FOURTEEN: FOREIGNERS

"I's getting to de point where I can't stands dis no mores. My ball can'ts decide if dey wants to sticks to my leg or tries to get away. Pfft."

Nathan sifted through the bacon he'd made himself for breakfast. The stench of it hung in the air and the stove fan whittled away at the smoke. The least burnt piece he managed to cook fell apart when he lifted it toward his mouth. "Brutal."

"Ams you even listenings to me?"

Ever since they got back to Florida, Skwisgaar did nothing but bitch about the heat. Nathan listened for a while, having experienced for a sliver of time the difference between their respective homelands, but this topic had more than been exhausted. If the Swede couldn't handle April, Nathan would probably strangle him by July. At least now, home again, he could get away from him whenever the need struck. He'd barely seen Magnus, Murderface, or Pickles, either. "Just get used to it, like the rest of us."

"Pfft!" Skwisgaar repeated. "Dis ams already hotters dan anyt'ing I ever liveds in before—"

"JUST SHUT UP ABOUT THE STUPID WEATHER!"

Rustling and a groaning mattress preceded the master bedroom door opening. Nathan caught a glimpse of bare legs and wild black hair before Lavona disappeared down the hall. She and a group of her friends followed the band as they worked their way up California; her face became familiar in the whirlwind of ladies Nathan bedded each night, then eventually she was the only one. Her group turned back at the Oregon border, but Lavona was quite content to briefly abandon her engineering studies at Berkeley in order to pile in with the band. Even if risking her student visa might result in deportation to Germany.

Lavona rested her hands on Nathan's shoulders while she inspected his plate. "I thought it smelled like burned meat in here."

Skwisgaar eyeballed Lavona, something Nathan couldn't take personally after witnessing first hand just how undiscerningly the Swede treated the opposite sex. Roving through a crowd of ladies like a crack fiend was just another day in Dethklok, but while all the American members of the band snickered at the blond behind his back as he shamelessly made his move post-gig on some cougar, Skwisgaar was genuinely confused the next afternoon where exactly the joke lie. And then it kept happening, again and again. . .

Not that the guy, still in his late teen years, totally excluded those near his own age. Dilated pupils and mildly pursed lips as he scoped out Nathan's claim made that obvious. Lavona smelled like sex, a damp spot on her underwear further evidence of her previous night with Dethklok's vocalist. Not that anyone needed a visual or olfactory reminder; thin walls relayed everything and it'd already been passed by unanimous vote during the last band meeting that Nathan must keep his bedroom door shut at all times. The frontman rarely got around to doing laundry, and Lavona had proven Nathan's old Marine buddies right that squirters weren't some mythical creature. If he needed to air the smell of pussy out of his room, he resorted instead to his window unit for circulation.

"I need to talk to you," Lavona told Nathan. "Why don't we find some privacy?"

"Uhh. . .I kinda have a band meeting."

"It should not take long."

"Can't you just wait? Offdensen's gonna be here pretty quick."

"Hm." She pushed her lips out not unlike the Swede. "In that case, I think I get out of here for a bit. I come back later to see if you get your balls back."

"It's got nothing to do with that," Nathan grumbled as she retreated back to his room, presumably to find pants. Did she need to speak like that in front of his bandmates? As much as it irked him, that very attitude behind closed doors turned him into a complete patsy. He ignored Skwisgaar's amusement at the entire scenario and instead attempted his bacon again. Food was much easier on the road, when the band either migrated to a restaurant or had their meals brought to them. First real contact with their fans instigated a tradition of authoritarianism; some of those dildos sprung at the chance to run to Dimmu Burger for them. As Murderface discovered, they'd even shit their pants on demand.

"Heeey—Jesus feckin' Christ!" Pickles stumbled. "Who put their—? Dood, Skwisgare, I thaught you agreed naht to leave yer feckin' boots layin' around."

