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WitFit Jan/Feb 2013

90's Sex, drugs and rock-n-roll

Word Prompt: Graceful

Plot Generator – Phrase Catch: Playing for keeps

-PoM-

"You know I wish you were here."

I sighed. "I do. But you know I can't right now."

The conversation I'd had with Edward after their D.C. show had been floating in my mind for a few days. Much better than the disastrous attempt of a phone call we'd had when he was in NYC, we'd been able to spend a quiet hour talking and catching up, and he'd apologized for hanging up so rudely that night—he'd assured me it wasn't intentional, and I believed him.

Especially when he told me that Ben—drunk as a skunk and showing off for the girls he and Jasper had brought back with them—had barged in to the room sans pants and attempting a windmill.

Rose actually backed that story up.

"Stupidest thing I've ever seen, chick. It's like they try to outdo each other with who can be more asinine."

Now, I was counting down the days until they would all be home. Eighteen days was all I had to get through—we were in the home stretch and I did my best to fill the time with work, even putting in extra hours when Peter would allow it. Unfortunately, the meeting I'd had set up for today was off to a late start.

James was a hard man to pin down for a chat, and the whole ordeal had soured my opinion of him further than the night of the show. First he couldn't speak to me right away because he and his band were "brainstorming" and couldn't be disturbed. Then a week went by where he insisted he was resting his vocal chords.

Peter became increasingly aggravated, but not at me this time. Finally, when he threatened to yank the write-up completely, James had agreed to an afternoon sit-down (which, apparently, wouldn't cut in to his very busy schedule) with me at B&O Espresso—a coffeehouse near the office that was always heavily populated and therefore in accord to my compromise with Edward.

Strangely, his diva act made me appreciate Jasper for once. At least he understood the importance of good press, and how not to be a dick to those who could slam you and your attitude to thousands of readers.

I checked my watch, again, and saw that thirty minutes had passed since the interview was set to begin. Sighing, I stood up and started to gather my things. I'd just pushed my last notebook in to my bag when James showed up and sauntered toward me, smug smile painting his mouth.

"Sorry I'm late. I had to drop someone off before I came over here."

And yet he didn't think to leave earlier . . . oh, no. not that.

"We'll have to make do with the time I have left then," I said, wanting to get this over with and put the whole thing behind me. I sat back down, pulled out the notebook I'd written my questions in, a recorder, and a pen.

He glanced at the empty mug I'd left on the table. "Can I get you something else to drink?"

Wondering if he was just sucking up now, I hesitated. "Sure, a latte would be great."

I studied him as he stood at the counter: average height; sandy colored tied back; plaid shirt under a leather jacket and jeans tucked into combat boots.

Good looking guy and it seemed he at least knew how to turn on charm for . . . some ladies. The female barista behind the counter was clearly engaged in some heavy flirtation with him . . . the patrons in line behind him, though, were not amused.

"Join the club," I muttered under my breath.

"I think an apology is in order," he said as he returned with our coffees. "I'm really sorry about the other night. Things get kind of hectic after a show." The lines near his eyes crinkled as he smiled, making his face appear somewhat more attractive.

"No big. I understand how that whole scene can be," I lied, trying to be professional.

"That's right. I'd heard some buzz that you and Cullen were a thing. I gotta say, that surprised me."

"Oh, really?" I didn't like his smile all of a sudden. It seemed false, too calculating.

"Yeah. He was with Tanya before you—that girl, man . . . she's a tiger. I'd be reluctant to let a girl like that get away."

The words stung . . . as he must have known they would. Like there was something inferior about me when placed next to Tanya.

"But I can see your appeal," he said, continuing on as if he hadn't just sliced my belly open. "You've got that sweet, innocent thing going on. He's gone right now, isn't he? You must get lonely . . ."

Asshole.

"It's an adjustment period," I said after I'd gained the use of my voice.

"Yes, it certainly is."

I glanced down at my notebook, saw a question I'd already decided would make a good jumping off point for the start of the interview. Now, though, I hoped it would allow me to save face and also get a subtle dig back in. I gave him a false laugh. "Enough about my relationship, though; Edward's on the East coast currently doing some promotional stuff, and I'm here to tell my local readers about you. You've played some shows as far away as Portland, from what I understand. How much do you find playing away from your home base of the Seattle area a challenge?"

He didn't expect it, that I could tell, and he gave me an answer that might as well have been any sound bite ever played on MTV by countless others about the excitement of home being different, but not in a bad way, from that while on the road.

". . . It's awesome to see reaction from all over," he finished, and drained his cup.

And, if the reaction of the people at the show I'd attended was anything to go by, Vertical Fish were on the fast track to being a one-hit wonder.

"You began your career in Sacramento, played with SATO for close to a year, and then hooked up with the members of Vertical Fish. What about the Seattle area do you find inspires your music?"

