It was pretty hard to believe, but the girl that half an hour
ago Nick had thought seemed kind of pretty, kind of worth
talking to, kind of likely to put out for a pop star, was
still talking about man-bags. He'd followed the conversation
initially; she thought it was fabulous that Brian had worn the
man-purse on stage, and they were selling Leighanne's special
design on tour, and apparently she thought that would really
give the idea of man-bags a boost with the general population.
She had way too high an impression of what the guy in the
street thought of a bunch of over-the-hill boy-banders.
Also, she liked hearing herself talk.
That was the only thing Nick could conclude, given that she
was still talking, and he'd long since stopped trying to
flirt, or, for the last little while, even answering with more
than the occasional 'yeah?'.
The more time passed, the more things changed, the more other
things stayed the same, and Nick always been chronically
unable to pick out sane girls to hit on.
He looked around the room, over the blond bag-chick's
shoulder, seeing the old-marrieds still over at their table,
wives sitting on the wrong guys' laps, laughing at something.
It still made him smile, seeing two of his boys so to-the-bone
happy.
"I know! Isn't it great!" bag-chick exclaimed, gripping his
forearm. Clearly she'd taken his unconscious smile for
agreement with whatever the hell she'd been saying.
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess. Look - I'm sorry - there's someone I
need to speak to. I'll catch you later, yeah?"
"Oh." Bag-chick's gleeful expression faded for a second, and
then rallied into a slightly forced smile. "Sure."
Nick felt sorry for her, and leaned down to give her a brief
hug and an insincere air kiss that turned her cheeks pink as
he pulled away.
God, Nick thought, as he wove his way through the
crowd. I sure can pick 'em. Still, he felt like he
owed it to her - and to his own self respect - to try and make
it not totally obvious that he was lying to get rid of her, so
he took a direct path to the corner booth, trying to catch
Brian's eye as he went.
"Hey, Bri - you seen AJ?" Nick asked as he got close enough
to be heard over the bar's music.
"Was she crazy?" Brian tilted his head to indicate
man-purse-chick across the room.
Nick glared.
"Just playin', " Brian grinned easily, not needing an answer.
"I think he's down on the main floor."
"Cool, I could use a turn on the dancefloor."
"That what you're calling it these days?" Leigh leaned over
to ask with huge, innocent eyes, and all four of them laughed
as Nick gave them the finger. Smug married friends. Sometimes
he kind of hated all of them.
Downstairs the light were dimmer, the air was thicker, and the
music was loud enough to be physical, the bass line thrumming
in Nick's chest.
The music wasn't anything to get excited about, but even so,
the rhythm tugged at him, tempting him to drift into the
crowded dance floor. The fun thing about celebrity parties was
that the whole crowd was VIP, and he didn't have to worry
about being mauled to shreds by overenthusiastic fans, or
photographed looking like a dorky un-coordinated idiot.
Nick stood on the bottom step, one arm loosely looped around
the banister, and peered through the flashing light to try and
make out AJ amongst the crown. He couldn't see any sign of
him, but there was a stage area up to one side of the DJ,
where Nick could see dancers, and even if AJ wasn't over
there, it still made a decent destination.
Nick launched into the crowd, letting the music sway his hips,
moving with the crowd so it parted around him like water,
letting him dance his way in and around and over towards the
stage. He still didn't see AJ, and he drifted to a stop,
stretching up to look around.
A gentle tap on his collarbone took him by surprise.
"It's okay," a throaty voice breathed into his ear, all
exaggerated southern belle. "I'm right here, honey."
Nick blinked, and pulled back a little, re-establishing some
personal space.
"Don't look so startled - pretty little thing like you - you
must have all the ladies after you. You look like you could
use a dance partner."
The drag queen's hand spread out from fingertips resting on
Nick's collarbone to full palm contact with Nick's pectoral,
long glitter encrusted nails digging into Nick's t-shirt just
a fraction.