"Ams a hard habits to break," Skwisgaar huffed. "I still t'ink it woulds be best dat we agrees not to wears us shoe inside. You tracks all de mud in!"

"Who fucking cares? Find one square foot of carpet that doesn't have beer spilled on it. Go. Do it," Nathan goaded the lead guitarist.

"Screws you, I wear my sock around and my feet don'ts get wet."

"I notice ya don' wear the white ones anymore." Pickles pushed Skwisgaar's resultant black feet off the chair so that he could take a seat. "Any perticular reeson?"

"You ams all pig, so ja, dere am dat. I gets tired of bleaching everyt'ing."

"Then go sit in your room."

"It ams too hot. I needs to get my window t'ing fix."

"Here you go again, talking about the fucking weather. . ."

Offdensen showed up next, dressed in his usual suit. His hair's defiance against remaining flat in places forewarned Nathan without looking out a window that rain would soon flood the parking lot again. "Afternoon, boys. Where are Magnus and Murderface?"

Nathan banged his fist against the wall. A moment later, the two other guitarists appeared in the doorway. Murderface creaked his chair while Offdensen opened his briefcase and shuffled his papers about. A peek inside on the frontman's part came up with nothing more than an eyeful of legal jargon.

"Hey, you gonna finisch that?"

"Huh?" Nathan pushed his plate toward the bassist. "No, go ahead."

He regretted immediately that decision; Murderface never chewed with his mouth closed, due to difficulty breathing through his nose. Even when he tried with the band's insistence, the heavy nature of it forced them to choose the lesser of two evils. Between the grunting and smacking, protest of the bassist's seat, whirring of the stove fan, Offdensen's rustling papers, and Skwisgaar's strings, Nathan's hands balled into fists and his lips thinned. Maybe Skwisgaar was right. It was too fucking hot, too fucking cramped, and too fucking much. "Can we make this quick? I need to get out of here for a while."

"Yeeuh, me too," Pickles agreed.

"Dat am for shores."

"I won't hold you long. This is important though, so I need you all to pay attention." Offdensen finally compiled the stack of paper he sought. "I've been in contact with Roy Cornickelson, the head of Crystal Mountain Records. We've negotiated back and forth on the terms for a potential contract, and I believe he's finally conceded far enough to where signing to his label would be in your best interest."

Murderface stopped eating and Skwisgaar's fingers halted while Pickles and Magnus both accepted a copy of said agreement. The drummer rubbed his chin thoughtfully, eyes darting back and forth as he read. A sense of stupidity mixed with Nathan's irritation. Murderface wouldn't bother to peruse the thing with his status as a general tag-along and Skwisgaar had the excuse of not speaking the language well enough, but him? "What kind of terms?"

"He's, uh, willing to allow you free reign over your creativity and content, of course, and agrees to negotiate through me on deadlines, advances, things of that manner. Your royalty rate, costs considered, would be thirty-one percent. He's fighting hard for you, and I wouldn't blame him after considering projected sales, the prospective international market—"

"This all looks pritty good t'me," Pickles pushed his copy back across the table, through some bacon grease.

Nathan felt a sudden rush of gratitude toward Offdensen for offering his services back in Baltimore. They never would've gotten this far without the strings he pulled in the background. Forget heading west, forget signing anything not designed to muzzle them, forget a successful future. All Nathan knew was how to be brutal; maybe Dethklok could maintain its success without this man, but it would be so much more work. "So when does this happen, then?"

"I have a tentative meeting open for Monday, at Crystal Mountain. I'll call to confirm it, if you're all in agreement."

"And you're sure this is benefitchiary?" Nathan stumbled over the word. "I don't wanna get into something that's just gonna fuck us over in the end."

"Dood, it's fine, Nate. It's actually pritty straight forward. There ain't even no appendices 'n' crep."

"If you'd like, we can go over it all—"

"No." Nathan bowed his head. "I think I'm okay with this. Just gotta get used to the idea this is actually gonna happen. Fuck."

