Copyright 2012 by Fisher Amelie
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Fisher Amelie.
Fisher Amelie
http://www.fisheramelie.com/
First Edition: June 2012
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
First Day of My Life
Thomas
People crossed the street when they saw me. I’m not really sure why that was. I mean, okay, I might have looked a bit intimidating if I was being truthful with you. I’d changed since New York. New York represented a life that wasn’t real, not truthfully, anyway. No, New York was the “young, immature, in love, idiot" side of Tom. The “Tie-Dye Tom of New York City” didn’t exist anymore. Tie-Dye Tom was dead.
But that’s okay because the new Thomas was happy with the new him. Kind of. Not really. At least he no longer looked like a douche bag. Well, I suppose that depends on your definition of douche bag.
For instance, if a tall, somewhat built, asshole is a douche to you than you probably wouldn’t have gotten along with the new Tom because that’s what he was. The only thing not drastically different from the old me was my given name. That’s about it.
A couple of weeks after Callum married Harper, I discovered that I was in love with one of my best friends, Kelly Simsky. The idea hit me when I picked the ladies up to deliver them to The Bowery. I saw her in all her spritely glory, five feet one inch, barely reaching my waist, Kelly Simsky. Kelly Simsky with her short blonde hair, the blonde hair that met her chin and would drag forward when she laughed. Kelly Simsky, the tiny nymph of an actress who would sway and leap into a room and bow when she left. That Kelly Simsky. And damn, did I have it bad. I was forced to face the truth just about the time she met Carter Williams.
Speaking of douche bags. Carter Williams. Perfect Carter Williams with his perfect effing teeth, his perfect effing vocabulary, his perfect effing money, and his perfect effing sincerity. God, I hated that guy. He was my polar opposite in everything. Educated, born with money, and in possession of the one girl I wanted more than anyone. Perfect. Effing. Carter. Willams.
When Cherry and Charlie married, the band, my band, The Ivories, disbanded. I was pretty upset, but it was time. I knew it. We’d been at it six years with little interest from labels. We had a massive following, but as we all know, that doesn’t get you signed, and there’s only so many nights you can play for a measly five hundred dollars before you get bored with your band, no matter how awesome they are.
But that didn’t mean my band didn’t remain my family. No, it just meant we would have to find a different reason for hanging out on Friday and Saturday nights. And we did, but when Carter Williams began his ridiculous infiltration into my extended family, I was less than thrilled because that would mean I’d have to watch him lay hands on Kelly, but it was okay, because I was just biding my time until Kelly kicked Trust Fund to the curb, until she realized I was the one she was supposed to be with.
But that didn’t happen. No, in fact, six months later Kelly’s ring finger was dressed with the biggest freaking diamond I’d ever seen and that’s when I’d lost my chance. So when my friend Jason from Seven Seas, one of the biggest record labels in the United States, offered me a chance to move to Austin for a year as a talent scout, I jumped at the opportunity. Hell, I leaped at the chance.
In Austin, I immersed myself in the culture and that’s what it was, a culture, and a beautiful one at that. God, I loved Austin. It was weird. So weird with amazing barbecue and it was made for me.
Scouting bands until late at night, I’d still wake early not able to sleep because I wasn’t over Kelly and she haunted my every thought, including my dreams. I’d hit the gym for a few hours, then return home to my apartment, ready to see more bands and repeat the entire process day after day...after day. For an entire year I did this, aside from one tiny indiscretion. Needless to say, I was an expert at finding awesome bands. I was also built like a freaking brick house.
Which is why people crossed the street when they saw me coming. Well, that and the fact I didn’t wear a color on my body that couldn’t be confused with night. Layers, that’s what I felt comfortable in. Dark tees, black jersey hoodies, dark jackets, and I wore these together. Anything that would help me keep the hate in, along with black boots heavy enough to weigh me back down to this earth, preventing me from drifting off into insanity. I buried myself in my hair too, kept it at my jaw, as well as on my jaw. Camouflage. “Nobody look at me. I’m too busy being in pain.” And I wanted the hate. I reveled in it, actually. I felt powerful and dangerous and pissed off, a perfect combination to intimidate the bands around me.
Soon, I had a reputation for being the guy with which one did not screw with. I also grew the reputation for being the scout you went to when you wanted to be taken seriously because I lived, breathed, and slept music. It was my only refuge from the hate I was drowning in and the only thing that kept the small sliver of flame that was the old Tom. I wanted that to burn slightly, to keep it around just to remind me of what I never wanted to go back to.
I was Thomas Eriksson, talent scout for Seven and scorned in a one-sided love. An amazing job and a worthless state of mind.
January
“It’s time to pack your room, January. You’ve procrastinated enough even for me.”
“Uh, Janet?” Janet’s my mom. None of us were allowed to call her mom because the word “mom” was “intimidating” and she wanted her kids to be able to freely go to her and tell her anything. Most of us called her Mom anyway just to bug her.
“Yes, my love?”
Pull the Band-Aid. “I’m not going back.”
