In the Absence of You Read online

  There’ve been words swiveling in my head lately, which isn’t my style. In the band, I’m the singer—the front man. I just interpret what Bo delivers to me, and usually I do it in a way that makes his body relax and his girl beam.

  Besides the husky, metal grit that comes naturally to me, I can do any voice you request. When I’m in the mood, I do David Bowie. When I want to mess with the audience, I do Andrea Bocelli. I get off on watching people boo, laugh at my picks of voices, and dance while I grind against the mic stand.

  There isn’t a single chick out there without an opinion on me. They either love me, or they’re repulsed by me. The ones who want me aren’t the ones who dig my buddies. Who knew, right? I love my groupies, and Bo loves his, for instance, though the dude’s cut himself off from the flow of easy lays.

  As sad as it sounds, I understand. Nadia would’ve never worked for me, but she’s definitely Bo’s pedestal girl. If you catch your pedestal girl, you should never let her go.

  I drop to the floor, slipping in the excess soap on the tile. This rainforest drizzle needs to become an actual shower so I can clean up. Fighting with the faucet, I return to Bo’s tune, letting it become the soundtrack of my thoughts.

  I was born to be a rock star. Zoe’s gone, sure, but life’s still good. I’ll never become one of those depressed people. That’s just not how I roll. I’m on top of the world—how could I not be on top of the world when I’m living the dream?

  She ditched me.

  Zoe knew me in ways no one else did. She knew me as Emil, the man, the child, the accidental sage. She shared my sense of humor, learned my thoughts the minute they emerged. With Zoe, my crazy ideas were always endorsed.

  Until she grabbed my intestines, twisted, and crushed them with her goodbye. From one day to the next, the only person who understood each fiber of me vanished.

  How was it so easy for her to let me go?

  My head’s full. So much happens in there it’s hard to deal with other people’s demands and emotions. The outside world isn’t as straightforward anymore. I do my bit though, for the band.

  Zoe yanked my guts out and left me hemorrhaging. I’m weird and empty and slushy inside. Do I have a heart anymore? Did she rip it out too? Okay, fine: I’m struggling.

  I’ll get over it.

  I adore my fans. I love the stage. When the spotlights grow hot and I clench my fists above my head in victory, I know why I am where I am.

  I’m an entertainer. The audience’s ovation makes me high. With the gamma of blue, green, and red from the spotlights heating my skin, I get hard as the crowd goes nuts.

  My life isn’t awesome at night, in the morning, or on the bus anymore, but as soon as I uhmm the first syllables of the first song into my mic, life vibrates and becomes what it’s supposed to be. Then it’s worth it all.

  This tour’s the longest we’ve been on. It’s three months solid, with European dates mixed in. I hadn’t been to Paris before. Hadn’t been to Prague. Our tour manager keeps repeating how it means we’re getting big.

  I swallow my regret before I walk out of the bathroom—because I’m lucky: my best friends are in my band; we earn money by doing what we love; the fans are in ecstasy from the minute we get onstage.

  There. I’m better.

  “I was getting spoiled,” Troy says as I dry myself off and don’t give a damn what he sees when I drop my towel to grab my boxers.

  “Yeah, how?”

  “It’s nice to have singles. I love it when the promoter’s big enough to pay for it, because, no offense, it sucks to share a room with you.”

  “What, ’fraid of hairy balls now?” I toss socks and T-shirts on the floor. Where’s my vintage Nirvana shirt? A girl told me the green writing accentuates my eyes. People say my eyes are blue though, usually, but who knows. I’m colorblind.

  “Yeah, that sums it up.” Troy bobs his head. “I’m considering a change in rooming arrangements, here—too much furry nuts. I could share with Shandor, for instance.”

  I find the shirt and drag it on. Pop my head out and shake my hair so it doesn’t go flat. I’ve got a ’do, now, that the girls expect, the “studiously messy singer ’do” according to Bo. He’s full of it. Always runs his mouth, that dick.

  “Well, be prepared to bring your own girls then, because Shandor won’t be offering up any,” I tell him. “He’s too busy staring at his cousin to chase tail.”

  “Hmm.” Troy’s caressing a pair of drumsticks, a favorite pastime of his. “You think he’s got the hots for Aishe?”