"I …" Nick stopped, and took in the over the top curled blond
wig, the thick stage makeup, the obvious Adam's apple, the
improbable figure, the ridiculous shoes. So the host had hired
drag hostesses. Cute. And why not?
AJ was always teasing that Nick was so incapable of finding,
let alone dating, a nice young lady, he'd be better off trying
to pick a nice young man. The part where Nick always protested
that he wasn't gay just made his stupid-ass bus partner shrug
and grin and say infuriating things like 'so get flexible'.
Nick was already looking forward to the reactions he'd get
when the guys spotted him dancing with a drag queen.
Nick swallowed his smile, and matched his reply to the style
of the question.
"Why, it would be an honour, Miss," he said. "But first, may I
ask your name?"
The drag queen's hand stopped suddenly, and she looked at Nick
quizzically for a moment, and then shook her head a little,
setting her earrings dancing.
"I'm Miss Marsha, sweet thing," she said, slowly, leaning in
and up to be sure Nick could hear over the music.
Nick recognised the reaction - she'd expected him to know who
she was. He guessed that maybe she was some kind of local
celebrity - a literal scene queen - but he refused to feel
guilty for not knowing about regional drag queen ratings.
Instead he straightened up, and held out one arm, stiffly,
formally, like he was Clark Gable or some shit like that.
"Miss Marsha, may I have the pleasure of this dance?"
He grinned when she slipped her arm through his and let
herself be led a few steps into the thick of the dance floor,
where she turned and slid her other arm around his waist,
turning the pounding bass into a slow dance. Nick let his
hips follow her half-time sway, and went with it.
The songs changed - gaining more of an R&B feel, but still no
tracks Nick really recognised - and the two of them carried
on, letting the music move them back and forth, round and
round, and Nick started to realise something.
Miss Marsha was hot.
Way hotter than she should have been. Nick kept trying to keep
the fact that he knew she was a he front and centre, but it
was getting harder and harder to do that, as she swayed and
twisted, and pressed herself up against him.
Her long finger nails scrapped through the shaved hair at the
back of his neck and made him shiver. Her waist was corseted,
and her ass was lush , like, the perfect mix of firm
and ripe, and it was like his hands kept heading that way
without checking in for permission first. Her perfume was
sweet, and spicy, and only came on stronger as they danced
enough to start getting sweaty. When Marsha leaned in to take
a long lick up the side of Nick's neck, he had to bite his
lip, and he told himself that it didn't mean anything if he
reacted, you know, physically, to the stimulation.
It was like the proverbial bucket of cold water being dumped
over him when someone - AJ - suddenly grabbed him by the
shoulder. Nick loosened his grip on Marsha, and twisted
towards his band mate.
"What?" he hissed.
"Hey, dude," AJ held up both hands and made his 'innocent'
face. "I just wanted to check that you were okay."
Nick frowned, and AJ raised one eyebrow and nodded towards
Marsha, who was still dancing, one hand loosely resting on
Nick's waist. .
"The hell? Oh!" Nick realised what AJ was hinting at. "No,
yeah - dude looks like a lady, man, I know. And if you
mention that time in Munich…."
"I'm just saying." AJ smirked, and Nick thought seriously
about just strangling him then and there.
"I was seventeen, and you gave me beer!" Nick protested. "I'm
not a total retard." AJ looked like he was going to debate the
point, so Nick interrupted, using AJ's arm to physically turn
him around. "Look - go tell Brian that my virtue's safe and
leave me alone, yeah?"
"Fine, fine - I'll leave you and your dancing queen to have
your fun." AJ blew Marsha a kiss, and then melted back into
the crowd. Nick sighed, and turned back to his dance partner.
Marsha twirled back into his arms with an extravagant gesture,
and settled against Nick's chest possessively.