My mom dropped the pan of tofu peanut butter cookies she was carrying to the table to cool.
“Excuse me, January?”
“I said, I’m not going back to Berkeley.”
Janet grabbed the cracked linoleum countertop to balance herself. One of her signature dramatic moves that may have worked spendidly on me as a kid but held no real effect on me now that I was accustomed to nineteen years of her theatrics.
“Ralph! Ralph!” She called to my dad from the kitchen.
I heard a slow moving almost sarcastic shuffle from Dad’s office to the entrance of the kitchen.
My parents were what you’d call made for each other. Mom and Dad met in college, ironically at Berkeley, and fell in love. They married, had ten kids, starting with me, January, and lived hectic lives of protests and pro bono law work all while towing us ten behind them. I loved them more than life itself, which is probably why I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I was an anti-government, borderline anarchist. I felt like the less government was involved in my life, the better, because I’d seen firsthand what it did from the programs my parents supported. I’m not sure what my parents saw in government, but they were in love with it. Again, didn’t have the guts to tell them that. Heart attacks are one of those things best left unprovoked.
“Repeat what you’ve told me, young lady! Tell him what you told me!”
I took a deep breath and steadied myself. “I’m not going back to Berkeley.”
Janet sucked in a squeal and my dad fell into the chair next to me at the kitchen
table.
“Now, January, explain to me why you’re not going back?” he asked.
Another deep breath. “I’m not having fun there.”
Janet went to the sink to clean because that was what she did when she felt overwhelmed or wanted to slap one of us or both. “Cleanse the violent tendencies,” she’d always say. Kind of liked that one.
“Fun,” my dad asked incredulously. “It’s Berkeley, January. Berkeley! Speak to me, love. Tell me why you don’t want to return.”
“I just want to write my music, Dad. I don’t do well with structure.”
Janet turned back around, seemingly calmer, and sat next to my dad across the table from me. “Oh, January, I fear you’re finally going to kill me this time.”
“Janet, stop being dramatic,” I told her, rolling my eyes. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“You’ll lose your scholarship! A full ride to Berkeley’s Department of Music, Ralph! Gone!” She straightened her slumped posture and looked me dead in the eye. “How are we going to tell Grandma Betty?”
That was her last resort strategy. I knew she had topped off her desperate meter when she brought grandma into the conversation. That probably would have worked accept I’d already told Grandma Betty. In fact, she’s the one who encouraged me to follow my dreams. The day I told her I wanted to learn the piano, she encouraged me. It was no different when I phoned her with my intentions to quit Berkeley. She always supported me. Always.
“Janet,” I said, leaning over and grabbing her dish-gloved hand, “I’m not going back.”
That night, I agreed to go to my friend Casey’s show. I promised I’d help him fine-tune a few of his songs so he could be ready for ACL in September in exchange for use of his couch since my parents kicked me out with a “have fun.” I was surprisingly unworried about my predicament. I knew something would come up for me. I had a gut feeling.
“What’s up, doc?” I asked Casey.
“What’s up, baby girl?” Casey said, lifting me up and spinning me around. “Every time I see you, you just get more and more beautiful, January MacLochlainn. Still single?”
“Ha, ha, Casey. What are you playing tonight?” I asked, as he led me back to his makeshift studio, otherwise known as his garage.
“Thought I’d start with Pampered Life. What do you think?”
“That’s a strong start. Show me your list.”
I sat down at his keyboard as I read over his list. We spent most of the afternoon cleaning up his set, then stopped by The Salt Lick and ate before heading toward Stubb’s where his band, The Belle Jar, was opening for Circumvent.
Word around town was a talent scout for Seven Seas would be there to check out Circumvent. I really wanted The Belle Jar to be at their best. They were just as talented, if not more so, than Circumvent but had only been an Austin staple for about eight months.
“That’s him,” Casey said, nudging my shoulder with his. He pointed toward a blond guy wearing all black, but I could barely see him through the people crowding him.
“Who?”
Casey looked at me like I was a fool. “The Seven guy, doofus. Come on, we’ll get closer. Try to edge in on him. Can I use your body to get me noticed?”
“Oh, by all means.”
“Thanks, buttercup,” Casey said, ignoring the bite in my words and disturbing the top of my hair.
“You’re an idiot, Casey.”
“I love you too, January. Fix your hair, it looks like shit.”
I rolled my eyes at him and ran my fingers through my hair. We hedged through the crowd to AWOLNATION’s Not Your Fault, finally finding this mystery guy slumped over the bar, again, surrounded by twenty people hoping to get his attention. Let me clarify, the twenty girls trying to get his attention.
When we got close enough and I could get a good enough view of him, I was forced to stop short. My heart beat wildly in my chest. My tongue swelled in my mouth and my chest felt constricted. My blood rushed through my veins, heating up my face and neck. He was unbelievably gorgeous. My hand flew to my neck to hide the obvious red I knew was painted there, a telltale sign that I was intrigued by something. Casey knew about this little trait I held and never let it down when it made an appearance.
