Page 12 of Next Time I Fall (Excess All Areas 2)

Nan would hate him for ruining it for everyone.

“Fine,” he snapped.

“You have talent, Jase. Lots of it. And with some training, you could be truly brilliant. If the drugs and the alcohol and the fighting don’t get to you all, your attitude is going to take you and everyone else down with it. You need to learn how to connect to songs. You need to learn how to perform ‘I’m A Little Teapot’ like you really mean every fucking word of it. I can help you. But you need to climb off that high horse you’re sitting on, take the stick from up your ass, and meet me down here. You need to wind that temper of yours in. You’ve got ten minutes to think about it. I have a waiting list for this studio. Had to shift mountains to fit you all in for Upper Street. You don’t want to be here; I’m not going to make you stay.”

Each word felt like a punch. Each punch had an echo. He felt like he was still being yelled at long after the door clicked shut.

Jase glanced down at his phone. Nine minutes.

Nine minutes to decide just how badly he wanted to screw up his life.

3

The following morning, when he thought he’d be heading straight to the studio, Jase and Alex found themselves in an American TV studio. Jase fought the feeling of his eyes closing and tried to focus on the perky entertainment host currently acting as though she was their biggest fan. It was all fucking bullshit, but she’d been giving him fuck-me vibes since they arrived, so he’d humour her a little longer. Maybe hooking up with a random would ease the anxiety making it hard to breathe.

Staying up all night before such a big interview was probably not the smartest. Neither was getting so hammered he could barely stand. He and Alex, both needing to shake off Bexter’s feedback, had found a bar down the street from their hotel. They’d shot pool until the place closed, just to blow off steam.

Cerys had been right about one thing. Jimmy Bexter had not minced his words.

Compliments, especially for Alex and his ability to arrange music. A pile of shit, where Matt had taken it worst. Served the fucker right for hoarding the credit to writing the songs. When Jimmy had said the lyrics were weak, it was on Matt. When he’d said exactly what Cerys had said, that Jase wasn’t connecting to a third of the songs, Matt had glared at him.

Yeah, because singing Matt’s love songs for Izabel was a particular slice of hell.

Regardless, the previous night they’d fucking died laughing. Pissed off their heads, miles from home, on their first real visit to North America. Getting paid La-La Land money thanks to the new contract.

The words “plucked from obscurity” took on a whole new meaning. One minute they were playing a gig in a club under the railway arches in the Northern Quarter, the next they’d been in a bar in Detroit.

“Jase, why do you think Manchester is known as the music capital, not London?” the presenter repeated.

Madchester.

Manchester.

The place where top music exploded. Joy Division, Happy Mondays, Inspiral Carpets, The Stone Roses. Two-word legends that mean more to any Manc than just about anything outside of football.

“Music is a way of life in Manchester, a lifestyle. Bell-ends in London think they’ve got it made with their coke-addicted bankers slumming it, packed cock-to-arse on the Tube. Sky-high rents, a fuck tonne of tourists, and a music scene that’s about as original as a packet of ready salted crisps. London is a woman. She’s high maintenance, champagne, costs more than she’s worth, and is nothing more than a distraction ... an ageing one, at that. Good for a night, but not forever. But Manchester, Manchester is a lad. Slightly grimy, a fucking hard worker. Manchester is a pint and a kebab on the way home. Manchester is going to watch the footie on your dad’s shoulders while your Grandad holds a pint. It’s rain that pisses down on the constant. Manchester is loyal, unforgiving, and raw, init?”

Shock fell over the interviewer’s face. “Umm, I’m sorry, I mean, I love the passion of your answer, but obviously we can’t use profanities like that on our show. Could we try something different?”

Jase lowered his eyes to the tight tank top that hugged her breasts. They were bound to be plastic. He’d never copped a feel of boobs so perfectly spherical. “With you, babe, definitely.”

She blushed, but then looked to some dude behind the camera and put her game face back on. He looked forward to fucking it off again afterward.

Or maybe he’d just find Alex and go top up his hangover with some hair of the dog pints and make the world spin again.

Wait. It was ten in the morning. He was expected back at the studio by eleven.

Still, there was always time for a quickie in a spare office, or even a cleaning cupboard at a push.

There was an itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t seem to scratch. It had been with him since he boarded the flight. At first, he thought it was the final traces of coke leaving his system, but now he wasn’t sure.

As soon as they’d finally recorded the take the TV producers wanted, they were shovelled back into the town without a minute to grab the host’s number.

When his phone rang, he thought for a moment she might have been able to get his somehow, but instead it was the only woman he loved.

“Hey, Nan,” he said, answering the video call.

“Jason, how’s it going, lad?”

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