"Wow. You do your homework."

"It's my job to be informed—for instance, I know you currently play a 1989 Fender Strat Plus. This is all easy stuff to find out." Truthfully, I had gotten most of it from Leah.

"That's a great guitar. The sounds it makes . . . beautiful, right?"

"Indeed. Now, about Seattle."

"Well . . . I like Seattle. It's grittier than my hometown, more real. The darkness, the weather and the feel of the citizens, feeds in to our sound, definitely."

At this second bit of bullshit, I nodded, and then switched directions. "That leads nicely into my next question. How was the decision made to change the personality and sound of the band? Was it more to suit your own style or a group effort?"

"Fuck. You go straight for the heart, don't you?"

"No, it seems to me the obvious question. The Fish had a loyal following with what they were doing before, why the change?"

"I felt a need to create something new and different from what everyone else was doing."

"And how has that worked for you and the band?"

He sat up, a little defensive. "We're doing all right. A record deal is right around the corner; I've talked to some people."

"Any bites?"

For those words I scaled back the snark in my tone, relaxed my body language some. After the rapid fire pace of my earlier questions it felt a little like good-cop/bad-cop, and he seemed bewildered when I nodded and smiled along to his name-dropping.

Eventually he relaxed, too, chatting with me about the new sound and his expectations for the band. Every once in a while I'd throw in something out of left field—asking him about his favorite spot in Seattle, favorite musicians and early influences to keep it professional.

Besides, I thought I'd made my point in showing that I wasn't some silly girl who was here to kiss his feet and allow him to trample common decency in regards to personal things that weren't any of his business.

I got the impression, as I'd done the night of the concert and Leah and Edward's opinions, that the new direction was James-centric and it bummed me out for the other members of the Fish. They were good guys, but on the current path . . . it was only a matter of time before the band broke up.

After one more question about the theatrics of their live shows, I was satisfied that I had enough for the article. It hadn't been intended as a full length feature anyway. I looked at my watch, saw that it had only been twenty five minutes.

"I think that about does it. Thank you for your time, James."

"You're done already?"

"Yes, I have what I need." I started to gather my things when he put his hand on my arm.

"I never really got to apologize for the other night. I was outta line."

"Yes, you were. I received the flowers. Thank you, they made for a sufficient apology."

"Yes, but I'd love to make it up in some other way. We could go grab some dinner, get to know each other, maybe talk some more about music . . ."

He gave me a look that suggested he had more in mind, and I wondered if the guy was so self-assured that he thought dodging me for weeks only to then insult me would land him in my pants. And if that was the way he treated his hangers-on, I felt sorry for his groupies.

"Thank you for the offer, but I really need to get home and get this finished."

"What's the rush? You said yourself Edward is away, and you know how that goes. What's the harm in hanging out with me tonight?"

Again with the implied insults. Because, yes, I did know how that went—for him. I also knew that Edward, while not always perfect, wasn't an asshole.

"I'm on a deadline for this piece. Unfortunately it should have been published weeks ago but there've been some scheduling conflicts that pushed it back. If I don't get this turned in to my editor, the momentum will be lost. You understand, I'm sure. So, you have a great rest of the afternoon, and thank you so very much for speaking with me."

And, I left.

-PoM-

Later that evening, I was curled up on the couch with a pint of ice cream and catching up on the latest news. Rose had insisted we get cable before she left because she wanted to stay current with everything she could. I flipped through the channels and tuned it to MTV in hopes that I could catch a glimpse of any mention of the band.

While the opening to The Week In Rock played in the background, I casually thumbed through my notes from the interview with James. Peter had already been briefed on it, knew that I'd had some difficulty but that, even after some insults that I wasn't sure were aimed at me or Edward, that I'd gotten what I needed and hadn't even stuck my spoon up the douchebag's nose for being so rude.

Now I just had to make sure that my personal feelings toward the guy didn't come through in my words—any obvious, heavy criticism after that sideshow would probably be called into question, and I did not want that. I also thought it'd be a good challenge to turn in something that would impress Peter while remaining constructively critical.

The familiar voice of Kurt Loder filled the room, and I nodded along to a cut of an upcoming Unplugged show I was looking forward to seeing.

"And, with the upcoming release of their debut album . . ."

The bumper music made me look up sharply.

"Oh my god! Oh my god!" Screaming as a still picture flashed onscreen, I tossed my ice cream on to the table in front of me and grabbed for the remote.

Arranged in a row of two, with Edward and Emmett—the two tallest—in back, all five of the guys sat in a darkened studio being interviewed. I knew it had to be pre-recorded because they'd already left NYC, but it was still so cool to watch. The reporter was a new face, but enthusiastic, and I loved the vibe he had with the guys.

