Page 13 of Your Rhythm
4She Wants to Know || Half Moon Run
MATT
It was probablythe most dick move I’ve ever pulled, but I knew she’d call me because I made sure she’dhaveto call me.
I’m not heartless and I wouldn’t call myself a pick-up artist, but for the past while I’ve been sticking to one and two night stands. After we started getting serious with Sherbrooke Station, I didn’t have time to properly date, and there was no shortage of no-strings flings available on tour. It’s hard to pursue someone when you’re always on the move, so if there’s usually a girl hanging around the bar after our shows just looking for some fun, it makes an ideal situation for both of us.
The only interruption to that plan is girls like Kay Fischer.
I could tell just from the way she talked to me, from how she stared around the room in Sapin Noir, that she had a habit of seeing straight through people and finding whatever she was looking for. For some reason, I wanted to make her work to get that from me. She seemed like she was used to setting the pace and waiting for everyone else to catch up.
Unfortunately for her, I’m a drummer. Setting the pace is my job.
That’s why I let myself delete the recording of our interview when I put my number in her phone. I know I’m a dick for doing it, but when I saw the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen of my phone, I couldn’t help my sense of satisfaction. I don’t know exactly what I felt sitting on that staircase with her in the dark, but whatever it was I haven’t felt anything like it in a long time. Whether it’s a good idea or not, I don’t intend to let it go just yet.
“Hey,” I answer, leaning up against the cold wall of the stairwell. “Is this who I think it is?”
“If you think it’s a journalist with an unfortunate favour to ask, then yes.”
“Unfortunate? Did you fall down the stairs again?”
I can almost hear her rolling her eyes.
“Oh wait,” I continue, “if I remember correctly, you actually fellupthe stairs last time.”
“Okay, the stairs joke is dead now. We can move on.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so,” she retorts. “Now onto the reason I’m calling. There was a...technical issue, and I lost the recording of the interview.”
I really shouldn’t be smiling so much right now.
“Would you happen to have time within the next twenty-four hours to re-answer some of my questions? I have the framework of the article done, but I need confirm some of the quotes with you and get a few new ones. We can do it over the phone. It’ll only take about twenty minutes.”
She sounds muffled, like she’s speaking through several layers of something, and I can hear the sound of cars passing by in the background.
“I’m just finishing up some stuff with the band,” I answer truthfully, “but I’m sure I can spare twenty minutes after that. Where are you, anyways? I can barely hear you.”
“Running around the city. It’s kind of my job. Oh,fuck. Not again! Why the fuck does this always happen?Shit.”
“What is it?” I ask, as she lists off a few more choice phrases.
“Snow down my boot. Okay, I have to go now. Call me when you can.”
She hangs up and I head back into the basement. I don’t know how yet, but I’m sure I can turn this into an excuse to see her again.
We put practicing on hold for awhile. Shayla, our manager, called a band meeting this evening to go over some details for the upcoming tour, and she’s due here any minute.
We never doubted we had something special as a band, but Shayla was the first person beyond the four of us to see our potential as the next big thing. She’s only twenty-nine, and already runs her own management firm. With her labret piercing, green-tipped haircut, and curves that could kill, I’m pretty sure all four of us have thought we were in love with her at some point, but she’s always been very clear on the fact that she’s happily married to Natalie, her wife.
She’s also married to her job; she’s the reason we started booking shows that got us noticed by people like Atlas. It’s actually kind of scary how ruthless she is when it comes to the music industry. Sometimes I don’t know which motivates me more: the drive to succeed, or the fear of what Shayla will do to us if we don’t.
She comes charging into the basement in a black military jacket, her usual ready-for-warfare attitude going strong as she plops down on the couch beside Ace.
“Evening, boys. Let’s get started.” She pulls a tablet out of her bag. “I have some stuff the PR team at Atlas sent over. It’s a few drafts of tour media, just posters and things like that.”
She sets the tablet down on our scratched-up coffee table and we all crouch around it. We used to let a company Shayla works with handle our PR, but as part of our contract we’re starting to hand off all responsibilities to the Atlas team. Me and the guys take one look at the first image before the protests start to fly.
