Thunderstruck
Chapter Sixteen
"Shed a tear 'cause I'm missin' you
I'm still alright to smile
Girl, I think about you every day now
Was a time when I wasn't sure
But you set my mind at ease
There is no doubt you're in my heart now"
-Patience, Guns N' Roses
"That's not your real name, is it?" Sandor wasn't drunk enough to be this much of an asshole. He could play the part, though. He lifted the glass to his lips and stared down the bartender who offered him just as much patience as he did booze.
The Frenchman lowered his eyes and laughed, more gracious than Sandor would've been if the roles were reversed.
"It is. Pierre is…uh…like Peter."
He spoke in a heavy accent, but somethings were universal. Pierre smiled in a terse way that meant he wasn't interested in conversation; not this one at least. The man wandered down the bar to serve another customer. It was just as well. Sandor wasn't up for talking. And what the fuck did he have to say to Pierre of all people?
For a third night in a row, Sandor drank at the bar and Pierre was either too polite to ask what Sandor's problem was or he didn't know the right words to sustain what would be a cumbersome conversation.
It didn't stop Pierre from eying Sandor and asking if he was okay. When Sandor looked at him like he had a dick growing out of his forehead, Pierre had motioned to Sandor's glass containing nothing but one large and mostly melted ice cube. He realized then the man didn't give a shit about his emotional state, only whether or not he wanted another drink. These days Sandor always wanted another.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I look like shit.
First class flights were wasted on him. He didn't sleep. He didn't eat. He'd have to drink his weight in booze to make up for the cost. They'd landed two mornings ago, and he powered through the jet lag by cutting through the Jardin de Tuileries and wandering the street along the Seine.
He'd seen it all before—Notre Dame hadn't changed; still just an old ass church. The river was still lined with vendors selling over-priced garbage. The Champs-Élysées was still just as crowded. He loved Paris, partially for all these reasons. The city never really changed. Rain or shine, it soldiered on and, in a particularly thoughtful moment, Sandor mused he might have a thing or two to learn from it.
A familiar face approached from behind and settled in the empty stool next him.
"We're in Paris and you're at a hotel bar." Thoros's boisterous chuckle drew the attention from the handful of patrons in the dusky, mahogany-encased space. Jazz softly lilted from a pianist in the corner and at tremendous odds with Thoros's chaotic presence.
"Only place I've found that sells bourbon," Sandor said and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
It was a lie. If he looked hard enough, he'd find another bar with another Pierre or Antoine or Claude who would serve him bourbon with a side of wayward judgement. This was Paris. Anything he wanted he could find here. Almost anything, at least.
Thoros had oiled his beard and slicked back his hair that he neatly bundled at the nape of his neck, a flourish he normally didn't bother with. His flushed cheeks and the way he swayed in his seat said he'd been at the bottle too, but for much different reasons probably.
"The whole point is to try something new, man. Branching out is the allure."
With hawk-eyed precision, Thoros turned as a group of women marched into the bar in a cacophony of clacking heels and buttery laughter. Each carried a half a dozen shopping bags emblazoned with some well-known designer's name. They spoke in flawless French to one another and one waved down Pierre with a delicate flick of the wrist and a red-lipped smirk.
"Some of the most beautiful women in the world here," Thoros commented and matched Sandor's eyes to cement the suggestion.
The women were beautiful, but in an effortless and understated way. They didn't hide behind teased hair and gobs of hideous blue eyeshadow. Their beauty was subtle and somehow more feminine for trying less hard to be so. Sandor could appreciate them in the same way he could appreciate all those paintings hanging in the Louvre—objectively from a distance and knowing damn well they looked better here than they ever would in his home.
Stunning though they were, the gaggle of French women did nothing for him other than remind him of why he was drinking in the first place because Sansa was gorgeous in that same way that didn't have to try. And if he thought too hard or drank too little, he was face-to-face with missing her more than he could take.
"Not interested," Sandor grunted and downed the rest of his drink. The glass slammed to the bar top harder than he intended, and Pierre cut a curt glance in Sandor's direction as if a bull had suddenly stumbled into Pierre's personal china shop.
