One Kiss from the King of Rock (The One 2)

Mum said something diplomatic.

Jay coughed trying to draw a breath that didn’t strangle him.

What did Evie remember about their first gig at the Fiddler. It was memorable because they were awful that night. Abel and Isaac warring, Oscar sulking. Errol furious. Grip clowning and Jay and Evie trying to peace-keep. They sucked on stage and the pub patrons let them know it. Their shitty van broke down so they were forced to stay the night in the equally shitty motel attached to the pub.

But that was the night they realized how badly they wanted to succeed, and what they’d have to do to get there.

It was memorable because that was the first night he and Evie kissed. The first night they got naked and explored each other’s bodies, pushing pleasure till the sun came up.

They weren’t a couple then, but they were sick for each other from that first lip lock. Running a fever so high for so long untended, it was a wonder the whole motel didn’t combust when they came together.

They played the Grumpy Fiddler six months later, debuting their first hit single. He and Evie were still burning up the sheets, lovers but also best friends. He’d thought they were soul mates. Whatever they were, it was kickstarted with a kiss at the Grumpy Fiddler.

Evie had to remember that, because it was embedded in Jay’s bone marrow.

“Why that pub?” Mum asked. She’d never attended the early gigs. She’d always liked Evie and had been distressed by their breakup.

“It’d be a security nightmare,” said Errol.

“Rattrap of a venue,” said Abel, but he was smiling, and so was Isaac.

“It’d be a stealth gig. No advertising. No promotion,” said Evie. “No security issue we couldn’t manage.”

“A guerilla gig,” said Abel and there was a rumble of support in the room. “That would be way cool.” Even Oscar’s lips twitched in a vaguely pleasant fashion.

“We don’t care who attends, how many. We want the story, the visuals,” Evie said.

“Like surprise subway gigs,” said Mum, and from around the room people chipped in the names of artists who’d done stealth gigs. U2, Miley Cyrus, Maroon Five, Linkin Park, Prince, Green Day, The Stone Roses, Radiohead, Coldplay, the Sex Pistols, Kanye West, Hozier.

Now Evie looked at him. Storm front approaching. He sensed the temperature drop before she said, “But I guess you’re too good to play with your old band in a pub gig.”

Bait taken but not swallowed. He had his breath back now. He pushed back from the table and stood. “A word, Evie?”

She rocked in her chair, opening her hands out in a come-at-me gesture, but didn’t make any attempt to stand. “All ears.”

He inclined his head towards the corridor. “Outside?” He’d play this out a little and see where it went. And he didn’t want witnesses. He quit the room, and then spent an irritatingly long time alone in the empty corridor waiting for Evie to follow, willing both lungs to keep doing their thing, no matter what she hit him with.

When she was finally standing in front of him, away from prying eyes, he gestured back and forth between them. “What are we going to do about this?”

She didn’t play dumb, that wasn’t an Evie tactic. She repeated his gesture. “There is no this.”

Not dumb, but not above lying. “Why do you hate me? Everyone else in your family is going to come around. Get over it. Use the tour to smooth out the past.” He jabbed a finger towards the conference room. “Oscar almost smiled in there. What’s your problem? It can’t still be us. We were ten years ago. We were practically kids. We probably wouldn’t have lasted anyway.”

“We would never have lasted because you flaked out.”

“I flaked out.” He almost shouted that. He had plenty of air now. They’d started out with their backs against the opposite walls, but they’d both drifted forward. He could clearly see Evie’s goddamn barbell and shield nipple piercing. “What do you think you did?”

She jerked her head up, shot laser beams from her eyes. “I didn’t run out on anyone.”

“No,” he clapped his hands making her blink. “You folded like a bloody beach umbrella.”

“Fuck you and the fame you rode in on.”

He was breathing hard, his headbanging heart trying to eject itself from his chest and drag a lung with it. She was tight-lipped, both hands balled into fists. He got right in her face. “Fuck you and the promise you burned.”

“What promise?”

He felt the heat of her words on his neck. He saw the blood rush to her cheeks and the flare of her lashes. She hated him. Did she still want him? Down the corridor a door opened, a voice called, “Is everything—”