In the Absence of You Read online

  Right now, I feel good. I’ve got my growing worry under control. My brain is there, and my heart doesn’t feel the phantom pains of a future heartache. I like this feeling.

  We’ve all poured out of the buses and settled inside The Polka Dot, as the locals call it. Troll is running around yelling at staff, techs, and stagehands. The band chills in the green room, putting away sandwich meats without touching the bread and sipping the Mexican beer Elias got added to the hospitality rider.

  I swallow, peeking at Emil through a curtain of hair. I lean my butt against a broken monitor that serves as a makeshift table. He’s animated now, not paying attention to me. Talking about a song he’s got half done. “A dark one,” he says.

  That’s the thing about artists; if they’re thrown off emotionally, it doesn’t stop them from communicating in their chosen ways. And if you care for them, what they share can hurt. I want him to write songs like “The Entertainer” again.

  Nadia is here, eyes soft, leaning against her man. Entwined, their arms rest around her waist, the two of them facing a gesticulating Emil. Our lead singer is a burst of energy, himself, the only way I knew him in the beginning. His stare glitters with enthusiasm.

  Bo focuses on his friend, but at times during Emil’s monologue, his eyelids flutter shut before opening again. It hits me that it’s a profound sort of happiness that makes him do that. Cool and impenetrable, Bo’s irises usually remind me of the ice you find in millennium-old glaciers. But with Nadia in his arms, his gaze is anything but arctic.

  “Guys! Sound check,” Troll barks from the doorway.

  “Let’s test out ‘Bullshit’ on the system here,” Emil suggests to Bo as they walk past me, but Troll cuts him off before Bo can answer.

  “Right, great idea. It’s not like we’re already late for sound check because someone needed a McFlurry between the airport and The Polka Dot, so why don’t we noodle away on a couple of half-finished songs too, right?”

  Troll’s volume decreases on the way to the stage. “Remember your new opening act? Well, The Boings need the stage in twenty minutes flat, so here’s my humble suggestion: we do ‘Fuck You,’ we do ‘The Entertainer,’ and then you play—”

  “Then we play ‘Bullshit?’” Emil snickers out.

  “Emil, dude. Give him a break.” There’s a warning in Bo’s pitch, but he’s entertained too. Nadia’s the only one left in the green room besides myself. I send her an amused glance. She’s got her arms folded over her chest, and she’s sucking her lips into her mouth, holding back mirth.

  “Always, huh?” I say, because in my experience, the band treats Troll like a cranky grandpa they can wind up.

  “Indeed.” Nadia lets out her chuckle, hands forming over her stomach like she’s already cramping with laughter. “Goodness knows what decides when that pack of hyenas pounces on him, but when they do, they have a ball.”

  I smile at her, Nadia, this girl from Buenos Aires. She has long, dark locks and golden skin like me. In the right outfit, she could have stepped out of the old wagons of my people. I don’t know her, don’t know her story, but the kinship is there. If she were one of us, I’d breathe a sigh of relief for her; Bo and she, they would have beaten the love fire.

  Her features sober, eyes dimming as her attention stills on me. “So… has Emil been okay since I was last out?”

  I nod. “No drinking binges. He talks about Zoe though. Or more, like, prods Bo for information. She rejects his phone calls, I guess?”

  Nadia pours herself more Diet Pepsi and tips a swallow into her mouth. “Zoe went through a lot with Emil. Has he told you what happened?”

  I shake my head and watch her fold her arms over her chest, uncomfortable. “It wasn’t good. I’m not going to throw blame around, but… anyway. Do you want to go out and watch the boys?”

  We leave the backstage area and stroll down the side to the floor. Shandor appears behind me in the dark. I don’t notice him until he clamps down on my arm. I jump, cursing under my breath, while Nadia walks on, not realizing that I’ve stopped.

  He’s got his unruly locks haphazardly held back by a bandanna. It crosses his forehead in a bright red streak and ends in a double knot at the back of his head. With a glinting stud in his ear, he suddenly reminds me of a pirate.

  “Cousin,” he says. “We need to talk.”

  I yank for him to let go of my arm. It isn’t hard to guess where his thoughts are. It upsets him that I’ve avoided being alone with him for days. On hotel nights, I share a room with Irene, so he can’t complain about that, but I have no excuse for why I’m permanently occupying her bunk on the band bus.