"Not interested in what?" Thoros stroked his beard that framed a wicked grin. "New women or new booze?"
"Both."
Pierre ambled over and, without hesitation or even eye contact, snatched up the bourbon bottle to pour another round.
"I'll just take the check," Sandor said and covered his glass with his palm.
"That bad, huh?" Thoros swiveled in his stool towards Sandor, all out of smiles now and well-meaning suggestions. They all were. Each of his bandmates had tried in some way to curb the damage that'd already been done. They'd joke or make awkward attempts at a heart-to-heart that always fell flat even if it came with the best of intentions.
"Looks like it." Sandor tossed down a fistful of Francs and shoved them across the bar. Pierre could sort it out. In three nights, he trusted the man enough to assume he wouldn't take Sandor to the cleaners for his ignorance of the currency. And if he did, Sandor didn't rightly give a fuck.
Thoros folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. "You're a strange cat, you know that?"
"Why?" Sandor had been called many things before, most not so favorable, but this particular observation was the first.
Thoros laughed again, this time quieter; a soft exhale, a shake of the head, and something shifting in the man, a sudden understanding. He stared in earnest at Sandor.
"You break up with a chick right before tour. You're an ocean and seven time zones away from her. For most men, it'd be out of sight, out of mind. Off to the races. Nothing and no one to hold you back from taking full advantage." Thoros paused and seemed to measure his words. When he spoke again, it was with unusual gentleness; at least as gentle as a man like Thoros could manage without becoming self-conscious about his masculinity. "But you're not most men. And she's not just any woman, is she?"
"No, she's sure not," Sandor said and felt exposed without a drink in his hand, but it was too late now. Pierre brought his change and Sandor tucked most of it away in his pocket. The rest he left on the bar. It was the least he could do for Pierre offering enough patience—or maybe just staid aloofness—to deal with Sandor.
"Why'd you do it then?" Thoros pressed and it was the first time anyone had asked him this; not even Sally, who Sandor knew damn well was burning to know.
It was the million-dollar question, but he had no simple answer, neatly packaged and prepped to deliver to anyone who might ask. He always had an answer to this question for women who'd tried to get too close to him—too needy, too demanding, too fame-whoring. There was always something, always a reason to keep his distance, an out if he ever needed to hit the eject button. With Sansa, there was no answer; other than he was out of his depth and too scared shitless to deal with it.
He was face-to-face with perhaps the first real thing he'd ever encountered, and he'd bolted rather than face down the prospect of her slipping away. Gentle, soft-spoken, kind-hearted Sansa was the real powerhouse here, the one summoning up the strength and conviction where he'd faltered and failed her.
"I don't know," was all he said with a shrug and fumbled through an answer. "I felt like she deserved more; someone who can be there for her. We all know how it goes. We're gone for months; only back for a few nights at a time. City after city—it's the same old shit. Weird hours, crazy travel schedule, never home for long. She deserves more than that."
Tipsy as he was, Thoros buzz-sawed through the bullshit and right to the chase.
"You mean she deserves more than you, as if you're not enough? Because that's what it's really about, man. I'm no fool. I can see it. Well, let me tell you this—you're tough as nails, Sandor, but you're a good man. You deserve good things. And she's a good woman! I aint shit for math problems, but I'm pretty sure that adds up to you deserving her!"
Thoros's voice grew loud again with vigor and he slammed an open fist on Sandor's back a bit harder than he probably intended but smiled more sincerely than Sandor could remember.
"I made a mistake," Sandor admitted, more to himself than Thoros, but the man heard it and tried his best at consolation.
"Look, I'm sure she'll take you back." Thoros stood from the stool and shoved it clumsily back under the bar. "Tell her you're sorry, get on your knees, whatever it takes, man. You'll figure it out."
Sandor searched his face for the glimmer of understanding he'd seen in Thoros a moment ago, but the man was within spitting distance of being shit-faced. The meaning sailed right over Thoros's head as he leered at the table of French women all sipping on cappuccinos now.
