Page 16 of The Deviation
The random trailer up ahead is seeming more and more like a destination and I’m almost out of time. I hold out my card one more time. “Perhaps we can talk more once we’re all back in Brisbane.” I consciously force air in and out of my lungs. Because held breath is a sign of desperation and I need to limit my tells.Take the fucking card. Just take it.
Ned glares down at me, pressed lips curved slightly. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
My stomach drops all the way to my shoes. They’re not just the perfect band for me; they’re the only band I’ve seen who comes close.
I open my mouth, though I have no idea what else I can say.Please? I need this? My sister needs this?This is the real world. No one gives a shit what anyone else needs unless it pleases them.
Ned’s boyfriend steps between us then, cutting off further attempts to make a fool of myself. “Ned is super glad you enjoyed the show, Mr Ellis.” His voice is on the comic side of cheerful. It’s also sharp as a scalpel. “As he already mentioned, Fifth Circle is not currently looking for a manager. You can leave the card with me if you must, but now is the time to bow out gracefully.”
It’s over. Any further overtures on my part would be little more than harassment. Even if there was a chance it would work, that’s not the kind of manager I want to be.
Nodding, I hand the business card over before lifting my gaze to Ned’s one more time. “Thank you for your time, Mr Corbyn. Enjoy the rest of the festival.”
Gathering what little is left of my dignity, I turn around and walk away with my shoulders back and my head high.
This isn’t a problem. There are plenty of bands waiting to be discovered. Bands whowantto be supported and nurtured by a dedicated manager. In fact, my first clients could be composing their future hit right now. All I need to do is find them.
Besides, with another band I’ll never have to worry someone will find out about the random almost-hook-up I had with the lead guitarist. I’ll never have to think about his lips, or his smile, or the way his body fit so perfectly against mine. I won’t even wonder what he sounds like when he comes.
Maybe, in the end, this is for the best. Fifth Circle and I were never meant to be.
It’s time to wash my hands of this whole mess and move on.
NINE
______
JOHNNY
Brisbane, Australia
Two months later
A sudden downpour threatens to soak me as I rush from my car to the safety of my parents’ covered porch, a bottle of wine in one hand. I pause to shake the rain from my jacket, shivering when a few icy droplets find their way beneath the collar of my dress shirt. The front door opens before I have a chance to knock.
“John, darling, I thought I heard you pull up.” My mother’s smile is warm today, like sunlight in winter.
My shoulders relax at the evidence of her good mood. A good mood usually means a pleasant visit. “Hi, Mum.”
“Come in, before you catch your death.” She steps back, opening the door wider.
Toeing out of my wet shoes, I place them in the corner of the porch, where they’ll be protected from the rain, and enter my childhood home. Mum wraps me up in a tight hug and I stand there for a long moment, enjoying the simple comfort of her embrace. “It’s so good to see you again,” she says.
With a quiet chuckle, I drop a kiss on her forehead. “It’s only been a fortnight.”
“That’s quite long enough between visits with your mother.” She wags a manicured finger at me but then links her arm with mine to guide me down the hallway towards the back of the house. “Lunch is almost ready. I made your favourite.”
With every step, the scent of my mother’s maple-glazed corned beef permeates the air and I inhale deeply. My mouth waters. My stomach growls. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle with unease. “What’s the occasion?”
“Do I need a reason to spoil my only child?” she asks with a laugh.
I drink in the light, carefree sound, even as my throat constricts. “It smells delicious. Thank you.”
We enter the combined kitchen-dining area. My father looks up from his usual place at the table, where he’s reading the Sunday newspaper. “There you are, John.” Rising, he offers his hand. “We were about to send out a search party.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I say as we shake. It’s only ten minutes past the hour, but every minute counts in this house. “There was an accident on the freeway.”
“Well, you’re here now. That’s the important thing. Right, Margie?”