Lily of the Valley (9 page)

“They’re just songs.”

He shakes his head. “No, they’re not.”

“As far as
they
know? They’re just songs.”

“Okay, as long as you’re sure. I think they’re epic and I think they’re gonna give us the boost we’ve been hoping for, but I’m not sure it’s worth the cost of-”

“Neil. Enough. It’s fine.” I don’t want to talk about the songs, outside of their musical parts. Either the songs are good or they are not. No one needs to know how deep every word cuts.

“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you at the show then.”

I hesitate. Sometimes I think Neil and I could be friends, not just cowriters and comusicians. With Dave overseas and Alana and I, well, a mess, I could use a friend like Neil. But then I picture coming here, with my whole story hanging over practice, with the constant reminder of my parents, and the constant need to reassure everyone that I’m fine. I don’t want to taint the only place I have that’s a refuge from all the shit that surrounds me during every other minute of my pathetic life. As much as I want a friend, I want peace more, and so I blow it off, this feeling that I’m running away.

“Yeah, see ya,” I mumble.

I take off into the night, wondering if I’ll ever find it in me to make an effort.

****

Show night, the club is packed. We’re only opening, but I know a decent amount of people are here for us. Neil knows everyone it seems and he’s managed to develop quite the Facebook following, or so I’m told. I don’t even use Facebook. Who would I possibly talk to?

He’s told us that he’s been getting a big fan base established, but I didn’t expect there to be
this
many people. It’s both thrilling and terrifying. I focus on the sound check and don’t think about all these people and my own songs being introduced. I think I’m actually going to be okay, too, until suddenly I’m not. I don’t know what happens. The room spins, the walls grow closer and closer, and I run from the stage, managing to hold in the puke until I reach the sidewalk from the loading door. Neil is right behind me, but he hovers in the doorway while I vomit in the street.

“We don’t have to play those songs,” he suggests.

I wipe a strand of sticky puke from my lips. “Fuck you. We’re playing them.”

“I don’t think you-”

I stare him down. “We’re fucking playing them. There is no way I’m backing down because I had a little case of the nerves.”

I walk past him to the little area backstage and grab my messenger bag. I find the bottle of whiskey in the front flap and drink half of it. Neil’s followed me, of course, but he says nothing. He just shakes his head.

“Don’t fucking shake your head,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine in like five minutes.”

I put the bottle back and grab my cigarettes. Outside, in the fresh air, even with the tastes of whiskey and vomit mixing in my mouth, I feel better already. I breathe in the smoke from my cigarette and try to forget the momentary anxiety. Neil stands next to me the entire time, but doesn’t speak until I’m done smoking.

“Look, Jack. We aren’t really friends, I guess, but you’re a damn good musician and I don’t know what’s happening with you. But, you know, maybe you should see someone.”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

He’s not angry, because there is nothing to be angry about. He made his obligatory suggestion to help my mood and I denied it. The end. I wish more people were like Neil. If I wanted to stand out here and have a fucking moment, I would have it. I don’t need someone forcing it or harassing the shit out of me when I clearly don’t want to talk.

We go back in and get ready. The other guys are onstage still, finishing the sound check, and we don’t have much time. I grab a mint from the table in the corner to get rid of the lingering vomit taste, and I splash my face with water. The lights in the club dim and someone announces us. Neil looks at me and I nod, following him out on stage. My bass is already set up and I put it on, feeling like a different person. It’s like the sounds that the instrument produces are all the words I can never say and playing is cathartic.

We’re barely a verse into the first song when I see her across the room. She looks so out of place; her jeans and t-shirt are too clean for this crowd. It’s like she ironed them. Her gaze darts around the room and she’s biting her lip. Damn, she is adorable. I almost call out to her when she starts chewing her fingernails nervously. She glances my way and we make eye contact for a moment. The lights are bright, but she’s standing in just the right area that I can still see her. I can’t explain it, but I think I love her in that instant. This silly, foolish girl whom I cannot get out of my head.