The mistake wasn't so simple as prematurely pulling the plug on the greatest thing that'd ever happened to him. He didn't really ponder much about God or the Universe, but if anything was looking out for this shit-show planet, it did him a solid by bringing Sansa into his life and Sandor had done the karmic equivalent of giving that God or whatever the hell it was the middle finger.
That mistake could be forgiven. This wasn't about that. This was about a choice he had made; one he'd been making for years. It was his crutch, the excuse he used to never put down roots, to keep people at arm's length a safe distance away. There were always tours to go on and towns to make. Never once had he considered just not doing it and he never really had a reason until now and, when that reason showed up, he was too stupid or scared or some combination of both to actually make a call and pull the trigger.
There were ways to make this work, if he tried hard enough and if he wanted it enough. He'd left Sansa crying in the dingy hallway of some venue thinking that she wasn't important enough for him to try, that he didn't want her badly enough to make it work. That was the egregious mistake, the one he feared was unforgivable, and he wouldn't blame her if it was because he had the audacity to wax lyrical to her about truth then he couldn't even face his own.
"Sure you're not interested in expanding your tastes?" Thoros coaxed and propped himself up against the bar.
Sandor nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure. You have a good night. Don't do anything stupid," he chuckled, the odd rumble in his throat feeling foreign to him these days.
"You know I don't make promises like that," Thoros winked at him and retreated from the bar, across the hotel lobby, and out into the streets beyond.
Sandor wasn't far behind. He had to eat somewhere, so he shrugged into his leather jacket, thanked Pierre who looked all too pleased to finally offload him, and made for the streets. Outside, the sun had long set and gave way to a clear, chilly night marred only by the thin wisps of clouds that floated above and a heaviness he just couldn't shake.
The humid air puffed from his lips in white clouds as he walked along the Seine, which was quieter now with the vendors packed up for the evening and Parisians tucked warmly away in candlelit brasseries. He passed dozens on his walk and yet his appetite never came. He couldn't stomach the thought of food and not even another drink.
Even at this late hour, the city hummed with life and dazzled with light. He sought simultaneous quiet and distraction. It was too much to ask for both, so he cut down a side street of old stones until the city's pulse faded behind him.
Real life existed here—small businesses, family flats with flower boxes lining the balconies, and cafes with scarcely more than a handful of people who watched with curious eyes as an interloper made his way into their quaint, secluded existence.
Sandor turned a corner to head back for the hotel on the quieter path. His footfalls echoed in the hollow street until another sound joined in. At the far end of the block, a waiter whistled to himself and swept under bistro tables that sat beneath a cafe's crimson awning. The tune grew louder and more melodic as Sandor neared. The repeated notes gained some conviction and, when Sandor passed the waiter, the mustachioed man tipped his head to him and continued his work stacking chairs and sweeping out cigarette ash and crumbs to a cobblestone street.
Something about the tune stuck as if on a loop in his head. Long after he turned another corner and it faded into silence, Sandor held onto a few measures in his mind. At the end of the day, he found the quiet distraction he was after in a whistled melody, just subtle enough to appeal to him.
When he reached his hotel, Sandor went straight for the elevator, up to his room, and fumbled through the dark until he reached the writing desk in front of the window that overlooked the street below. He didn't bother with the lights, just the single desk lamp that illuminated the space beneath it in a small globe of light.
He sat beneath it, pen in hand. On hotel stationery, the words came—simple and honest and backed by a whistled tune he just couldn't shake. He wasn't a lyricist, not like Harwin who could whip up words to a song like it was no harder than breathing or Bronn who had a penchant for the darker content of their music.
Every sentiment that'd escaped him came in a deluge now; all the things he couldn't say. Somewhere along the line he'd bottled it up and drowned it in a sea of bourbon to keep it from his door. But the perpetual buzz he'd nursed for the past week and half began to fade and the sober clarity it left behind demanded he look it in the face and pay his dues. And so, he did with each written word, bleeding himself dry on the page.
Sandor finished just as midnight crept up on him, but the relief was only temporary and rapid on its heels came the urgent desire to make it right, to fix what he'd broken. He picked up the phone and fumbled through the extra digits to place a long-distance call. Halfway through Sansa's number, Sandor hesitated.