Because of the mostly wide shot, Edward's face was on screen a lot, and I drank in his features, the small smiles and the casual way he spoke. His hair was too long, the scruff of his jaw unkempt, but it had been so long since I'd seen his face I didn't care. Somehow, though, he felt farther away than ever, and I missed him so much right then that it made my breath feel heavy in my lungs.

There was something about his demeanor that made me think he was irritated, or maybe fatigued, about halfway through, and I wondered if it had been the day he said he'd begun giving bullshit answers just to break up the tedium.

Jasper did most of the talking, the rest of the guys chiming in only occasionally. When Edward was asked a direct question his voice was a little testy. He'd always been so professional with fans and media types and I knew then that something was wrong.

After the segment, I hurried to look through the list of stops on their tour that Rose had left for me. I found the destination I was looking for and picked up the phone, using the calling card she'd left for me to call the hotel they were at in Detroit.

"City morgue; you kill 'em, we chill 'em."

"Nice, Rose. Jeez, I miss you guys so much, lame jokes and all."

"Hey, Bella! Sorry, someone figured out Emmett's false name and we've been getting the stupidest calls since we got in."

"Oh, that's just fantastic. Any good ones?"

"Couple of heavy breathers. We started speaking nonsense languages and they eventually hung up. Anyway, what's up?"

"Well, I just saw the MTV interview . . . "

"Yeah. I was in the room for that one. Not bad, but your boyfriend is a complete crab ass. Everything going all right between you two? I've heard of brooding, but this is ridiculous."

"No, we're good. I think it's just that we're just a long way away from each other."

"Well, I wish your ass was here."

"That's why I called. I need your help."

-PoM-

When Peter had chastised me for bailing on my interview with James, he'd still been very polite about it. When I didn't know something, or made some smaller mistake, he always explained patiently what I'd done wrong. Every day I was grateful that he was my boss because I couldn't have asked for a better one. Right now, I thought he should be considered for Sainthood.

Because, on last minute notice, he allowed me to take off for a week with a promise that my article would be sent in via fax in two days time—and that I would promise to not only do the edits on it as soon as he sent them back, but that I would get an 'inside scoop' on the guys' shows on the opposite coast to let the local fans know how it was going.

I agreed, thanked him profusely, and made myself a promise to babysit his kid if he ever complained about needing a night out with his wife.

With a fresh notebook, my things from my interview with James, and a walkman fresh with new batteries and my favorite CDs, I boarded the long flight to Cincinnati and got a jumpstart on my work.

Rose had left the most recent info she had, but I was on my own when it came to logistics—and I'd be eating soup for the next month to swing the trip, but that was inconsequential. I'd made up my mind after seeing the interview that I was going to do what was best for me and Edward because I was playing for keeps.

Lugging a huge duffel bag and my backpack crammed with work stuff with me, I took a cab to the theater they were playing and picked up a VIP pass Rose had thankfully left for me at the ticket window. My bags got some odd looks, but after the bouncer rifled through it and began stammering when he got the bottom layer that held my underthings, he let me go inside.

It was packed inside, already dark and the band was jamming onstage to one of my favorite songs, a fist pumping anthem that always got crowds going. I navigated my way through, got backstage and was pointed to the guys' dressing room by a helpful member of one of the opening bands.

Free of my stuff, I headed toward the spot I knew Rose liked to watch shows from, a vantage point where she could keep an eye on everything on and off stage.

I tapped her on the shoulder.

"You're here!" She threw her arms around me and rocked me back and forth, squeezing the life out of me. "Emmett already knows, but he's been ordered to keep it a secret. Ed's gonna be so fucking amped."

"They sound great," I said in return. "This crowd is nuts."

"Aren't they? Every show has gotten a little bigger, a little more wild. The reception has been amazing."

And there she went being honest again. I focused my attention on stage, watched Edward as he played alongside Tyler. Tyler looked better, like he'd picked up some of his weight again and that, alongside being in the same zip code as Edward once more, made my heart feel lighter than it had in weeks.

Emmett, looking to our side of the wings, caught sight of me and his face broke into a huge grin.

"C'mon" Rose shouted. "You can see him better from over here."

She gracefully maneuvered me to stage left where I could get a clear view of Edward, and my body began to move along with his, both of us nodding our heads as he sang. His hair covered his eyes, obscuring his face, as he bent over his guitar and made it wail.

Jasper caught sight of me then and slowly worked his way to Edward. Nudging him, he nodded his head in my direction before launching into his solo.

Edward turned to look and a slow, easy smile appeared on his face. Striding directly to me with his guitar in hand, he stepped slightly out of sight of the audience and slid a hand into my hair, his lips meeting mine in a fierce, quick kiss.

Not missing a beat, he let go, a little more energy in his step when he went back out there and killed the rest of the show.

-PoM-

This is a journey and I am so glad you are here for the ride.

No Excuses – Alice In Chains

xo BT for kickin' ideas with me.