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Luca
cal. on my way to the airport. you’re making up the spare room. see you tonight. love you.
Luca. My bassist. The loudest, cockiest bastard I’ve ever shared a stage with is apparently coming to Mountain Springs.
I call him.
He answers on the fourth ring. “Cal!”
“Tell me you haven’t booked a flight.”
“Too late. I’m in terminal B, LAX. Excellent breakfast sandwich, by the way. Want one?”
He’s speaking through a mouthful of it.
“No, I don’t want airport eggs transported across state lines. Why are you flying here without asking me?”
“Because you’d have said no.”
“Correct.”
“See? Saved us both time.”
“What’s going on?”
“Can’t a guy miss his bandmate? Besides, I never went to college. Nobody I grew up with in Vegas went to college. I want the full experience. You know, join a frat, drink to oblivion, meet lots of adoring women.”
“You want cheap alcohol and women wearing university sweatshirts?”
“Exactly. Education.”
“You can’t just rock up at a fraternity.”
“You can’t control me, Dad.”
“I can refuse to collect you from the airport.”
“No, you can’t. You love me.”
A tension headache starts forming behind my left eye. Annoyingly, so does a grin.
“I don’t have a spare room. I have a second bedroom containing a guitar stand and one broken desk chair.”
“Move the guitar. Buy an air mattress. Be solution-oriented, brother.”
He sounds finished with the sandwich and, therefore, significantly more dangerous.
“I’m busy, Luca.”
Not entirely a lie. I have classes, a final, and a woman I’d like to spend considerably more time naked with.
More importantly, I don’t need Luca seeing how little music I’ve managed to write.
“All right, real answer. Eli’s worried. Danny’s worried. I’m worried.”
“You’re worried?”
“Exactly. And I’m the fun one. If the fun one is getting concerned, the situation is bad.”