He had to make her see and understand; he had to make it right and make it better and he couldn't do that holed up in a fucking hotel room in Paris while she was thousands of miles away from him. It wouldn't translate over the phone, but once more he was stuck between competing desires—the indelible urge to put things to right and the knowledge that over the phone just wasn't the way to do it. In the end, he couldn't afford to bungle this. If he had one shot to take, it wasn't going to be this way.
The line shrilled with a robotic repeated tone and Sandor hung up the phone. There wasn't much he couldn't sleep off—hangovers, bad gigs, and apparently this. Sandor did barely more than shuck out of his jacket and boots and crawled into bed for a night of blackout sleep; no dreams, no waking in the middle of the night, no staring up at the ceiling with regret and turmoil as his constant bedfellow. Just pure bliss of nothingness until Beric pounded on the door the next day and wailed in falsetto on the other side.
"Fuck off!" Sandor bellowed and pulled a pillow over his head.
"You alone in there?" Thoros shouted and ratta-tapped a rhythm at the door, intent to drive Sandor to the depths of insanity or rage-induced homicide. Either would suffice.
His bandmates took his silence to mean he wasn't alone and bawdy laughter resounded in the hall. By now, the other hotel guests were no doubt just as irritated as Sandor.
"It's almost noon. Meet us downstairs in an hour," Beric yelled. "That's plenty of time for one more go around with her."
Sandor rolled to his back and pressed the pillow to his face. They could think what they wanted. He didn't care. He just wanted to sleep, but that was shot to shit now so Sandor rolled out of bed and stumbled to the shower.
The ice-cold water did the trick to wake him up, but little to lift his mood. He was awake, but miserable though blessedly had been spared a hangover. Out of the shower, he pulled on a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt and grabbed his wallet from the desk.
Three pages of lyrics stared up at him. He put them on the page and brought them to life and now he'd not only have to live with the harsh reality, but also come to terms with it, word by written word. He gathered the pages and almost tossed them in the trash, but, in a split decision, folded them up and tucked them in his back pocket on the way out the door.
Sandor beat his bandmates to the lobby of the hotel by at least twenty minutes and they might've busted his balls for it or pressed for all the lurid details of the woman he supposedly bedded last night. Instead, they found him eased back on some cushy settee, legs stretched out in front of him, back and head against the wall, and his eyes obscured by his aviators.
Hands interlaced over his middle, Sandor acknowledged them with nothing more than a faint nod, but otherwise didn't stir. Their tepid yet delicate greetings to him said they knew—knew the last thing he would've done last night was take a chick to bed and the last thing he wanted right now was to be fucked with. They said precious little and waited for the van to pull up out front. When it did, Cannibal Star silently filed out of the hotel and piled in.
Thoros reeked of booze, enough so that Bronn warned no-one to light up a cigarette around him. As for Bronn, he sported a grin that said he'd had his fun last night. Harwin fell asleep with his cheek pressed against the window and Beric fussed to their tour manager in the front seat about how they were already late, and Sandor spoke what they were all surely thinking when he broke Beric's balls for being a diva.
Late was relative. They rolled up to the arena five hours before the doors were even set to open. Back home, they wouldn't even consider getting here this early, but this wasn't a hometown show. The arena was sold out; 30,000 seats that meant a congruent amount of effort went into the production. Stage set-up, lights, pyro, smoke, sound—it all had to be perfectly orchestrated to their tour manager's vision, which was over-the-top and too gaudy for Sandor's taste. He missed the simpler times when it wasn't such a cluster fuck of shit that could go sideways and label wonks whose jobs were on the line if it did.
Sound check was veritable torture. Beric had fine-tuned his ears over the years for the right mix; as loud as they could be without drowning out one component or the other until it all muddled together. Everything had to be crisp and precise and perfect and Beric thought he knew better than most sound engineers who begged to differ.
The majority of sound check was Beric second guessing and double checking their work that most times eventually led to either Beric sashaying off stage or the engineer bounding off with a few choice words to spare.
