Page 6 of Oh Boy!
Nathan
Grinning, I flash our passes to the bulky security guard. He ushers my brother and me into the secluded tent with a tight smile. It looks like the Weasley family tent at the Quidditch World Cup. As big. As exclusive. As busy.
After sitting through Inflated Young’s decent performance, we’re both sweaty and dehydrated. Thankfully, the text I receive inviting me for a beer is the perfect excuse to ditch more country gigs.
I tilt my head when my brother makes a strangled noise. “You okay?” I tug on my skin-tight Chris Cornell tee-shirt—No One Sings Like You Anymore—my silent act of rebellion at this mostly country event. When he doesn’t respond, I flash him a reassuring smile and pat his flabby arm. “Relax, will you?” Wishful thinking. “You sounded perfectly okay when I secured VIP passes for your favorite band yesterday. What changed?”
“During dinner, you refused to tell me how you scored access to the exclusive backstage lounges, and I’m still curious.” I wiggle my eyebrows, pretending to zip my mouth shut and throw away the key. He won’t get a word out of me. “Come on, Nate.” David frowns, following me into the sea of roadies and crew.
And to think that I was trying to be nice to him! “You call me Nate one more time and we’re out of here.” My glare pins him, and he stops in his tracks, breaking eye contact and directing his brown eyes to his sneakers. Now, that’s more like it; I didn’t allow it when we were kids, I sure won’t allow it now.
“I’m sorry… I…”
“I know.” My face relaxes when I notice how red his ears are. He’s a nervous wreck. “Come on.” I gesture for him to get moving.
The secluded atmosphere is as hectic as the general admission area, but in a different way; here, the live music is muffled, which gives it a unique feel. The colorful crowd minds their own business. Few fans are allowed here. Those who won a contest. Those who know the artists. Those who got lucky. David is the latter; I’m neither, since I’ll never be a fan of any work but my own.
I do a double-take when a scary-looking yet familiar face stuns me. Draped across a black Chesterfield that matches his attire and hair color, the guy turns his head my way when I ask, “Drake? Drake Fincher?”
Sure enough, my tattoo artist from Tribeca bolts from the couch to greet me. Every time I see him, he looks like he’s taken more steroids. Funny how his appearance doesn’t match his personality.
“Small world, huh?” He pulls me into a genuine hug. “Still happy with your latest addition, man?” He releases me from his embrace.
“You bet! There’ll be more later this year.” I would be jealous of his talented hands if I hadn’t drawn the few lines of calligraphy myself. Lines that he skillfully tattooed on my shoulder blades. Lines that represent the beginning of my journey to find my soulmate. Lines from a legendary book that I worship and had to make mine, but now is not the time to get into that.
“You have ink?” David’s stare zeroes in on me, and my blood boils at the sound of his voice. Shock, judgment, and awe. Between that and calling me Nate, I’m debating whether to punch him for kicks.
There’s so much you don’t know about me, big brother!
My answer comes in the form of a non-committal shrug instead. Then I turn to introduce my puzzled brother as a Whiskey Barrels fan.
“Nice to meet you, David.” They shake hands, reminding me of Wednesday’s Krav Maga class. My thoughts drift to the feisty blonde that denied my olive branch, so I had to plant said branch elsewhere. “Wanna beer?” Drake jerks his head towards the bar. “How have you been?” the heavily tattooed man inquires as we order drinks.
“Pretty good.” I clink my bottle against his and my brother’s, who’s tongue-tied. “Impressed?” I whisper, leaning his way. He nods as we wander to a less crowded area. “Been vacationing with David’s family nearby. Keeping busy, ya know. Chilling and teaching some classes while attending others. What brings you to the festival anyway? Talk about a coincidence.”
“One of my friends is a country enthusiast, although he keeps it under wraps, considering his music of choice.” He chortles to himself. I’m about to ask whether it’s a mutual friend when I see him wave someone over and say, “Come here, Mister DJ!” and follow his gaze.
“Your friend’s Monster Hunter? Seriously?” I gawk.
The young guy reaches our side, his signature cowboy hat blending in with the crowd. I thread my fingers through my perfectly styled hair. Now, I’m the speechless one. I actually bought tickets to this festival knowing that he’d be DJing between sets. I love the cultural references in his mixes, and he’s fucking brilliant! He and Drake make such an unlikely pair.
One beer becomes two as I listen to the rising DJ talk about his influences. Eventually, David excuses himself to trudge over to the bar area. I watch him ask a couple of cowboys for autographs out of the corner of my eye, his initial embarrassment forgotten.
“Listen, guys, I won’t take up your time.” I pat Drake on the back but am addressing Monster Hunter. “It’s your break and I’m bombarding you with questions. It was a pleasure to meet you; I’ll keep an eye out for your next mix on SoundCloud.” I turn to Drake. “I’ll see you back in the city. I should probably go get my brother before he—”
I’m stopped short by a loud masculine voice from behind me. “There you are, mate!” Its origin is unmistakable.
My head swivels in the direction of one of my students, who has the strongest British accent around. He’s worked to conceal his accent and adopt an American vocabulary, but even his modified accent is often unmistakable. Once standing next to me, the lanky redhead takes a swig from his own bottle.
“Hey! I’m not hiding, Mr. Smith. Actually, that’d be rude of me since you were the one who invited me here.” Drake and Hunter exchange glances. Granted, his height could be considered impressive to some, but not to me. You see, the calligrapher that I’m closest to, Virgil Blake—that David refers to as my sidekick—is almost seven feet tall! I make introductions, surprised that the lead guitarist of The Whiskey Barrels and the young DJ haven’t met before.
“Your class was the bomb, Nathan.” Hands tucked in his black pants pockets, he gushes, “It was bloody brilliant. You’re my new best friend!”
My heart swells with pride. “Glad I could be of help, Rupert.”
“Man, I’ve never been more on top of my game!”Yeah, breathing techniques are a safer bet than substance abuse, although mixing the two... Nah, I won’t go there!“I played way better. I owe you.” He already said that ten times after Thursday evening’s class. Once I realized who my invested student was, I confessed my brother’s obsession with his band. That’s how we ended up here today.
“Nathan’s a man of many talents,” Drake exclaims, grasping my shoulder with his free hand.