He was tall, taller than most everyone in that room. He rested his forearms on the bar in front of him, a pair of callused hands, giving him away as a musician, nursing a pint on the flat wood before him. His hair reached just below his ears, which he tucked behind, and his goatee was a little scruffier than I usually liked but then again, I’d never been attracted to an actual man before. Mostly, my silly crushes belonged to some fellow teenager and usually ended as quickly as they started. He was frightening yet compelling all at the same time. I felt like a moth to a flame. My hands itched to run my fingers through his hair and along his jaw line. My eyes were transfixed on his mouth.
Snap.
“Come on, redneck.” I cringed. “Yeah, didn’t think I’d see that, did you? Well, I did. Come on.” But just as Casey reached him, the lead for Circumvent beat him to the punch. Casey retreated.
“What are you doing?” I asked him. “Go up there.”
“Nah, I can’t move in when Stephen’s there. I’ll have to wait.”
“Pansy.”
“Okay, redneck. Let’s go catch up with the guys. You can help me tune my keyboard.”
“Hardy, har, har,” I said absently, not able to take my eyes off the scout for Seven. I didn’t move though. No, I dumbly stood there, staring like an idiot. I watched his beautiful mouth and teeth as he made conversation with Stephen. I imagined my own lips meeting his...Casey surprised me by throwing me over his shoulders and started to walk away, briefly distracting the Scout and Stephen from Circumvent.
The blush I knew was staining my entire body by that point boiled to an unnatural heat, and I tried to smile at the both of them but found my stare burning solely through the blue eyes that belonged to the scout. He eyed me with a hard expression, my insides came unglued a bit in alarm but also a little bit in excitement. I was Dali’s melting clock personified at that moment. I felt like burning wax down Casey’s back.
Casey set me down backstage after an embarrassing walk through the bar, a walk where the scout’s eyes never left mine until we’d rounded a corner. I was humiliated.
“Gosh damn it, Casey!” I said, slapping his shoulder repeatedly. My hits felt like being pelted with cotton balls apparently because Casey was red with laughter. “You made a fool out of me!”
“Oh, calm down, January. He probably won’t even remember you. He lives in this scene, remember? Sees that kind of nonsense all the time.”
“Thanks, that’s very comforting.” I dropped my voice an octave. “No worries, January,” I mocked. “You’re not memorable enough to remember. You’re invisible.”
Casey’s face softened. “Oh, baby girl, I’m sorry,” he said, hugging me closely. “You’re right. I apologize.”
“It’s okay, idiot.”
Casey hugged me tighter. “You know you’re memorable, right?”
“Sure, sure,” I said, fighting back stupid tears.
“No,” he said, bringing me out from under his arms, looking at me with a pained expression. “I’m serious, January. You’re one of the most beautiful women I know, inside and out. If I wasn’t in love with Sunny, I’d be all over you like white on rice.”
“Shut up,” I said grinning and shaking my head. “Let’s go tune your keyboard.”
We walked to the band room The Belle Jar was readying for the show in and I helped the band learn a lot of the key changes we’d made that afternoon. When I left to join the crowd at the bottom of the stage, I couldn't remember a time they sounded better to me. They were going to knock the scout’s socks off the way he knocked me out of mine.
I positioned myself up front next to Sunny and we linked arms
.
“Did you see him?” she asked.
“Yes! My God, Sunny. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone sexier than that scout.”
“Scout? I meant Casey, but now I’m no longer interested in whether you’ve seen Casey,” she said, her eyes roaming the crowd around us. She pulled me closely. “Who is this scout?”
“Seven Seas has a scout here to see Circumvent.”
“Oh yeah, Casey mentioned something like that to me.”
I stared at her in wonder. “I swear, woman! This is a huge deal!”
“I know, I know! I remember now.”
I rolled my eyes playfully at her. We talked for a few minutes before The Belle Jar began to set up their instruments at eleven, readying for the show.
“Be right back,” I said. “I’m going for a water. You want one?” I asked Sunny.
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“’Kay, save my spot, missus.”
I ran toward the bar and stood behind a few people waiting to be served. I kept throwing a head over my shoulder to spot the scout. I’m a freaking maniac! Why can’t I get this guy outta my head? I need to focus!
“What’s your poison?” The guy next to me asked.
I smiled at him. “I don’t drink. Still underage.” I held up my black x-ed hands in proof. “I’m in line for water. Boring, I know.”
This usually worked, but not with this guy.
“That’s cool. What are you doing out here tonight?”
“Oh, I’m here for The Belle Jar. I helped them clean up a few songs for tonight’s show. There’s a Seven scout in the audience for Circumvent tonight and I want them at their best. They’re brilliant.”
“Very cool. So, you’re a musician?” he asked as we inched closer to the bar. It was still ten feet away.
“Yeah, a pianist.” I turned my head away and fought a private grin.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, confused.
“Oh, nothing. I-well,” I said, facing him, “it’s just, I threw away a full scholarship to Berkeley for music to stay in town and help other musicians become successful. It just dawned on me how ironic that was. I find that hilarious.”