Today was no different, but the arena sound was beyond Beric's self-styled talents. It didn't stop him from arguing. For the first show of the tour, everyone was seeking perfection.
"Give him a few months," Sandor grumbled when Thoros looked like he was about to lose his shit and his drumsticks were enduring the man's frustrations. "He'll lighten up. He always does."
A few months in, they'd embrace the imperfections, too tired and road-weary to really give a shit anymore. They'd go through the motions, ride the high of adrenaline that came from actually doing what they loved, and sleep off the rest of it between gigs. When sound check finally ended, Sandor was the first to abandon his instrument and bound off stage.
Down the hall, Sally bumbled towards him in lumbering steps.
"My acoustic back there?" Sandor motioned to a large open break area at the end of the hall where the crew had dumped a random assortment of shit, including the band's suitcases and other personal effects.
"Yes, sir," Sally tipped his head to Sandor in feigned deference and clapped him hard on the back as they passed each other in the hall.
"Don't call me sir," Sandor grumbled with a sharp laugh.
"Don't call me Sally," the man barked back with a deviant smile. "I put your suitcase in your dressing room…sir."
Sandor found the guitar buried in the back of leftover gear they wouldn't need for tonight's show. He pulled it out and tuned it and sat on a wooden stool with it in his lap. He owned some of the best guitars in the world, but nothing quite beat the sound and feel of a good acoustic. It felt like coming home in a way. With that thought, Sandor remembered the lyrics burning a hole in his back pocket.
He pulled them free and tossed them on the high-top table next to him but focused on the whistled tune that etched its place in his memory. He whistled the melody and the chords came easy and found their place in perfect pitch with the tune. He followed the muse or whatever it was that somehow brought this all together.
Beric breezed into the open area, but halted dead in his tracks. Lost in the song, Sandor didn't stop, not until Beric approached and settled in the empty stool at the table. Sandor dampened the strings with the palm of his hand and looked over at Beric.
"What's that?" The man asked and tipped his head towards Sandor's guitar.
"Just something I'm fucking around with," Sandor shrugged and moved to pack up his guitar, but Beric lifted one hand to stop him. The other hand gathered up the hotel stationery and scanned the words. Worked up in tizzy not too long ago, Beric seemed awash in calm now.
"You're not normally a lyricist, but this is pretty damn good." He flashed a smile at Sandor and gentled his words with a soft laugh. "You should break your own heart more often."
"Thanks, man," Sandor laughed.
For quiet moments, Beric studied the lyrics as if wrapping the melody he'd heard from Sandor around the words. "Mind if I join in?" he asked and lifted the sheets of paper still in his hand.
Sandor shook his head. "Not at all. I'll count off."
He strummed the chords and Beric whistled the tune now and what passed between them was what existed in the early days and still existed now too, just hidden behind all the excess bullshit that only got in the way. It was the tandem and the magic of music they could create together and the way they just understood where the other was heading with only a look or a beat.
Beric sang the lyrics in a stripped-down way that matched the simplicity of the melody and the sincerity of the words behind the song. He didn't rely on wails or falsetto or other vocal maneuvers meant to impress or showcase his talent. Sandor always thought the man's true talent shone through in times like this when he tried less and didn't have an audience.
A few measures in, Thoros wandered into the room and stood off to the side. He closed his eyes as if soaking in the sounds. Moments later, Bronn barreled by but stopped mid stride. Awestruck, he listened and inched nearer to the table as Beric sang and Sandor's fingers caressed the strings with delicate riffs and doleful strums. Eventually, Harwin joined and settled between Thoros and Bronn who had inched near the table until Cannibal Star had formed a close circle and nothing else existed between them but the music.
Harwin and Bronn joined in soft background harmony that accompanied Beric's repeated lyrics towards the end. Thoros didn't consider himself much of a singer, but his voice contributed too and found its own place in the mix.
One by one, the road crew gathered on the periphery of the band. Whatever catastrophe they'd been tending to, the fire they'd been trying to put out, they all abandoned it now and listened. At first there were only a handful and now crew members called others over to listen until it seemed as though the whole goddamn production stopped everything to be a part of this moment.