"Sorry about that," Nick said, although now AJ had broken the
spell having 'Miss' Marsha cuddled up against him was less
comfortable than it had been. Nick was really aware of the
width of her shoulders under the ridiculous puff sleeves of
her gown, the size of her hands, the way he could almost feel
people watching them. Marsha was certainly the most
interesting person he'd met at this party, though, and he
wouldn't mind hanging out some more, just maybe somewhere less
public?
"You want to maybe go check out one of the lounge rooms?
There's one up on the roof that's really cool, sort of an
Arabian Nights thing?"
Miss Marsha looked up at Nick from under long,
glitter-fringed, lashes. "Sure, honey. Let's take this
somewhere more private."
The implication was enough to set Nick's mind racing. He was
playing with fire here. Miss Marsha took Nick by the hand and
led the way, wending through the other dancers, and Nick let
himself be led. People were going to notice, which meant that
he was going to get their reactions, which was pretty cool -
something to mix things up a little - but what if Marsha
thought he was for real? What if she - he - was actually
expecting stuff from Nick, thought he was actually into this?
The way Marsha was leading the way gave Nick an excellent view
of her ass in its sleek, fitted skirt. The pink satin bounced
the light in a way that made it impossible not to notice the
swing of Marsha's hips, the way that ass moved… What if Nick
actually was into this?
Nick did a mental count down of tonight's drinks, and wondered
if someone had spiked something, because what he remembered
didn't add up to enough to account for thinking like that. All
of a sudden, a step appeared in front of Nick's right foot,
and he almost tripped.
Miss Marsha looked back over her shoulder at him, one hand
resting on her own shoulder like she was striking a pin-up pose.
"Second thoughts, sugar?" she said, loud enough to carry.
Nick shook his head. He moved closer to say, "the opposite,"
and then took advantage of the situation to get his hand back
on that ass and goosed her with, with a broad smile and a wink.
"Greedy," Marsha grinned, batting his grabby hand away, and
tugging on the one she held to get them back into motion.
Climbing a flight of stairs behind Marsha also afforded a
fabulous view - not just off her ass, but the smooth bunching
of muscle in her calves, smooth, creamy skin, the slightest
hint of wobble in the ankles. So much like a real girl, no
wonder Nick's libido was getting crossed signals.
At the top of the stairs, mindful of where the guys were
sitting, Nick crowded close behind her, leaned over her
shoulder, and whispered "You have the sweetest ass."
Miss Marsha somehow managed to wriggle her butt back against
him, and tip her head back to answer him at the same time.
"Why, thank you, sweet thing." There was a smile in her voice,
and she turned her head to brush a lipstick kiss on the side
of his jaw. "Harem tent's on the roof, you say?"
Nick swallowed. All of a sudden getting out of the public eye
was starting to seem like a good idea, and not just to reduce
the amount of piss-taking AJ was going to do.
"Yeah," Nick whispered back, looking up under his eyelashes
over to the guys' table to check on their reactions. AJ had
played errand boy, sure enough, and all five of them were
sitting in the booth watching him and Marsha like they were
dinner theatre. Operation Mess With Their Heads was going
well, even if Nick did feel like it wasn't entirely under his
control.
Brian was in hysterics, and Leigh was whispering something
behind her hand to AJ. Howie was staring at them - at Marsha -
with an expression Nick couldn't read.
"Come on - before those clowns over there decide to come over
here," Nick said.
Marsha chuckled. "You don't want to take me home to meet the
family? A girl could be offended," she teased. She set off up
the second flight of stairs to the roof garden without waiting
for a reply, though, and Nick followed, making sure the
Backstreet table would get an impression of him hurrying a
pick-up away to the private lounges.
There were twelve little tent-thingies set up around the edge
of the roof garden, hung with mini lanterns, and an artfully
lit bar set up on the side where the expanse of inky black
contrasted with the busy city lights, and told Nick that was
the side of the building facing the ocean. You could kind of
smell it on the breeze.
"Champagne?" Nick offered, and Marsha smiled back at him. "Sure."