  “What do you want to talk about? Nadia’s waiting. I think they’re playing that new song.”

  “Shee, come on.” His grasp doesn’t let me move forward. We’re alone here at the wing of the stage, erratic calls from guitars and drums disguising our conversation.

  I’m annoyed. But Shandor and I have always had each other’s back. When my little sister almost took her life at sixteen, Shandor was there, consoling me until I found rest in sleep. He was still there when I woke up. I’ll always owe him a listen.

  “Okay. Okay! Fine. Let’s go to the green room.” I stomp back to where I came from. A look over my shoulder reveals Nadia’s quick wave from the floor. I lift my hand, two fingers up, telling her I’ll be there in a few minutes, and she nods, understanding.

  Shandor shuts the door behind him as soon as I’m inside. Then he turns to me, leaning against the door as if waiting for me to begin.

  Well, he’s got that wrong. Why would I want to start this? I’m prepared for a fight if he so desires though, and he sees it. My cousin sighs. Digs his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans before meeting my glare.

  His gaze is always feral, and today is no exception. Under the buttery ceiling light, the mixture of yellow and amber that runs in our family shines dear and crystal-bright in his irises. He’s intent, ready for a confrontation too, but at the depth of that gaze there’s an apology for what he’s about to do: butt in on my personal—my very personal life.

  “Aishe, I need to know. Is something going on between Emil and you?”

  It is true that silence can deafen.

  “Tell me.”

  “No, Shandor. There’s nothing going on between Emil and me. If there were, you’d be the first I’d tell.” I don’t even try to hide my sarcasm, and he squints, allowing the narrowest stripe of yellow to gleam out beneath his lashes.

  His mouth opens around an objection, but I add, “Because it’s what girls do; whenever we start a new relationship, we run to our cousins and brothers and dads and go into juicy details about—”

  “Stop it. I’m not messing around, okay? It’s your sanity we’re talking about, here. You know I’m not taking any chances with you. Aishe, I’ve been researching other options, and a three-woman band that does opera-inspired rock is in need of crew members. Their ad came up on Roadie Jobs this morning. They’ve got several tech positions they need to fill and even a merch opening. It’d be similar to here, just not as high profile since their following isn’t like Clown Irruption’s.”

  “I like where I am,” I clip out. “I see no reason to move on when I enjoy my job.” As I say it, the small voice of reason in my head screams, He’s right. Let’s leave while we still can.

  “Really? So you’re free of the plague then? You’ll never get it? Is there no love fire out there ready to burn your veins dry and crack your heart in two like it’s fucking glass?”

  “Shut up!”

  It’s rare that he provokes me like this, but I know him too well; every word is calculated to draw a reaction from me. He’s triggering a fight, a screaming match, which will end with me slapping him and throwing things if he gets his way.

  Oh, he sure as hell doesn’t duck away from fights. More than once, I’ve felt so bad I’ve obeyed his original wish simply because I lost it on him. That small voice of reason reminds me of this too, but I’m al
ready so angry I can’t even consider it.

  “I bet you’re the one getting poisoned! That’s it, huh? You’re projecting your crap onto me. Is it Irene you’ve got the ultra-hots for? Are you sleeping with her already, and now you don’t know what to do because you dig her so hard it’s eating you alive?”

  I have no breath left in my lungs. I hiss air in fast and rage on: “I’m not interfering in your life, so what the fuck makes you think you can keep interfering in mine? I’m twenty-three, Shandor. I don’t need a father anymore—”

  “It sure as hell looks like you do!” he shouts back.

  I barge past him and throw the door open to leave. And there’s Nadia, hand raised for the handle. Her hand hovers in the air as if she can’t decide what to do. “Sorry,” she says, eyes large. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No worries,” I mutter. “We’re done anyway.” I give her a onceover and notice that she’s exceptionally pale. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” The worried crinkle between her eyes eases in favor of a small smile. “I’m just queasy. Too much Diet Pepsi, probably. Do we have more water left?”

  My cousin doesn’t have a problem switching into professional mode. Now, he opens the cooler and pulls out a perspiring bottle of VOSS. He unscrews it and hands it to Nadia.