Beric belted out improvised lyrics, impassioned and drawing from something deep within because every one of them had been here before. They could say they hadn't, but Sandor had watched each of his bandmates suffer through the sacrifices of being on the road and let go of someone special along the way.
They'd buried down the pain over the years and let it callous over, but the hurt still existed somewhere within. They each poured that heartache into the song now until the melody tapered, and it had to come to an end at some point. Sandor plucked a few final chords and let the last note hang in the air on a sad, simple, sweet reverberation.
At the end, the band all stared at each other. The crew knew not to clap, not to interrupt so they all whispered to each other and went back to work and left the band to have this moment together.
"This aint our normal sound, but I think we really got something here," Beric murmured on an unusually quiet and serious breath.
Bronn nodded in thunderstruck agreement. "We could debut it on this tour and record it when we get back home, just a thought."
The spell was broken for Sandor at the notion of living this night after night, tour after tour, having this kind of pain immortalized in vinyl and tape. He stood from the stool and grabbed up the lyrics.
"No. It's not meant for anyone to hear."
Sandor dropped his eyes and set down his guitar. He left the room, tossing the lyrics in the trash along the way. Sandor retreated to the solace of his dressing room and wanted nothing more than to be alone now.
He had broken bones before, sliced open his knuckles on snapped strings, gotten in drunken brawls that left his eyes blackened and face busted open. That pain was easy and healed up without much effort. For those injuries, time passed, and his body took care of the rest. He'd take that pain over this kind every second, every moment, and with every beat of his broken heart. He didn't know what to do with this loss, didn't know how to manage it without relying on vices, and didn't know how to stop the spiraling.
Sandor sunk into a leather chair with his elbows resting on knees, head in his hands. A knock came at the door.
"Come in," Sandor grumbled and lifted his eyes when the door opened and Harwin eased inside. Of course, it'd be him.
Harwin was the youngest of them all and the prettiest too, but he was also the bleeding heart of the group and the only one that couldn't quite keep up with his own playboy reputation. There were cracks in the facade with heartache and loneliness seeping through.
"It was for Sansa, wasn't it?" Harwin asked and approached Sandor who settled back in the seat.
Sandor stared at his hands interlaced in his lap and nodded.
"Then it's not true," Harwin said. In his hands was the hotel stationery that he must've pulled from the trash. He handled them with a somber delicacy as if they were a treasure he'd taken up the charge of protecting.
"What isn't true?" Sandor pressed.
Harwin sat at the edge of the empty wooden table next to Sandor. "That no one is meant to hear it. She's supposed to hear it, man. Sansa needs to hear it."
His blue eyes lit up and beamed in a way that the other bandmates routinely gave him hell about. Thoros had a theory that Harwin would be the first to launch a solo career and one day run off to give Kenny Loggins or Richard Marx a run for their money with sappy love songs.
Sandor stood and patted Harwin on the shoulder as he crossed the room to his suitcase. "I think she's done hearing things from me, brother."
Crouched in front of his suitcase, Sandor unzipped the bag and dug through the contents for his stage outfit. He tossed bits of clothing to the ground. He'd have to repack it all anyway and making a mess of his suitcase was the furthest thing down on his list of things he gave a shit about in this moment.
"So that's it then? You're just going to give up?"
Sandor stopped and swiveled towards Harwin who appeared genuinely perplexed that there wasn't any other option.
"Look, man," Harwin continued with incessant belief that just wouldn't quit. "It's not often a special one comes along. We should know. We get more pussy flung at us than any man ever should. We can spot the special girls better than most. She's a special one. You know it. I know it. You can't just let that go."
Sandor sat on the floor; knees pulled towards his chest with his forearms resting on top.
"What am I supposed to do?" He ran his fingers through his hair. "We're not heading back to Chicago for, what? Nine months?"
"Says who?" Harwin scoffed and cracked a smile. "We're fucking Cannibal Star. We make our own rules. All these people are only here because of us. If we refuse to do this shit, they don't have jobs. I think we all sort of forgot at some point that you, me, Thoros, Bronn, Beric—we call the shots. This is our band. We can let it run our lives forever or we can make our own choices. I think it's time we start remembering what's important to us and giving that a bigger place in our lives than all this shit."