The bar provided an ice-slick bottle, the bar tender sending
the cork soaring off into the night, and Marsha dangled two
long-stemmed glasses between her fingers as they turned back
towards the private lounges.
The lanterns threw distorted shadows on the coloured drapes of
the group of people gathered in the tent closest to the
staircase, so they walked past, across to the far side of the
roof, where things seemed to be quieter, Marsha still holding
Nick's hand loosely.
There was what seemed to be an empty lounge here, and Nick
bent to pull back the turquoise drape to one side of the
doorway. Marsha gathered up an armful of thin cream fabric on
the other side, and they both froze at the yelps of protest
from inside, and then retreated in a flurry of apologies and
awkwardness. The tents were filled with lavish couches and
piles of floor cushions, and it shouldn't have been that much
of a surprise to find folks taking advantage, but still! They
hurried two tents along, looking for empty space with mutual
urgency, where they collapsed onto the couch, laughing in
disbelief.
"I'm not going crazy, right? Thatwas the Justin
Timberlake Survivors Club we just walked in on?" Marsha asked.
Nick blinked and the image of Britney and Cameron Diaz curled
around each other on the mounded cushions was burned into his
mind. There hadn't been a whole lot of skin on show, but it
had been unmistakably intimate.
"Man, I pretty much hope none of my exes ever talk to each
other. I never thought to worry that they'd start hooking up
like that."
"Not a fan of the girl-on-girl if you can't play too?"
Marsha's voice was quiet, softer than before. After the
dancefloor the roof garden was really quiet, and they were
sitting shoulder to shoulder, hands still palm to palm,
fingers interlaced, faces just inches apart.
"No, no, it's not that, it's more - I mean, if two of your
exes get together for a coffee, they're probably going to talk
about what a rat-bastard you were, and the time you didn't buy
them a whatever, and how shitty they think it was when you
turned out to be a controlling asshole because you don't want
to see pap photos of your girlfriend making out with another
guy, but if they're getting really intimate like that - you
know they've got to be talking about what you did in bed, you
know?"
"And you think sex is more - I don't know. That it's worse if
they talk about that?" Marsha's thumb was rubbing a soft
circle on the back of Nick's hand.
Nick frowned. "I guess. I mean, they always fucking talk about
the bad stuff, right? I'm lucky if they don't go to the press
with it. But, I don't know. It's like maybe the good stuff,
that's more personal? Not just the sex, but -" He shrugged.
"You never lay there at night, told someone stuff you weren't
ever gonna tell anyone?"
Marsha snorted, and looked down for a second. Her fake
eyelashes were super long, glitter encrusted at the tips, and
her eyeshadow was starting to settle a little in fine laughter
lines where it was packed on from eyelashes to eyebrow,
blended out towards her temples.
"I think I get what you're saying," she said. "Sex doesn't
have to be that - what did you say, personal? I mean, a lot of
the time, sex is just a tool to get what you want, right? But
that no-walls shit, that means they've got stuff that could
really hurt."
"Yeah, that's - that's it. I mean - there's stuff I don't want
people knowing about me more than I don't want them to know
what positions get me hot and bothered. Not that I want that
out in public a whole lot either… you know what I mean, right?"
"I think so." Marsha smiled, a little sad, a little raw. "I
guess that's the silver lining to being the dumb shit who
keeps going back to the same crazy ex in case things work out
better this time - there's pretty much only one person I got
to worry about for that."
It was Nick's turn to tighten his fingers around Marsha's.
"Sounds like a tough ride."
Marsha shrugged. "My own damn fault for going back, I guess.
Anyway - it's not exactly been rainbows and sunshine for you,
right? I mean, my ex - that crazy shit set fire to my car
once, but Paris telling the press that you beat her? And then
hooking up with your brother? That's a whole other league,
right there."
Nick tried not to blush. "So, you watched the show, then?"
"Someone gave me the highlights, yeah. Pretty brave, putting
yourself out there like that."
