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Angus gave Taylor her nickname after the amazing bell-like quality she had in her upper range, and it was his band, his bar, that employed her to sing three nights a week, but the best that could be said about his two closest friends now was they tolerated each other. It never used to be that way. Some days that was more annoying than others. Today it was exasperating. He’d need a nap before the show tonight or his own frustrations might come prowling out.
He pushed his cup forwards for a refill. “I thought it might be fun to surprise you.” Fronting up with no warning had been Taylor’s idea. Why he was helping her out he didn’t know. He felt her elbow insinuate itself between his ribs and refused to give her the pleasure of reacting, except she pushed harder and his cup hit the saucer off centre and h
e had to use both hands to stop it flipping over; still coffee sloshed everywhere. Technically a win for Taylor.
Angus mopped up and put a wet towel in his hands. “You’ll sing with us tonight?”
“Hell yeah.” Then he’d be home. His mates, a small audience, songs from musicians he admired to sing, no pressure to do anything but have fun.
Angus refilled his cup. “How long are you around this time?”
“A couple of months.”
“Months.” Angus and Taylor in duet. He laughed. It’d been years since he’d been around for months. “I’m booked on a couple of small jobs here, favours really. I need the break.” He’d been working solidly for the last three years with very little time off and way too many flyer miles accumulated. Underneath the niggle of jet lag was a more bone deep tiredness, it sat under his eyelids like emery board and in the back of his throat like a lump of sand. He had six months to rest and plan the next year’s work commitments.
Sleep would help, not needing to be anywhere further than a couple of local recording studios would make a difference, and being with friends instead of living like a road warrior in hotels and sound booths, buddying with people he’d likely never meet again, would make a huge improvement to his stress levels.
Angus clapped his hands. “The band is back together again.”
Taylor huffed. As well she might. If he sang with them more often it would change their set list and she’d have to share the stage.
“Tay, you okay with Damon on your stage?”
“Of course I am.”
Ah indignant, thy name is Taylor. Damon swivelled his stool so his knees grazed her thigh. “Trill?”
She cupped his jaw with both hands. “You’re an idiot.”
He snorted. She was all right about it. “I love you too.”
Angus clapped again then rubbed his hands together. “We need a new set list. Got any preferences?”
“No rap,” he said, on song with Taylor, and they all laughed.
They settled on some U2, Clapton, a little John Legend, Michael Buble, James Blunt, Bruno Mars, and covers from the bands One Republic, London Grammar, The Fray and The Stones. A list of artists entirely in his range. It left Taylor singing backup, but she refused to do much more than that and her favourite Pink ballads, Try and Sober. They’d do Give Me A Reason together.
They were still arguing over that when Jamie and Sam came in.
He heard the door thunk shut and braced for the inevitable mauling. It came, a headlock from Jamie. He had to slap the bar to get him to let go, then he copped a bear hug from behind from Sam. Sam kissed him on the back of the neck so he made an elaborate show of wiping it away.
“Man, when did you get home?” Jamie sat on the stool beside him. Angus poured more coffee.
Sam was still standing behind him. Untrustworthy. “Last night.”
Sam did the lips to the back of the neck thing again, this time with sound effects. He would’ve gotten a mouthful of hair, Damon needed a cut badly.
“That’s it.” He swung the stool around and grabbed Sam by the shirt and they wrestled, haphazardly bumping into chairs and tables, grunting and laughing. Sam taunted him sprouting dialogue from Dystopian Conflict, pretending to be Lord Wrack to his Sky Pirate Captain Zice Vox.
“I banish you to the Red Star Dystopia, Vox.”
“You couldn’t banish breakfast, Wrack.”
In Dystopian Conflict, the movie and the video game, that was the line that got Vox into big trouble, his galaxy ship impounded and his pirate queen, Umbria Starstarter, taken hostage. In the sequel he’d just finished recording, Dystopian Outlaw, the actress who voiced Umbria had taken a shine to him, offering to start his star anytime he liked. He’d spent an uncomfortable ten days declining the opportunity.
Sam tried to wrestle him to his knees. “Filthy pirate scum.”
He choked out, “From spew spawn like you, Wrack, that’s a compliment.”