  With our heritage taken into consideration, it always baffles me when he does this, dim the blaze in his stare and switch into employee gear in a matter of seconds. It’s a good thing, for sure. Nadia is practically our boss’ wife, and if he had a good enough reason, Bo could fire us both in a heartbeat.

  “Thank you.” Nadia doesn’t meet Shandor’s gaze.

  I can’t hold back my apology. “Sorry you had to hear us fight,” I say. When Nadia joins us on tour, I feel like it’s my chance at female companionship. Irene and I don’t have anything in common, and the rest of the crew is male. I don’t want her to think badly of us. Or me in particular. Really, who cares what she thinks of my cousin? “I’m not sure if you knew, but Shandor and I are related. He’s practically my big brother, and he’s an overbearing ass.”

  “Ah.” Nodding over her drink, her expression clears. “That’s how my family in Buenos Aires is. I’ve got some intrusive cousins there, and the guys are the worst. Silly boys.”

  “Right?” I exclaim, dropping my hands open for both of them. Shandor raises his chin, meeting my stare. He’s too polite to say what he’s thinking in front of Nadia, but I read his mind easily: Are you kidding me right now?

  “So obnoxious,” I continue, encouraged by the grim look on his face. “Shouldn’t we be allowed to live our lives?”

  Shandor hides behind a cupped hand, part muffling his retort. “Not when you’re being fucking reckless.”

  Nadia’s jaw slackens in surprise as she flicks her gaze between us. She doesn’t speak, but her expression mirrors my response: amazement at my cousin’s barefaced intrusiveness… mixed with love for blood and family.

  “Shandor. Are you in here?” Troy grabs the doorjamb, drumsticks pointing at us before his head angles into view.

  Shandor’s gaze meets mine, amber irises dimming with resignation. “Yeah, man. I’ll be right there.”

  AISHE

  The night explodes. Without a hitch, the stage accommodates Emil’s beloved light show, LCD screens covering the back wall and illuminating the band from behind. The bulbs hit the audience at maximum wattage. No matter how far back I look, every person is soaked in green, red, or white.

  It’s a strange night. Even now, I have customers coming up to my booth. I’m situated close to a side exit with an excellent view of the stage as I complete my sales, hand gestures my way of communicating through the wall of sound. But when Emil roars out, “Oh hell yeah! You ready to have fun?” my focus shoots from the girl with a Clown Irruption top in her hands to blond hair shaking wildly on stage.

  The audience jumps, arms in the air and ready to be courted, and five songs in, Emil is so hyped he’s already bending backwards with his mic twisted above his face. Hips rocking, slowly thrusting upward, the squeals from his fans become un-miked backup vocals to the song “Careful There.”

  “We’ve got a new sponsor tonight!” he roars to the audience. “You want to know who it is?” Swiping the microphone over their heads, he encourages their callbacks.

  “Yes!” they scream.

  “You want to feel our new sponsor?”

  “Yeees!”

  Emil pauses, puffing hot breaths into the mic. I swallow to forget his nocturnal whispers, how he asks me to turn, to open, to receive, and whether I’m sure I’m ready for him.

  He crouches over his microphone, cradling rounded metal—lips touching steel—and intimately, so intimately, he mumbles, “Are. You. Sure that you want to feel them?”

  He loves his fans. I’ve never seen anyone as made for this as Emil. He can jack them into a frenzy with a simple crease of his lips. More than a job, to sing is a calling, and instead of depleting him, he feeds off of what he does.

  Screams of “YES!,” “PLEASE!,” and “GIVE IT TO US!” mingle with a “WHOOH!” that saturates the concert hall. I swell with pride even though I’m just the merch girl, a tour hookup who has no part in this man’s performance.

  Behind the sound desk, Troll jerks his head back, amused. He shakes it, a smirk spreading as the house engineer cups a hand to his ear with some comment.

  “All right! You asked for it!” Emil shouts. A husky laugh follows, making the front-row girls squeal. He swings to Bo. “They want their kisses, huh?”