"Pretty stupid, but - whatever. It's done now. My therapist's
always nagging at me about being honest, and open, and all
that, but I don't think he was really talking about 'on
network television'."
"Maybe not."
"Don't get me wrong, he's really helped me address some of my
issues, but-"
Marsha snorted. "Sorry - I'm kind of burned out on that
therapy bullshit." Nick stiffened, pulled his hand back a
little, but Marsha didn't let go, and carried on talking.
"Wasn't the right approach for me, or however the docs put it
when they finally let me out. If it works for you, I guess
that's cool."
"Rehab?" Nick asked, casual, maybe a little cautious. He
didn't normally get into these kinds of conversations with
people he'd just hooked up with, but something about Marsha
seemed to invite the intimacy. It felt like she wanted to keep
talking, and Nick realised that he was actually interested in
what she had to say.
"Paperwork said it was for the sleeping pills, right, but I
think it was mostly just that I've always been fucked in the
head. I mean, normal, well adjusted people, they don't do all
the crazy shit people like us do - they colour inside the
lines, right? Graduate high school, get a job, find a nice
girl to settle down with - 2.5 kids and a picket fence, all
that shit. Sane people don't work eighteen hours a day, seven
days a week to impress some record company jerk, do they? I
figure all successful people are fucked up - you kind of have
to be, it's what makes it work."
"You know," Nick said with a small smile. "Not a whole lot of
people get that." Then he laughed. "God, don't let people
find out - they'll start deliberately trying to screw their
kids up, and some parents really don't need the encouragement."
"Oh, man," Marsha said. "I think we can both drink to that!"
Nick held up the bottle of champagne that had been mostly
forgotten on the couch next to him, and grinned. Laughing,
Marsha disentangled their hands so she could turn the glasses
right side up, ready for Nick to pour.
"Why the hell not," she said, after Nick had balanced the
bottle amongst the floor cushions and claimed his glass. "To
surviving our parents," she toasted.
"To surviving with style," Nick replied, and their glasses
chinked.
They settled back onto the couch, Nick's arm automatically
resting along the back, where Marsha's head would lean on it,
their legs tangling together. There was a moment's silence,
where Nick was thinking that this ought to be a lot weirder
than it was, and then Marsha took another sip of her drink,
and nudged a little closer into Nick.
"So, tell me something good about growing up, something your
parents didn't mess up."
Nick thought for a minute. "I remember playing with my sister,
when she was, like, still just a toddler, three or four, and
her running under the hose, and laughing and laughing and
laughing. That's pretty good. How about you?"
"Man, I don't know. Making friends, I guess, when we finally
stopped moving back to Missouri all the freaking time."
"Here's to good friends." Nick raised his glass. "I don't know
if I'd have made it without mine."
"Me either. Knowing you've got friends who stick around when
the going gets tough - that's worth everything." Marsha nodded.
They were still talking, trading memories back and forth, and
occasionally getting into deeper things as they went along,
when Nick's phone buzzed in his back pocket.
"Hello?" he answered. It was AJ calling from downstairs.
"Hey, man, we're about to head out - where are you?"
"Dude, I was just talking with … You're leaving already?"
"It's, like, four a.m., Nick, and we've got that radio thing
tomorrow, remember?"
Beside Nick Marsha was straightening up, shifting so she was
perched on the edge of the couch, straightening her skirt,
finding a resting place for her glass.
Nick looked down at his watch. "Crap, I didn't realise."
"You coming with us, or you want me to try and get you another
car?" AJ offered.
Nick looked over at Marsha. If he'd spent the whole party
curled up with a chick, he'd be planning to take her home by
now, but with a guy… And anyway, Marsha was clearly getting
ready to move out, the weirdly warm and comfortable bubble of
their conversation broken by the call.
"Nah, it's okay. If you can hang out for like, ten more
minute, I'll be down," Nick said.