"Guysch. . .we're fucking schigned."

No hollering or calls for drinks followed that declaration. Business complete, Offdensen restored everything to his briefcase and excused himself. Rain clattered against the roof, the fan still whirred away, and Nathan couldn't pinpoint what exactly welled up in his chest. Was it apprehension? Shock? Look at all these dildos he sat with. Murderface hunkered down on his meal, Skwisgaar was unreadable as he commenced practicing his instrument, Pickles toyed with the eyebrow piercings he'd accumulated during one of his public drunkenness spells, and Magnus slouched with his arms crossed. They'd just spent a solid nine weeks bringing mayhem to the masses, yet at the same time nearly driving themselves to murder over their idiosyncrasies. Murderface only washed when they pinned him, Magnus always had to have the last word in every conversation or argument, Skwisgaar harboured no shame about how intimately they knew his sex life, and Pickles constantly disappeared on them. But despite all that, Nathan accepted this. These dildos were his dildos. The five of them created something magnificent within this conglomerate. Who were they on their own, but a bunch of sad humps? Here, though, here. . .

He punched Murderface in the arm. "I'm fucking going to the bar. Who's coming with?"

Their most frequent haunt always welcomed them with open arms, at the prospect of surged revenue. Nathan paid for the first round, followed by Pickles, then the majority of the other patrons trickled away as the band branched out. A pair of familiar hands laid on Nathan's shoulders again; not exactly caring what Lavona had to say, he pulled her onto his lap. Magnus and Skwisgaar too pursued some sort of audience with a female. The former leaned back against the bar as he smooth-talked some blonde and the Swede probably already had his dick out in the alley, or something. Murderface stood to 'collect on' Magnus' blonde's friend, and Pickles staggered toward the bar in order to get some more shots.

"Congratulations," Lavona purred in Nathan's ear. "I wondered when it would finally happen."

"Yeah," was all Nathan could manage without slurring.

"Is something to celebrate." Lavona twisted some of his hair around her finger. "I have an idea."

"Whassat?"

"Also because of what I wanted to talk to you about this morning. I need to go back to California for to write my exams. So this will have to end for now."

"Hm." That sucked. Not many other ladies could handle taking him in the back door, let alone enjoyed it. Tears never turned Nathan on.

"So let's do something a little different tonight." Lavona lowered her voice as Pickles neared. "Let's get someone else and have a threesome."

"A—? Really?" Nathan accidentally found himself in such a scenario a few times on the road when ladies tripped a little more than usual over themselves to get close to him. It was overwhelming, with too many tits to grab, too many hands on his body. . .but it was totally fucking awesome.

"I get to pick who, though."

"Shaaaahhhhts!" Pickles slopped them a little when he reached the table, dreadlocks gone wayward. "Come git yer shaaahhhts!"

Oblivion hovered beyond the table; Magnus had yet to return, but a dejected Murderface and skanky-wielding Skwisgaar did. Rain trickled down Nathan's back when they finally got booted out not long before dawn. Lavona led him home and all but a yet-again-disappeared drummer followed in their wake. Nathan forgot all about the German's suggestion until he haphazardly undressed. He sat at the edge of his bed with only his jeans left on when Lavona reentered the room with a blond—oh. "Uhh. . ."

"What, dids you ever t'ink dat maybes before she go, someone else mights want to take a cracks at her?"

"I thought you meant another chick," Nathan directed at Lavona.

"Come on, quit being such a repressed American," she teased. He remained unsure as she straddled his hips, but the alcohol in his system allowed him to at least consider it. It wasn't like he and Skwisgaar had to touch or make eye contact or acknowledge the other, right? They simply porked the same lady and reaped the benefits that came with another male present. For instance, the Swede pushing aside the miniscule amount of denim that kept Lavona's shorts together impelled her to hum around Nathan and attempt to take him deeper than she'd ever before managed. Usually she hated it if he pulled her hair, but she sure didn't mind it now.