  I shrug. “She’s the bomb.”

  “They’re cousins,” Troy says as if that’s a deal killer.

  “So? If you had a cousin that hot, wouldn’t you fuck her?”

  Troy’s eyes round, incredulous, and I start laughing. Sometimes, he’s just uptight, which is a free-for-all to wind him up. “’S not like she’s his sister. Although a sister like that…”

  “Dude, eww!” Troy literally shudders like he doesn’t even like women. Sometimes I worry about him. It’s long and far between every time he gets any, and when he does, he’s so secretive about it, he cracks me up. He’s not even telling us where he goes and when he’ll be back. Probably some romantic, luxurious place where he treats the girl like a queen.

  “Shandor’s just keeping an eye on her. I think they’re pretty strict in her family. Maybe she isn’t supposed to be with anyone before she gets married.”

  “Crazy question for you,” I say, groping inside the drawer beneath the TV. We’d never take the time to fill them, so—exercise in futility—but I double check anyway. “Have you seen my wallet? Or can you pay for my dinner?”

  He grabs the wallet from my bed and tosses it at me. I catch it mid-air and toe into my sneakers. “Shandor’s been fucking weird ever since we took Aishe on,” I say, finding my keycard under the bag of dirty laundry. “’S worth it though. It’s nice to have something pretty to look at.”

  Troy chuckles quietly. Gives a shove to the hotel room door, making it wide enough for me to follow after him. “You’re better off not looking at her, man. Keep your eyes to yourself, and we’ll have a fine work relationship with both cousins.”

  “Ha,” I say. “Pretty ironic considering how we needed an attractive merch girl to draw customers, and Shandor literally offered her up.”

  Even Troy snorts at that.

  “Now he’s got regrets.” I hammer in my point, drawing another snort from Troy.

  We have dinner on the promoter’s bill, the owner of some ticket agency. He has the biggest, chunkiest nose I’ve ever seen. Entranced, I stare as it wiggles calmly in his face with each no-nonsense chew of steak. Bo sits to his left with Nadia within touching distance. They both seem genuinely interested in his chitchat, while I can’t concentrate enough to catch a single word.

  Shandor’s on my right side. He doesn’t have much to say to me lately. From across the table, I feel Aishe’s black gaze on me. I feel that a lot. Now, I meet it and wink. Pucker my lips in a friendly kiss and watch her inhale in embarrassment. She knows she’s been caught. It’s cute, and I grin at her. Until Shandor’s pint of beer crashes into my lap like it’s been thrown there.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Geez, sorry. Let me get that,” he apologizes. He’s got dark curls covering his face, making it impossible to see his expression. He starts dabbing at my crotch with a ton of napkins. Of course I smack him away.

  Aishe’s eyes glint with sudden humor. I’m not fond of being the laughing stock of women, so I rip the napkins out of his hands and stand. “Dude, just— I’m fine. I’m gonna need to change.”

  When I return to the lobby, Aishe is there, arms crossed, accentuating a plunging neckline I’m sure her cousin doesn’t approve of. Her eyes don’t support the sexy pose, but they don’t shift away from me.

  I stop, crossing my arms too, and smirk. “Aishe,” I say. “Pretty Aishe.”

  Red lips plump as she purses them to hold back a smile. �
��Emil,” she murmurs, stepping into the elevator when I’m getting out. “Good night.” She watches me while the doors slide shut, and I lift a finger and crook it in a wave through the crack.

  “Sexy dreams,” I reply.

  “Ditto.”

  “Maybe you’ll star in mine,” I add before she disappears out of sight.

  I don’t dream of her. I don’t dream of the countless groupies I’ve had over the last two months. I dream of Zoe.

  Zoe’s not here. Zoe’s never going to return. It’s over between Zoe and me, and I cannot digest it. It fucking sucks so hard I want to play Russian roulette with myself some days. Click. Click. Click. Pow!

  It’s like there’s an open sore in my stomach when I wake up in the middle of the night, unprepared for the bright memories from my dream not to be true.

  I came to with a smile on my face, laughing at my girl. She was always up for my games—I never had to weigh my words with her, and she didn’t have a shy bone in her body. God, I loved her so much.