When we perform the new songs, the crowd erupts. They love them. I think of what Alana said recently, that I need their approval, and I wonder if she’s right. As much as I hate most of these kids during the day, here, at night in this club, their opinions define me. I wish I understood why, because they haven’t shown to be people with much taste. Yet their applause drowns out reason and I feel whole when they react to my songs this way.

I don’t even like playing in front of people, but when they’re like this… it’s euphoric. They even demand an encore, which never happens for an opening band. We’re offstage when we hear it and Neil claps me on the shoulder.

“Whatever is fucking you up man, hang onto it.”

It’s a weird comment, and it rests on me funny. Should I be offended? Is my life nothing but inspiration for art? As we play our encore, though, I realize it’s the first time my past has not shamed me. In fact, I feel a slight bit of pride that the darkness settled on me the way that it did. Without it, I’d probably be no different than the empty people I see all day, every day.

After we perform, someone says we need to talk to a reporter from the school paper. What a joke. They probably sent some uptight asshole who won’t even get the music. Then the reporter will write a stupid review that complains about the noise, because he or she listens to crappy pop hits that replicate the same shit the radio has played for years.

I get my bass into the van and we load up the rest of the equipment, except the drums.

“Hey, can you talk to that reporter?” Neil asks. “I’ll be right out. I just want to make sure they don’t fuck up the load in again. Last time, it was a bitch getting everything into my garage.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I don’t want to talk to the empty-headed reporter, but I suppose I should.

“Feel free to brag about your songs.”

“Right.” Neil knows me so little. I wasn’t even going to mention that I wrote them.

I push the felt curtain aside and nearly trip over Strawberries, who’s sitting in a metal chair, looking lost. Huh. Did she come here to talk to me? I can’t deny that my body hopes she did. My cock is already getting hard just thinking about bringing her back to my room tonight. The energy from the show is still making me twitch and now, near this girl, I want to put that energy to good use. I lean in closer to talk to her over the noise of the club.

“I thought that was you. Doesn’t really seem like your scene, princess.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s Lily. And what’s my scene?”

“Tea parties and knitting circles?”

I try to lighten the mood, hoping she’ll play along, hoping that it will be enough to loosen her up and maybe even get her to my room. I notice she’s not here with anyone. Hopefully the boyfriend is no longer in the picture. Smiling at her, I do my best to flirt, but I feel weird about it. I don’t flirt. I meet girls who are horny and I fuck them hard. This girl is not in my toolbox.

“You’re an asshole,” she says.

Well, that didn’t work.
Although asshole I can do. Far better than awkward flirting. And she seems to keep coming back, so maybe asshole it is.

“Yet you can’t deny you want me,” I tease.

I take my fingertips and run them along the lower side of her arm. The hairs on her arm stand up; she definitely wants me. I just don’t know how to play this game, because girls I fuck don’t play hard to get. Maybe that’s why I want her so badly; I’m not used to chasing girls who say no.

She pulls her arm away from me, irritated.

“Did you like the show?” I ask. I’m dying here.

“It was good.”

“How about a private performance? Just you and me?”

She opens her mouth, but then Neil and the others appear through the curtain. Damn it.

She turns to Neil and takes out a steno pad. “I need a quote from the band for the paper.”

I try not to laugh.
She
is the airhead reporter. Perfect.

“Well, we’re really excited that our outreach has worked and we’ve been able to establish a stronger fan base. I think that along with the amazing new songs Jack here has written, it will really boost our exposure. I know we’d all like to see our own show by the end of the semester. That’s really the goal.”

Strawberries writes down what Neil says and I watch her. She’s biting her lip again and, holy hell, I want her right here, right now. I almost rip the steno pad from her hand and drag her to the bathroom or somewhere private. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of girl who would be up for wild sex in a club bathroom. Oh, but how I wish she was.

She gets up to leave and the other guys look at me, waiting. I move close to her, whispering in her ear. “Remember. 401. When you’re ready to admit you’re interested.”

