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“Really?” I instantly came to my feet. “Fuck, yes, I want one.”
Smirking, Sticks pulled another chimichanga free and handed it over. I unwrapped it and took my first bite, barely thanking him before diving in, and that was that; I was a goner. We spent the next few minutes in silence, quietly inhaling our food before I could form a coherent word. Finally, I pointed at my mostly eaten chimichanga and announced with a full cheek, “This is good.”
“I know.” Sticks wiped his mouth with a napkin. “My family owns the restaurant. I grew up on this shit.”
“Lucky bastard.” I made a small whimper and closed my eyes as I downed the last little bite I had. Taking note of the name of the restaurant on the side of the bag, I decided I needed to go to Castañeda’s for a full meal someday soon.
“Seriously, I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever you were doing.” Sticks motioned to my abandoned notepad across the room.
I shrugged. “No worries. I’d just written down what I needed to. You got any other extra food in there you don’t want?”
With a chuckle, Sticks reached into the bag. “I have a couple empanadas.”
I had no idea what that was. But when he handed me one, my mouth watered. “You’re a goddamn saint.”
He watched me stuff my face a few seconds before he lifted his eyebrows and opened his mouth to say something. When he didn’t, I motioned for him to talk.
His shoulders fell a fraction before he cleared his throat. “You know the other day when you said I could go through all our songs...?” When I nodded, he cringed. “Is that offer still open?”
“Sure.” I dusted crumbs off my fingers and onto the thighs of my jeans, tempted to lick them clean. “The box is over there. I usually keep it here in the garage because it just seems easier that way. Less of a chance to misplace anything.”
Sticks nodded and sat his bag on the floor next to his stool. As he wandered toward the box, I returned to the bike and tried to come up with a line to complement the last few I’d written, but nothing seemed to measure up.
“Hey, there are a couple of receipts in here too,” Sticks spoke up suddenly, making me glance over to watch him frowning into my box.
“Yeah.” I waved my pen. “I put everything related to the band in there. Like a catchall. It’s simple and helps me keep track of where things are.”
“Really?” His eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Because I don’t know how you could find jack shit in here. This thing is a fucking mess.”
I had to laugh at the horror on his face. “Feel free to organize it however you like,” I said. “Just don’t lose anything.”
Sticks snorted. “You’re worried about me losing something? Increíble.”
“Oh, shut up, smart-ass.” I laughed and reread the last line, finally coming up with a new one.
Holden arrived then. It took Gally another five minutes to show, so while I continued to fiddle with my song, Sticks attempted to drag a conversation out of Holden while he stacked papers on the floor around the box, but he didn’t have any more luck than I’d ever had. Holden only answered him with a couple grunts and a nod or shake of the head.
Once everyone had arrived, I put my pen and paper down, and we spent a good half hour hashing out which songs we wanted to sing for the Chicago gig. For the new drummer’s benefit, I added “Hot for Teacher” to our list of cover songs since we didn’t have enough original compositions yet to last through a full show, and it reminded me of Noel, who’d hooked up with his college professor and married her.
Sticks hooted in pleasure when I mentioned that choice, which made me smile. No one really picked on the song choices I’d selected; it was the order in which I wanted to sing them that set Gally off into a tangent.
“Man, ‘Stone-Hearted’ is our biggest hit. We need to lead with that shit.”
“I disagree,” Sticks spoke up. “No concert I’ve ever been to started with their most popular song. It needs to wait until later, so people have time to show up and then make them stick around a bit waiting for it. About three-fourths of the way into the set is best.”
Which had been exactly where I’d placed it. I sent Sticks an appreciative smile, but Gally sniffed. “Shut up, queer. You don’t have a say in this.”
“Hey!” Glaring at the bass guitarist, I snapped, “Will you stop with the derogatory remarks already? And yes, he does too have a say. Sticks is just as much of a member of Non-Castrato as any of us are now.”
Gally sent us a round of dirty scowls, but at least he shut his trap before he moodily crossed his arms over his chest and muttered, “Whatever.”
“I think it needs to come later, too,” Holden finally said.
“Three against one,” I told Gally with maybe a bit too much glee.
“I said what the fuck ever,” he snapped. “But I think we should start with that Kongos song then. ‘Come with Me Now.’”
“Actually, we should probably start with an original,” Sticks argued.