  I remind myself again that I’m not a sad son-of-a-bitch who crawls around letting my life be wrecked by a chick. Just… after dreams like this, right when I wake up, I really fucking want to cry like a baby.

  She was playful in my dream. I haven’t seen her in months, but there’s no forgetting that shiny hair that I’d grab onto as we bickered and play-fought until we both got the sex the way we wanted it.

  The smartass things she’d say. That small, pointy nose I’d lick after we’d just woken up and I had the worst breath in the world. She’d grab my ears like they were handles, sit on my chest and lick my entire face with her own stinky breath in payback, starting at the chin and working her way in broad tracks straight across my mouth, my nose, and up to my forehead.

  “Eww, you’re foul,” I’d play-sob out. “What is that, did you eat my ass while I slept?”

  “Nope—I believe it was the so-called ‘dinner’ you concocted last night. But good idea,” she retorted. “Turn around, bitch-boy. Imma gonna eat your ass now.”

  “Oh hell no. You turn around,” I said and flipped her. Her stomach muscles contracted with laughter beneath my fingers as I got her into position. “Stupid hot pants,” I mumbled, dragging on them.

  “You really enjoyed them before,” she countered, still laughing. She stuck that little ass out though, teasing me with small lap-dance moves.

  “God, you’re so hot. I’ll eat you to heaven and back.”

  “Don’t ram your canines into my butt though,” she commanded.

  “Canines?” I promptly dug my full set of teeth into a butt cheek, enjoying the succulent texture and making her squeal. The stuck-up idiot on the other side of my wall—Bo and I used to share an apartment in L.A.—banged on the wall.

  “Can you guys ever have sex without being disturbing? And I mean that in all senses of the word,” he whined.

  “Bo’s jealous! Did Nadia leave already?” I yelled back, and Zoe burst into a cackle-laugh. “Shh,” I said. “Focus. Spread your bunny-buns, babe. I’m going in.”

  I grab the half-full can of beer on my nightstand and down it with the lump in my throat. Sex with Zoe was the best—no one compared to her. No one compares to Zoe, period. If Bo found his match in Nadia, I found mine in Zoe. I know that, and it’s damn ironic that Zoe chasing me down after a show was how Bo met Nadia. I laugh silently against the empty can.

  I hate being awake in the middle of the night. Troy doesn’t sleep if I turn the TV on, so I might as well get up. The alarm clock shows four a.m., not nearly time to rise ’n shine.

  I stare at my phone. Open Zoe’s number and look at it again. There’s no use in calling it. I checked before bedtime if she’d lifted the block on me. She hasn’t.

  I look her up on Facebook. She’s not on my friend list there anymore either, but she doesn’t know how to make her profile private. I’m not going to tell her it’s public, because then I can’t stalk her anymore.

  Ha. Me, the singer of a famous rock band stalking a coffeehouse waitress.

  She swings her hips in ways no girl does. She’s so blatant about it. I love it. Zoe—is so Zoe. She’s my Zoe. Should be.

  But she’s not here.

  Her Facebook wall shows her out with friends. She’s got a bright smile on her face, and in one picture there’s a guy hanging over her shoulder. I hate it hard. I click “I don’t like this post.” Then I report it as abusive.

  Bo tells me she’s moving on with her life, that she’s over me and won’t be seeking me out again. He tells me I need to do the same.

  I am too. Hell, I move on with my life at least five days a week. If we don’t have a show with a meet-n-greet, there’s always a waitress or a receptionist I can hang out with. Yeah, I don’t know what he’s talking about. I don’t skimp on moving on.

  When’s Nadia going back to L.A.? I text to Bo.

  Dude. Go to sleep, is his immediate reply. She’s not going to be your spy on Zoe anyway.

  Just asking, I clarify.

  Move. Fucking. On.

  I drop the phone and press my lips together. They tremble. Who the fuck knew girls could create holes in a guy’s chest? It’s like a crater in there, a fucking big, empty crater with just some remnant smoke showing that it used to hold more.

  I feel like writing lyrics about volcanoes and lava and craters. I think I will. That should kill some time. I grab my phone again, pull up my notes app, and start jotting.