It doesn’t work. At all. She walks away and doesn’t look back. I watch her ass in her tight jeans as she goes. Fuck. Now I definitely need to find the kind of girl who
is
up for wild sex in a club bathroom. Because I am desperate and horny and I don’t even know how to make it happen with Strawberries.

Or Lily. She said her name was Lily.

“Are you sticking around?” Neil asks. I’m grateful for the interruption of my thoughts, because my cock is going to burst if I keep thinking about that ass, but I also kind of want to punch him for cutting my moment with her short.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“That girl’s here.”

“What girl?”

I turn toward the bar, where Neil is pointing.
Did she come back? Did it work?
But it’s not Lily. Alana is sitting on a bar stool, not looking at us. We haven’t talked lately and it’s partially my fault. Well, that, and the fact that the last time we
did
talk, she made me watch her get fucked by some old dude she met in a bar.

I go to her and she turns to face me, her eyes sad.

“Hey,” I say.

“Was that her?” She tilts her head toward the door where Lily just walked out.

“Was
who
her?”

“That girl you were just talking to? Is that the princess?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s cute,” she says.

“Can we not talk about her?”

Alana looks at me. “Why?”

“I just-”

“She’s not
that
cute, Jack. Control yourself.” She reaches a hand down to my crotch and rubs my cock through my jeans.

“That’s not helping, you know.”

“So put it to use and fuck me.”

“This is unhealthy,” I say and lift her hand away.

She downs her glass of whatever she’s drinking. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fucked me in a dirty club bathroom. It’s okay. You need it and she’s not giving it to you.”

I actually
do
debate. I’m not as pathetic as I appear. There’s a full on discussion in my head that involves me arguing against doing this, a loud voice that suggests that I go back to the dorm and try having a conversation with Lily, that reminds me that I continue to use my best friend because I can’t seem to control myself. Of course, the full conversation in my head looks to a normal person like a grunt drowned out by Alana’s lips on mine and her hand down my pants.

I drag her into the bathroom and lock the door. She pulls her pants down and sits on the nasty sink, spreading her legs for me. I enter her and stare at myself in the mirror behind her while I fuck her. It’s dirty and grimy and I look dirty and grimy. Of course, my stupid, fucking cock doesn’t care; it’s having a grand old time in Alana’s pussy.

She clutches at my back and screams my name.
I am a fucking idiot,
I think, but I keep right on fucking her. She comes, biting my neck, and I finish inside of her. It’s dirty and wrong and I feel terrible about it, but it doesn’t stop me from coming.

“That girl is never going to be enough for you, Jackie,” Alana says and she sinks to her knees, taking me into her mouth. I’ve barely lost my erection before she gets it back and she blows me like a whore in the bathroom. I think about Lily’s tight ass and I come in no time, shooting the load down Alana’s throat. I really hate myself, but nothing seems to stop me.

“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” I tell her once she’s back on her feet.

“What? Fuck you? Suck your dick?”

“You know I’m a fucking loser. You know I won’t say no.”

“Yup, and I love that about you,” she says. “You think you want that sweet little girl, but you can’t function without a girl you can treat like a whore.”

She’s right. She’s trying to hurt me, but I’m not mad. Because she’s right. I’ve never been a boyfriend, minus the little relationship I had with her, and I sucked at that. Although I never cheated on her, I was a mess the whole time and I treated her like shit. I still treat her like shit, but she seems to be okay with it most of the time. I no longer pretend that we’re more than we are. It bugs me, though, because I know she’s just waiting for me to change. But nothing has changed me yet. Even when I can rationalize that this is the wrong thing to do, it doesn’t stop me from doing it. And now, because I’m a little stung by her words, I make it a million times worse.

“Turn around,” I tell her.

“Why?”

“So I can fuck you like a whore.”

Poor Alana. She does it, because she’s as broken as I am, and it’s the emptiest sex I have ever had. It doesn’t stop either of us from coming, but it’s all physical. The emotion is gone from us both and we are no longer even human. I feel like a cutout of a guy blowing away in the wind and it’s all just darkness. There is never going to be anything but darkness.