Marsha stood up
"Sure thing, we can wait." AJ said.
"'Kay. Later." Nick closed his phone, and pulled himself to
his feet, touched Marsha on the arm. "Sorry," he said. "I
didn't realise it had gotten so late. That was the, um, my
guys. I have to go."
"I got that," Marsha nodded, but she didn't actually go. It
was weird - part of Nick really didn't want the evening to be
over. He moved a fraction closer, and rested his hand on
Marsha's artificial waist.
"Hey, um. I'd like to…, I mean … I had a really good time this
evening. You're, like, the most interesting person here by a
mile. Can I get your number?" Not smooth, no, but normally he
didn't have to ask, and anyway, he'd never asked a guy.
Marsha looked at him, a frown pulling her perfectly arched
eyebrows together.
"Dude," she said, with nothing of the south left in her
accent. "I'm pretty sure you have that." There wasn't any
overt attempt at the feminine, either.
Nick frowned back, trying to think if she'd - he'd - slipped
him a card or something while he was distracted.
"No, I don't thi-" he started to say.
"Do you really-" Marsha snapped, and then stopped and changed
tracks. "Okay - give me your cell."
Nick pulled his phone back out and Marsha took it without
hesitation, and held it up, started pressing buttons and
squinting at the screen. After several nail-jabs, and a bunch
of scrolling, Marsha nodded to herself, and turned it around
to face Nick.
"There," Marsha sneered, like she'd proved something.
Nick had to wrap his hand around Marsha's to get a good look
at the screen, and then it took a little while for the tiny
green letters to make sense. Business and cell numbers for one
Marshal M.
Marsha … Marshal
Marshal Mathers
Oh fuck.
Marshal was watching him, and now that he knew it was
totally obvious, even with all the glitter and panstick in the
way, and that probably made it worse.
"Fuck," Nick said, "I didn't… Shit."
Marsha - Marshal - Motherfucking Eminem - shook his head.
"We've been talking all night, and you really didn't recognise
me? Wow. I thought you were, you know, playing along with the
game."
"Game?" Nick echoed, lamely.
"I can't believe you're so fucking stupid you didn't even
recognise me. I guess everyone is right about you."
Any remnants of Nick's warm, happy buzz vanished, and he had
to fight to remember his therapist's advice, taking two long,
deep breaths before he opened his mouth.
"I'm sorry I didn't recognise you, Marshal. I guess we only
see what we're expecting, huh?" he offered, touching the
elaborate puff of one of Marshal's sleeves, brushing one
finger against Marshal's made-up cheek, and then rushed on. "I
mean, I had a good time, talking with you, and you look -"
"You think this is real?" Marshal spat back at him,
digging his fingers under the neckline of the gown and tearing
at it angrily. The dress was strong enough that it must have
hurt, but Marshal kept pulling, knuckles white, until some of
the stitches gave with an ugly breaking sound. Nick could feel
his control over his anger starting to give the same way. "Are
you some kind of idiot? I was just fucking with those losers
down there who didn't know what to say to me. Even if I was a
fucking faggot, do you think I'd fuck a fat, no-talent fucking
boybander? I could record myself pissing in a bucket and it'd
sell better than your solo shit."
Nick didn't wait to hear what was coming next, just screwed
his mouth around the words 'fuck you', and slammed his fist
into that way-too-pretty face.
The aftermath wasn't pretty, and it was public, and then Nick
had to endure his bandmates making it clear that they weren't
real proud of him, and do a radio interview with a black eye
and stiff knuckles and beg the interviewer not to mention them
on air. But that wasn't even the worst of it.
The worst thing was that Nick couldn't stop thinking about it.
Not just the fight, or the sharp edged words that echoed with
all the others in his head, but the part before that. Talking.