  AISHE

  Sometimes, I feel like a fan. The music isn’t the main reason I feel that way. It’s seeing the guys up there when they give it their all, becoming larger than life.

  We’re at a medium-sized club in Florida. The audience packs the room, probably exceeding capacity, and for a second, I consider the fire hazard. At least there are two emergency exits, one on each side of the stage.

  Clown Irruption’s light show is too big for a venue this size. Emil always wants it up even though the effects of the spotlights bleed way past the stage, bouncing through the room and igniting everything with random colors and white light.

  My sales booth and I are crammed into a corner by the sound desk. No one’s buying merchandise during the concert, so I hand the money box to Troll at front-of-house and gesture for his house assistant to look after my booth. He gives me the thumbs-up.

  I make my way through the crowd, squeeze close enough to the stage to find myself in the front rows of the mosh pit. I glimpse Shandor behind Troy, where he’s doubling as drum tech until they hire a new guy. Even though he’s busy, he glues his stare on me in warning before returning to his task.

  I never openly disobey him. I can’t even look at it as disobedience, because he’s not my husband, not my brother, or my father. If I follow his demands, it’s because I believe that he’s right.

  Bathed in a deep yellow light, Emil is singing the first song he’s ever co-produced with Bo, the band’s songwriter. He shakes his mane side to side, hair flinging droplets of sweat around him. Bright like the sun, it agrees with the exhilaration on his face.

  He rocks his hips, grabbing the microphone with both hands and closing his eyes as he sings about being the entertainer. How he’ll do anything for the scream of the audience, how he was made for this. I believe him when he throws his head back, unhooking the mic and tipping it above his head. Happy, contagious Emil screams out his husky joy over his calling in life.

  Calmly, Bo glances at him, a subtle glitter in his eyes, while Troy does triple beats on his drums, slamming harder, louder with each chorus. He’s in jeans only, torso moist with sweat after three fast-paced songs off their set list down already. Elias bounces the bass against his crotch during the bridge of the song, causing Bo to flash him a wolfish smirk.

  My heart speeds into triple beats with Troy’s drums. God, these guys. Their response to this new tune makes me think of the one that shot them to fame, “Fuck You,” Bo’s frustrated eulogy to Nadia before they became a couple.

  I’m suddenly conscio
us of the crowd around me. Everyone is dancing. How do they do that? I’ve been to a lot of concerts in my life, but it’s a feat to launch a whole floor into the ecstatic, screaming, energetic mess boiling around me right now.

  Sometimes it’s surreal to me that I can experience this with the band. My imagination transports me into a future where moments like these have become memories. They hit me straight in the diaphragm, forcing my eyes shut with the bliss that I was a part of this, that I was there when a great band was in the process of becoming legendary. Because I have no doubt they will be.

  Everyone loses it around me, smiling, chanting along to a song they don’t know because it’s the first time Clown Irruption plays it live. I’m being bumped from all sides, life is perfect, and I’m grinning so big, the blood of my ancestors rushing through my veins, affording the disquiet I crave.

  I start jumping to the beat as Emil slides to his knees at the edge of the stage. He laughs into the microphone—Emil is a god, yelling, “Hey! Hey! What’s up? You’ve come to the right place! I’m here to entertain—and if you’re bored when I’m done, I’ll shoot a bullet through my head for your—

  Enter—

  Tain—

  Ment!”

  On the third chorus, the crowd gets it and shouts the last words out with him. On the fourth chorus, the music disappears. I tense and swing to Troll, but find him laughing behind the sound booth. The guys lift their hands from their instruments, not playing, just screaming the chorus with Emil and enjoying the wall of feedback from the sixteen-hundred-strong audience.

  I woot, my voice meshing with the others’.

  Nadia’s at a table to the right of the stage. Bo exchanges a flirty wink with her, but then my attention pulls back to Emil.

  Goodness. Emil.

  He’s arched up in his kneeled position when the music resumes again, an onslaught of sound after the club-wide a cappella performance we just experienced. His hips thrust forward like a bullfighter, like a lover, his package bulging with excitement. A heated sting hits my abdomen at the sight. I wonder if everyone notices that detail, or if I’m just abnormally tuned in.