Page 12 of Crazy Love
“We’re playing,” she snaps, pulling her shoulders back so that she’s sitting up straight. “Sorry. It’s not your fault our keyboardist has cold feet.”
“How cold?” I ask, because this is great ammunition if it comes down to a fight to the death. I’m sure Callahan doesn’t want to be hiring a band that isn’t one hundred per cent committed. He’s certainly not going to be impressed if half way through the tour, they wake to find Ivy’s taken a hike. On the other hand, I wish she’d shut the fuck up and stop proving Joel’s assertions right, because I don’t want to be tempted into compromising my principals because I’m desperate for success. Nathaniel Darke is not, and never will be, a sell-out. My soul is not up for sale to the highest bidder.
“I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”
I can’t refute that.
“But shit, I don’t want to be playing dive bars and hotel function rooms—lovely as this place is—for the rest of my life. I want to be rocking Wembley, and the twenty thousand plus crowds at all the major festivals.”
“Preaching to the converted.”
“Yeah. Figures.” She smiles.
I like her. I can’t help it, even though she’s a distraction I can ill afford right now. Also, and despite the ammunition she’s providing me with, at least a bit of me suspects Jessie of having sent her here to spy.
“What are you working on?”
And yes, that tips the balance of my suspicions. “Nothing. I always sit alone in hotel function rooms playing other people’s guitars.” In other words, don’t be so fucking nosy.
“Me too,” she laughs.
She sits back and watches me for a few moments. She can’t hear the melody, so I don’t worry about her poaching anything. The rhythm I’m tapping out isn’t right anyway. The notes just won’t come. Maybe that’s down to pressure or tiredness, maybe it’s because bass isn’t my instrument, either way, having her staring at me really doesn’t help.
“Do you think you could sod off?”
Up she jumps from her chair, but not to depart.
“Is this your beast?” She picks up my Gretsch. “Interesting choice. Mind if I try her?”
You’ve got to be frickin’ kidding me. No one gets to play about with my guitar. And yet I let her put the strap over her head without making a murmur of protest. Not only that, I get prickles over the way she handles my baby, leaning it across her thighs, and fingering the strings with her delicate digits. I shiver, and she smiles in response, showing just the faintest hint of teeth.
What she’s doing shouldn’t feel like caresses against my skin, but it does. It shouldn’t give me thrills, or turn me on, but it does that too.
I try to tune her out, concentrate on the track playing through the headphones, but my gaze is persistently drawn back to her. In the end, I stop the endless loop of music, and take out the earbuds. I watch her, enthralled despite myself.
This is madness. We’re on opposing teams. In a few short hours we’ll duel and only one of us can be victorious.
Her, my sleep-deprived, horny-arsed self predicts.
There’s so much raw talent wrapped up in her tiny frame, what the hell chance have we got?
Every chance, a voice in my head that’s suspiciously like Joel’s suggests.But only if you enlist her for our team.
I can’t do that. It’s not and never will be an option. I curse Joel under my breath for ever planting the idea in my brain. I think about her sound and ours, how we could combine them and my excitement only increases. Combined, we could blow Graham Callahan away. Hell, we could probably give Black Halo themselves a run for their money.
I don’t recall the point at which my fingers begin to work again, only that suddenly my dodgy bass-playing is being complemented by her glorious licks. This girl could easily play lead. I try a few things, and she follows, or rather anticipates. She’s like a chess-player, always several steps ahead. Hearing the music before it’s played.
The noise we make together is fucking awesome. For several long minutes, we’re both lost in it. Riffs become increasingly complex. This isn’t a Paradise Kiss song, nor something of Bitch Slap’s, but a perfect melding of us into a seamless whole.
What sort of miracle could we weave together on our own instruments? I want to know so badly, but I don’t want to speak and spoil this.
In the end she’s the one to say, “Swap.” She holds out my Gretsch to me, and I pass her Knox’s Fender in return.
The eye contact between us is intense as we settle our respective instruments around our shoulders.
“One…two…three,” I count us in.
The result is so good I nearly come in my pants. It’s like the sound has been dredged up from the depths of hell.