  Bo nods. “Yes, yes, they do. Insatiable, I bet.” Puckering his lips in faux contemplation, he flicks a grey stare over the audience, and I understand why half the crowd is here for Bo. “A shower of kisses is the only thing that can satisfy them,” he murmurs.

  Emil hunches in over the mic again while he turns his back to the audience. “Oh yeah. But will it be— Ahh…” He focuses on Troy who’s using his brushes on the skins. Accompanied by the heartbeats from Elias’ bass, Troy’s drums build a suspense that’s so seductive even I feel it after sixty some-odd shows with them.

  “Just… will it be too… much?” Emil’s last words come out in a sobbed staccato. My body reacts on instinct, readying itself for combustion. With a look, I confirm that I’m not alone; every female in sight seems close to imploding.

  I imagine what it must feel like to be that faceless girl, the one swallowed by the sea of swooning fans, who knows she will never experience Emil as much as noticing her. I embrace how she idolizes him, with mild adoration having grown into veneration. Then the air is sucker-punched out of me as I realize that I’m not her.

  I might not be a rock star’s steady girl, but I am the groupie-turned-tour-date, the one who has his full attention, his hands, his skin, his eyes on me as he gives me the most private of pleasures and demands them from me in return.

  I feel lucky. Too lucky. I asphyxiate the plague before it rears a love fire that’s too close to high.

  Troy chuckles, voice silky. “Emil? Man,” he says while the audience quiets down to catch their conversation.

  “Yes, boo?”

  Laughter washes through the hall in a hushed whisper.

  “You think too much. They want it, and they want it bad. I vote we give it to them.” He leans in, lips caressing his own microphone and lowering his pitch to Barry Manilow depths: “Give it to them, baby.”

  Emil whips back to us and lasers a stare into the room. “All right!” Excitement radiates off him when he launches an arm high, fist clenched. “The emperor has spoken: ‘Give it to them, baby!’”

  Suddenly, the air sparkles with chocolate kisses, the spotlights following them as they fly through the air from the ceiling and the side galleries. It’s a shiny crossfire of silver, pink, and gold turned an explosion of light. Caught up in the experience, the fans whoop and laugh. Some jump to catch more kisses or play-fight with their neighbor.

  Troy ditches his brushes for dru
msticks and starts on the build-up to “The Entertainer.” In the room, individuals become one massive, moving body, jumping and flowing, dancing and singing along. The song is only on YouTube—it hasn’t even been recorded yet—but the fans scream along to every word.

  “I’m here to entertain!” they sing with Emil. “And if you’re bored when I’m done—”

  They’re about to hit the climax of the song, and I mock-cover my ears, meet Nadia’s stare from her usual spot at side of the stage. Her shoulders shake with amusement as the volume of the audience makes my eardrums ring with, “I’ll shoot a bullet through my head for your—

  Enter—

  Tain—

  Ment!”

  “Good crowd tonight,” Emil says from the ratty couch in the green room. He’s draining a glass of Jameson that was full two minutes ago. He’s got a sated glaze to his eyes, the after-show afterglow as Troll calls it.

  “That was a horrible decision,” Troll mutters. “Who the hell went behind my back and tricked my friends at The Polka Dot into bombarding the audience with chocolate? We could be sued over that. Hell, the club could be sued.” He grabs four celery sticks and smashes them into a bowl of ranch dressing before biting them all off in one efficient mouthful. Light eyes narrowed, he examines the two band members present.

  “Riiiight, careful, because what if someone in the audience took one in the eye?” Elias snorts at his own joke.

  “It was Irene,” Emil says lazily.

  “Really, you’re blaming the light designer?” Troll nods, working himself up. One of these days, he’ll develop an ulcer. “You think The Dot would accept orders from the crew? I think not.”

  Emil’s stomach contracts with a chuckle. He usually throws his shirt during concerts, but tonight he’s still wearing a short-sleeved, salmon-colored button-up—which ironically doesn’t have a single button fastened. It’s strange how the look is even hotter than no shirt at all.

  “Relax, Troll. Nothing happened,” Emil says.

  “I got it taken care of. We’re good.” Bo enters the green room with Nadia under his arm. “The girl was content with a signed poster, a few pictures with Troy and me”—he shrugs, gaze going behind him to the drummer in question—“but what sealed the deal was Troy smooching her.”