By the end of it, Harwin was faintly out of breath and his feminine cheek bones flushed red, but his eyes blazed in a way Sandor had never seen and he spoke truth in a way the others hadn't but Sandor understood now they all felt it and dealt with this in their own way.
"You're suggesting I leave the tour?"
Harwin swiveled his wrist to check his watch. "It's five now. If you haul ass to the airport, you could be wheels down in Chicago by eight-thirty."
Sandor cradled his forehead in his palm. "This is insane, man," he murmured more as an aside, but Harwin shuffled towards him. The hotel stationery manifested in Sandor's downturned gaze as Harwin thrust it at him.
"No one said love was sane," Harwin chuckled. Sandor took the lyrics from him and lifted his eyes to Harwin standing over him. "Your choice. The others will understand. Bronn can take up your spot-on lead guitar and backups for rhythm guitar are a dime a dozen. Fuck, we could have Sally do it. Point is, we'll manage."
Harwin's suggestion hung thick in the air, even after he cantered from the room and disappeared in the hall beyond, not unlike the one Sandor had left Sansa heart broken in, believing she wasn't enough for him, not important enough to try. Fix the mistake.
Self-pity and defeat tried to glue him to the floor amongst the mess he'd made of his suitcase, but his heart was a bigger mess and his mind was made up and that alone sent him flying to his feet and bolting to the dressing room door that he tore open. Fix it.
"Hey!" he shouted to Harwin halfway down the hall. The man spun on his heel. "Tell Sally to book me on the next flight to Chicago. I'm leaving."
Harwin grinned like an idiot and sprinted down the rest of the hall, screaming for Sally along the way. Sandor bounded back into the dressing room and ripped the phone receiver from its cradle. With trembling fingers and adrenaline pumping in his veins, he dialed her number. No answer. He tried again and again failed in the task. He bit his lip hard in frustration and dug through his wallet for his lifeline, the only one left.
Sandor dialed Gendry's number. "Pick up, pick up," he whispered and sunk against the wooden table, foot erratically tapping the floor.
"Hello?" A bright little voice yapped on the other end, faintly out of breath.
"Arya, it's Sandor, is—"
A click and the line went dead. Sandor frantically jabbed at the phone's handset tab until the line reset itself. He dialed the number again. His shoulders ached with the tension there and he paced the floor with the receiver in his hand and the phone cord following him across the floor.
"What the fuck do you want?" Arya screeched when she picked up again.
"Don't hang up on me!" Sandor hollered as his heart pounded in his chest.
"You are an emotional terrorist and a thief of joy!"
Sandor paused at the insult and might've given the kid credit for thinking on the fly, but there was no time for that now. He gripped the phone hard.
"Listen to me, I need to talk to Sansa. Do you know where she is or how I can get ahold of her?" He collided to his knees in front of his suitcase and shoved fistfuls of his clothes back in.
"She doesn't want to talk to you. No one wants to talk to you!"
With a tremendous crash on the other end, the line went dead once more.
"Motherfucker," Sandor seethed and dialed the number again. The buttons bore the brunt of his anger as he smashed them with forceful jabs.
"Stop hanging up on me!" Sandor exploded when the line picked up, the surmounting frustration and fervor too much to take. "I'm calling long distance."
"I don't care if you're calling from the fucking moon, you twat!" Arya howled like a feral animal. "You broke my sister's heart and I better never see you around these parts again or—"
Arya's voice faded and a struggle ensued on the other end of the line with soft scuffles and Arya ranting in the background.
"Sandor?" Gendry's voice drifted through the phone. "Is that you? Why are you calling here?"
"I'm taking the first flight back from Paris tonight." Sandor pounded his fist into his suitcase to pack down the absolute chaos of his clothes. "As soon as I land in Chicago, I need to see Sansa. If only her sister would fucking cooperate with me…"
"How about I cooperate my fist with your face, asshole?" Arya's voice cried out in faded fury.
