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“You’ll never make it without me. Do you think anyone will touch you after tonight? Not only did you lose, you showed the world that you’re desperate and greedy and begrudge your own brother. You’ll be an outcast.”
“Nothing different than I’ve been all these years. I’m good with the gutter.” On my way out, I returned to my chair to retrieve the string figure from the floor.
Couldn’t forget this. The symbol of when I wouldn’t sell out.
Not again anyway.
I tucked it in my pocket and smiled widely before offering the lot of them a jaunty wave as I exited.
Once out in the hallway, I pressed my back against the wall and sucked in air as the crew members bustled to and fro in preparation for the telecast. Almost time.
I could do this.
I had to do this.
There were simply no other options.
This wasn’t even about Jerry and his demands. This was about me and my dreams. I still had them, buried under a layer of shit so thick that sometimes I couldn’t find them through the stench. But they were still there, waiting.
Just like me. I was waiting. For what, I wasn’t even sure.
The preparations for the show went by in a blur. I was still dazzled by the mechanics of television, and I couldn’t keep from acting starstruck when I was introduced to one of that night’s acts, Darkstar, a punk rock band who had come out of the pubs to take the world by storm. Not just London. Not just the UK. They were known across the globe now, with a worldwide tour on the schedule and appearances on US telly booked for the following week.
Just like fucking Oblivion, who happened to be performing at the same goddamn time I was tonight. A portion of their meet and greet and soundcheck had been uploaded to YouTube, thanks to some fan event. Gotta let the little people taste the greatness up close and personal, even if the band members were all hands off now and only looked without touching.
Supposedly. I wasn’t in their pants and didn’t give a fig regardless. If they wanted to give up easy access to pretty pussy for the ball and chain life, that was their choice.
Simon’s choice.
Christ, it sounded like a bad movie from the seventies.
But while I was backstage waiting for my time to go on, I couldn’t keep from bringing up the clip of Simon going through his paces at Oblivion’s soundcheck. It was as eerie as ever watching another man with my face, especially when I was also about to take the stage.
Simon and his band were running through “Patience”, the Guns ’n Roses classic. Though he appeared about as roughed up as I was, he certainly seemed to be in a better mood. He was laughing and smoldering it up for the little girls in attendance, who were eating up every word he purred into the microphone as if he was singing for them alone. He had his guitar on his lap, but rather than playing, he was thumping his hand rhythmically on the body to keep time. His hair was tied back in a little tail, revealing our shared bone structure and the bruises and cuts he’d barely bothered to disguise.
Probably thought they added to his badass mystique.
As Simon got into the lyrics about needing a little patience, he tipped his head back, clearly at ease despite the small crowd gathered around them. He’d done this many, many times now, unlike me. I was still finding my bearings on stage.
Because I still had so much to fucking prove, whereas Simon had already proved it all. He was the rock god, and I was just the pretender.
The one who would always be second.
Nick, the guitarist at Simon’s side, leaned down and flicked the monitor out of my brother’s ear, then whispered something. Simon shifted and replaced the monitor, still singing as he grinned at whatever Nick had said. The ease between the two men made my throat tighten until I could barely swallow.
Big deal. So Simon had a best friend. A lifelong one at that. Lucky him. I didn’t need that kind of propping up. I was just fine by myself on stage.
Simon’s wife, Margo, the band’s violinist, shook her head at whatever the men were laughing about, but she too didn’t miss a beat. And when Simon coughed into his elbow, Margo casually slipped him a bottle of water set on an amp and kept right on playing.
Another one of Simon’s band members called out something to him, and he cursed good-naturedly. He laughed and apologized to the assembled fans before they restarted the song. Jazz, the tiny brunette chick behind the drums, flipped out one of her sticks and Simon caught it behind his back without looking, then tossed it back at her the same way.
They were all laughing, every one of them. All the while nailing the song with an effortlessness that made my shoulders ache.
This was all just fun and games to them, and to me, it was life or fucking death. And worst of all? They were goddamn amazing to behold, while I felt as if I was grasping to hold on.
To get through this farce of a competition.
I clicked off on the video and tucked away my mobile as the time came for me to take my place on stage. My performance was first, then a few others, before the segment with the declaration of the runners-up and the crowning of the winner.