Dancing. The way Marsha had fitted against his side, and had
understood where he was coming from. He'd hear a song on the
radio, and be reminded of Marsha moving against him on the
dance floor, or curl up in another oversize hotel bed, and it
would be like he could still feel Marsha pressed up alongside
him. He called Leslie, and they were talking, skirting around
the edge of another argument about their fucking mother, and
when Nick blinked he could see Marshal raising a glass to
surviving family, and it felt like he'd lost something.
It was making him crazy.
"I thought we were, you know, being honest" Nick whined to AJ.
"It's like, there's me baring my heart, and I swear I thought
he was too, and then the next minute, it's fucking Eminem,
playing a prank at my expense again. It's just - argh!" He
threw his arms up in frustration, and thumped down onto the
bus's couch. "And I can't get it out of my head!"
AJ patted Nick on the shoulder. "I know, man, I know." And
then he tilted his head. "Maybe he was being honest?"
"Huh?"
"Well, think about it. I mean, I'm guessing, obviously, but -
from his point of view. If you were getting all kind of cosy
and letting your walls down for someone, and then they turned
around and basically said they had no idea who you were. I
mean, I'd be pretty defensive, and maybe for Marshal, feeling
defensive means him going on the attack."
Nick said 'huh' again, and stared up at the bus's ceiling for
a while turning that over in his mind.
"So, you're saying, what? I'm the bad guy?" he said, after a
while.
"Nick!" AJ protested, putting his coffee down to give Nick an
awkward sideways hug. Even slumped down like this, Nick was
just inconveniently tall for that. "No way. I never think
you're a bad guy, and, with this, it's totally not your fault
that Marshal didn't actually tell you who he was. I'm just
saying, you don't know for sure if Marshal was being more
honest with you after I called you than he was before.
"I guess not." Nick admitted, uncomfortably. He hated it when
AJ started making sense about interpersonal stuff. It
generally meant that Nick had been a jerk somewhere along the
line, and he already felt bad about losing his temper and
throwing a punch instead of walking away.
"You don't have to deal with it, if you don't want to; it's
not like we move in the same circles that much, and what's he
going to do, go to the papers? I don't think so, not with the
whole drag thing. But if it's eating at you, you could always
call him."
Nick snorted. "Call him?"
AJ shrugged. "Why not. I mean, what's the worst that can
happen - he's still pissed off with you and doesn't take the
call?"
It turns out it wasn't entirely a prank, and then I have
to think about what it means, feeling like this about a guy.
, he thought. "He writes songs about me stalking him?"
"Which would be worse than what's already been said about us
in public because, why?"
Nick sighed. "See - why am I even thinking about this, when
he's badmouthed us on tv and shit?"
"C'mon, we both get on stage every day and sing all sorts of
lyrics we don't mean - I don't think you can blame Marshal
automatically for all of that."
Nick shrugged, and the bus went quiet for a while, just the
background sounds of traffic and wheels on the road.
"And hey, if you ask and he says 'yeah, it was all a prank' at
least then you could just hate him without wondering if you
ought to feel guilty, right?" AJ pointed out, clearly having
spent some time thinking through the possible outcomes.
"I guess there is that." Nick admitted with a chuckle.
"Although I wasn't feeling guilty till you brought it up."
AJ lifted his shoulders and gave Nick a broad smile. "Always
happy to help a friend."
"Fucker," Nick cursed, affectionately. It was infuriating, but
AJ's perspective made a certain amount of sense. If he tried
to talk to Marshal, maybe he could figure out just what the
hell had happened that night, and then it would stop haunting
him.
"You know it, man," AJ said, using Nick's knee to leaver
himself upright. "I'm gonna go back to my bunk for a while -
got some calls I want to make, you know?"
"Sure."
The implied 'leaving you alone, to call Marshal' hung in the
air between them, and Nick pulled his cell out, turned it idly
in his hands as he sat, staring at nothing, and thinking about
the options.
Eventually, Nick bit his lip, and located Marshal's number. He
dropped his head back against the couch back, draped his left
arm across his eyes, took a deep breath, and pressed 'call'.