"Arya, please," Gendry admonished. "This is serious. He's coming to win her back. He knows what a tool he's been, alright? Will you cool it?"
Sandor shut his suitcase and yanked the stubborn zipper that strained to close. "You just call me a tool?"
Gendry returned to the line. "Yeah, dude. I've been on the front lines here and it's been rough, you know? Really rough." Sandor heard him sigh through the phone. "All I know is that Sansa has that thing for her sorority tonight, that homecoming thing, so she's probably tied up with that stuff right now. I don't know how to get ahold of her."
A punch to the gut, Sandor sat on his suitcase and expelled a heavy breath. He was supposed to be there with her. He told her he'd come through for her and he meant to, but good intentions weren't worth shit if he couldn't even show up for the one girl who mattered to him.
"I need a huge favor from you." Sandor waited and a hopeful pant passed his lips.
Gendry hesitated on the other end and Sandor heard the whispers drift through the line and if the kid meant to mask them, he was doing a piss poor job of it.
"Arya says you get one favor and if you fuck it up…" Gendry paused.
"His Les Paul will be kindling for my next bonfire. I'll snap his dick off…" Sandor heard Arya whisper as if he might not hear. Or maybe he was meant to.
"Alright, alright, I got it," Gendry whispered back.
"She says she'll light your guitar on fire," he spoke matter-of-factly into the phone.
"Say the dick part," Arya insisted on a hiss in the background.
"No!" Gendry countered on a quiet, but firm protest.
"Hey!" Sandor snapped and sprung to his feet. "I don't have time for this shit!"
"Okay, okay," Gendry relented. "We'll help. What do you need?"
"I don't have time to get my car and get to her." Sandor yanked up his suitcase and dashed across the room to snatch up his jacket on the table. "I need you to pick me up from the airport in my mustang. It's parked at the practice space. The Kettleblacks have the keys. I'll make sure they know to expect you. Can you do that for me?"
A pause came. A lifetime. Sandor's heart raced and he felt his knees faltering beneath him. He held his breath.
"Yes. Definitely."
Sandor released a heavy sigh into the phone. "Thank you. I owe you. Unless you damage my car in any way and then I'll have your fucking head, understood?"
"Got it," Gendry chuckled.
"Thanks, man." The phone crashed to its cradle and Sandor barreled from his dressing room, yanking his suitcase behind him.
Sally was waiting, pacing the hall with his cheeks flushed red. "I already had your flight booked. You leave in an hour."
Sandor felt his brows draw together, heavy in confusion as he stared at Sally. "What do you mean you already had it booked? How…what?"
"Call it a hunch," Sally shrugged with a coy, shit-eating grin so clearly satisfied with himself for calling this. "I had a feeling even your dumb ass would come to your senses. I wanted to hedge so I booked a flight. Gotta say, my instincts and timing are impeccable."
Sandor broke with a smile, trembling now as the adrenaline coursed through his veins and sent his hands shaking.
"You can thank me later," Sally laughed. "I'll take you to the airport, but we gotta go now, man. Give me this."
He reached for Sandor's suitcase and patted him on the back before running for the door at the end of the hall. Beric and the rest of his bandmates had gathered in the hall too and Sandor expected to have to explain himself and summon whatever excuses he could.
"I gotta go," was all he said and lifted his arms in the air. He let them fall to his sides again. For a moment, they stared blankly at him. "Look, I always come through for you guys, but right now I gotta come through for her. I'm not willing to lose her. Period."
Thoros nodded, eyes alight with delight, and Harwin winked at Sandor. Even Bronn broke with a wry smile and an "Atta boy."
Beric grinned and tipped his head to the backdoor. "Get outta here. We'll be fine. Go get the girl."
Sandor could've hugged them all in a rare display of affection and appreciation but didn't have the time to spare. He sprinted down the hall and exploded through the backdoor of the arena where Sally huddled behind the driver seat of some tiny fucking European sub-compact that barely fit his hulking form. Sandor climbed in and hardly got the door shut before Sally slammed his foot on the peddle and sped towards the airport.
