brief silence before Gavin nods in agreement. “Yeah, you’re right. It was awesome.” He steers us towards his van, where we’ll be storing the gear we brought with us. “How many people do you reckon were in the crowd?”

Oz and Gavin launch into a debate over the answer, with Charmaine adding her estimate somewhere in the middle. The woman is wicked smart and probably closer to the truth than either of the guys.

On their far side, a silent Ned gives me a nod of thanks. I respond in kind, despite the twisting in my gut and the tightness in my chest.

I’ve always had this need inside, for one more song, one more gig, one more perfectly strummed chord. It’s like an itch, invigorating and incessant, but impossible to scratch without hurting someone I love. It prevented me from being the son my parent’s hoped for. It ruined my marriage. I’m not about to let it destroy my band, too.

It doesn’t matter if I’m chafing under the limitations Ned placed upon us. I made a promise to my friend, to be content with the status quo, to not reach for more than he can handle. It’s a promise I intend to keep.

EIGHT

______

CALUM

Turns out Johnny isn’t the only one who can nail the stalker routine. Blending in with the crowd, I watch the men of Fifth Circle celebrate the success of their music festival debut.

I almost didn’t make it to their performance. When I approached Arthur this morning about timing my break to check them out, he’d scoffed at the name.

“They’re not worth it,” he’d barked, impatiently. “I went to one of their shows when they first popped up on the scene about three years ago. The music was decent, but their lead singer looked like a junkie—and not the marketable kind. They had no website, no social media presence. They weren’t even trying. Honestly, I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long.”

I already knew about the not trying part, but the rest of the image he presented didn’t fit with the band I’d spent the early hours of this morning researching. From what I saw, Johnny’s confidence in Fifth Circle was justified. Their music was light years beyond decent and Ned Corbyn, the lead singer, had a stage presence like nothing I’d ever seen. Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I opened their website—which not only existed but was slick as hell—and zoomed in on Ned’s face in one of the band’s promotional photos.

“Is this the lead singer you saw?” I asked, holding the phone up for Arthur to see.

He took a quick glance before coming back for a closer look. “No. He must be new.”

New to the point of having fronted the band for the last two years, but I wasn’t about to mention that. Bands vied for Arthur’s attention every day. It’s little wonder he never looked back at those he’d already dismissed. I’d hoped to use the information to my advantage.

“Genevieve wants me to come back from this festival with a band to sign and I’ve heard good things about these guys.” Granted, the person who bragged about them was their own lead guitarist, but still… I had to know if they were as good live as their online videos implied. There was also the part where I wanted to see Johnny’s long fingers work a fret board like I wanted my next orgasm. Another point best kept to myself. “It can’t hurt to take a fresh look.”

“Fine.” Heaving a sigh, Arthur rolled his eyes at me. “Go. Look. Maybe they won’t reek.”

Smothering my smile of triumph, I got back to work, ripping my way through task after task so there would be no chance for Arthur to change his mind.

When the time came, I sneaked away from the amphitheatre, arriving at the side stage as Fifth Circle took the stage. The drummer, Gavin, bounced into place like a freaking puppy, his grin reckless but his hands steady. Next came Oz, the bass guitarist. He was younger, and the calmest of the bunch, but the skip in his step gave away his excitement. Ned, like any good lead singer, was more dramatic. He burst into the space as if someone had wrenched opened the door to his cage. The sensuality of his gait as he made his way to the front of the stage, his arms stretched wide in welcome, sent a ripple of anticipation through the crowd. Then he wrapped his hands around the microphone, licking his lips like he was about to fellate the damned thing, and they willingly threw themselves into his wildness.

Johnny was the last to step onto the stage. The electricity that seemed to zap me from a distance in the VIP tent last night jumped and zinged from every inch of him. It was in his smile, his eyes. It sparked in the way his fingers twitched, like live wires, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the brush of his calloused fingertips against the strings would short out the system and destroy his electric guitar.

Then they began to play and… christ, they were good. The music was loud, the lyrics complex and clever. Each of the songs could easily have stood well on its own, but strung together they flowed in a seamless story of emotional turmoil that wandered among devastation and pain, through the struggles of letting go, only to end in a place of tentative hope. Ned continued to seduce his audience with increasing intensity. There was a guileless abandon to his performance that I could only imagine came at a cost. Creative types often walk closer to the edge of madness than the rest of us and this man looked set to topple. If I ever had the chance to be in charge of Fifth Circle’s future, it would be Ned I’d keep the closest tabs on.

Each of these evaluations and considerations was made through the eyes of a manager watching potential clients. I appreciated the band as a whole, without getting caught up in the hype. I acknowledged Ned’s star power, without being drawn into his web.

It was in the times my gaze strayed to the left that my professional lens cracked. And it did stray—to Johnny—over and over again.