"Du har mjuk hud. . ." Whether she understood or not, Lavona shifted as necessary for Skwisgaar to rid her completely of clothing. Was that sort of talk the blond's secret? Nathan almost got the impression that he intruded on something when he open his eyes enough to further observe Skwisgaar's method. Even Lavona, get-it-in-get-it-done as she could sometimes be, enjoyed a change from the stress normally placed upon her body. She arched her back as the Swede kissed down her spine, hair raising gooseflesh as far as her shoulders as it brushed her skin. Skwisgaar pushed her fleshy backside apart and—Nathan quit watching. The woman loved it, judging by her nails' bite on the small of the frontman's back, but people did that? Really?

Not that Nathan put anything against Skwisgaar. His head stayed between Lavona's legs when her ass warmed Nathan's lap. The frontman braced her by the crooks of her knees; his hips moved by their own accord and he ignored as best he could that blond hair tickled his balls. But okay, the added pressure of Skwisgaar fingering her was definitely breaking down Nathan's reservation about another man being in his room like this.

Lavona's entire body quivered, warming the frontman wherever their skin pressed. Before Nathan could warn the other man, Skwisgaar sat up with a bewildered expression on his face and glistening skin from his chin to his bellybutton. Some dripped from his elbow.

"Ja, it happens," Lavona confirmed between pants. Despite it, she leaned back more against Nathan. "Doesn't mean you have to stop."

Skwisgaar wiped down with his shirt and pushed the air simultaneously from Nathan and Lavona's lungs. Okay, that was tight. Really tight. And he could feel the other man moving inside her. Only after, when sense somewhat returned, did Nathan realize just how much he and Skwisgaar's legs had to touch in order to make it possible. Good thing the Swede left fairly quickly—or Nathan assumed he did, anyway. Too drunk to know or care, he pushed Lavona to the side of his bed she'd claimed and let the spinning room fade from his consciousness.

"Hey." Someone shook his shoulder. Nathan forgot to close the blinds, it seemed. He grumbled and lifted the blanket up over his head until his eyes adjusted. Lavona stood over him in the sunlight, showered and groomed, in a pair of jeans and tee shirt. "I'm heading for the bus station."

"You are?" Nathan also forgot that she had somewhere to go. "Right."

"Thanks for letting me come back here a while. It was fun. Maybe I'll see you if your band plays close to where I'm at."

"Cool."

A weak body and lingering scent of Lavona reminded Nathan all too acutely what happened. Uncertainty poisoned his calmness as he leaned against the wall in the shower. Oh god. He—maybe he couldn't realize it last night, inhibitions low, but he and Skwisgaar kind of fucked in some sense, didn't they? It was dubious, at best. But better safe than sorry, right? Maybe they'd gotten a bit too crazy. . .Lavona kind of had that effect on whoever she hung around. It bothered him enough to seek Skwisgaar out.

The Swede sat up on the edge of his bed, already at his guitar for the day. Before he could get a word out, Nathan laid it out as simply as possible: "We're not gonna talk about that, all right? And it's never going to happen again."

"Pfft." Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Typicals repress Americans."

"It's not repressed. It's gay. And I'm not. I don't know what's normal for you people over in Sweden—or Germany—but we don't do that here. Got it?"

"Just means next time you won'ts be includeds."

Did Skwisgaar just admit—? Nope, let it go. He's just saying. "You do whatever you want. Just try to, you know. Keep it under wraps."

"Likes you and her?"

"She's gone."

"Ja." The Swede's fingers did a quick burst over the frets. "We fucks a bit forst. No bigs deal."

Nathan stared at Skwisgaar, then retreated back into his room. Foreigners. Fucking foreigners. Were they all like this, so blatant, open, and explorational in their sexuality? The frontman missed, just for the moment, having a band consisting entirely of Americans. At least then, he didn't have to lay in bed and wonder what degree of gay this surely made him.