Immaterial Defense: Once and Forever #4 Read online

  We grabbed a couple of burritos in the Mission District—cheap, delicious, and as gigantic as Pete claimed his dick was. A fun fact that ruined everybody’s appetite and no one believed. No one was willing to verify Pete’s claim either.

  Somehow, our conversation maneuvered to the sad state of my love life. I’m fairly sure Trevor had guided us here, if for no other reason than to give me shit about how pathetic it was.

  I sighed and pushed my food away, almost untouched. “If five years ago anyone had said, ‘Hey, Dec. How would you like it if every woman you met wanted to sleep with you, just so she could tell her friends she’d banged the lead singer of a band?’ My response would’ve been: ‘Did you say something after ‘every woman I met wanted to sleep with me?’ And I wouldn’t have cared what the answer was. Now, knowing women are using me is just depressing.”

  “Fuck that,” Trevor said. “I swear to the gods of music, if a woman wants to use me for sex, you sure as hell won’t hear me complaining about it.”

  “That’s the difference between you and Declan,” Pete said, already smiling. “You said, ‘if a woman wants to use you.’ And that’s a pretty good-sized ‘if’.”

  Everyone other than Trevor laughed. It made sense—he couldn’t see his own expression.

  “Shit,” Pete continued. “No shame in it—none of us sees the amount of action Declan could.”

  “If he weren’t such a pussy, you mean.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Hey!” I said it loud enough to know they’d all heard me. So they were just pretending not to.

  There was no way to explain it so they’d understand. Or not think I was insane. I’d guess that would be the natural reaction to a guy talking about how he feels like he’s two separate people—the one he’s always been and the one everyone expects him to be. It’s even sadder when the guy realizes that almost everyone he meets nowadays likes the fake him more than the real one. Shit like that can really mess with a guy’s head.

  Trevor would’ve gone cross-eyed if I told him that until Sara, sex just wasn’t as good as it had been before anyone knew who we were. It was a conclusion I didn’t come to without a lot of rigorous testing, by the way. My folks didn’t raise a quitter. But it became a little unpleasant when every time I fucked someone I couldn’t get over the idea that it wasn’t really me who was getting laid. It was the guy I played onstage.

  We might have looked the same, but every day he seemed more and more foreign to me. We didn’t wear the same clothes, use the same words, share the same values. I felt more like an actor now than a musician. Slipping into a role as I slipped into a costume that had been picked out and prepped by someone who’d barely ever spoken to me.

  That was what made my one night with Sara stick with me. Not only was it physically amazing, Sara hadn’t met Declan Hollis, the lead singer of Self Defense who someone else had designed. She’d met Declan Hollis, the man who just wanted to be normal, get a house somewhere quiet where my dog didn’t have to run on concrete and shit on a four-by-four square of fake grass.

  And she’d liked that Declan. She’d reminded me that he was enough, that he was attractive and could make someone laugh.

  “Wait a sec. Does that shit really bother you?” Trevor asked. “Seriously? Fuck, that’s the only reason I’m here. If women didn’t want to use me to say they’d fucked a rock star I’d be sitting in front of a bonfire on the beach somewhere, drinking beer, and playing somebody else’s tunes.”

  “First of all, you’re not a rock star.”

  “Not yet. And luckily, these girls don’t think that far ahead.”

  I grumbled but couldn’t disagree. “Secondly, you’d be playing someone else’s tunes? What the fuck is wrong with our tunes?”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry, bro. The writing is flawless. It’s just not really my style.”

  Again, I couldn’t disagree, at least with the second part. It wasn’t my style either. I’d stopped writing what I wanted to a while ago. Now I wrote to market—shit that crowds loved and that gave us the best shot at being picked up by a good label.

  * * *

  After dinner, we headed to our new favorite club in the city—Blurred. Trevor had made it to every live-music night since we moved here. He came for the drinks and stayed to criticize whichever band was playing. But tonight, we were here for a cause—to celebrate all the empty promises Doug had spouted earlier. It’s an odd situation to be in—I wanted big things to happen for these guys because they were good people who fucking deserved it. But if that happened, I’d be even farther from finding a way out. And I was already so damn tired of faking it.

  I had a couple of beers, trying to keep my head low just in case any Self Defense fans were here. Since we’d come off the tour there were a lot more of them. It just made me feel worse. Every time I stepped onstage or signed a napkin and pretended to be the guy they wanted, I was just spreading the lies.

  Trevor had been a different person since we’d left Doug’s office. Normally, at this point of the night he’d be calling his blood-alcohol “PLL”—post legal limit—and actively looking for a woman with low standards who recognized us. But not tonight. Nope, he was too busy giving me shit. Instead of working my ass off to keep him from getting wasted, all I had to do tonight was stand here and be humiliated. Hell of a trade-off.

  In the brief moments he stopped making fun of me, he would tell the other guy more about the woman who’d dumped me. During the brief moments Sam and Pete weren’t hearing about Sara, they argued about visiting Pete’s mom.

  Eventually, I’d had enough—to drink and of my friends—and told them I was leaving.

  “It’s early, man,” Trevor yelled way louder than necessary. Live-music night was loud, but whoever had designed this place was a genius. The side of the club that held the stage and the dance floor could get deafeningly loud, but the bar area was insulated enough that you could talk without screaming, and the bartenders could hear your order.

  “Stick around, Dec! At least until this set is over.”

  “Nah.” I waved him off. “I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t get so wasted you can’t wake up for basketball.”

  “Daaaad,” he whined, “you’re so damn old.”

  I nodded because I felt old. Twenty-four going on eighty. “That reminds me—after basketball tomorrow I’m going to start shopping for a house with a lawn, so I can scream at kids to stay off it.”

  As soon as I stood up from the bar stool someone slid onto it.

  “Buy me a drink!” She was as direct as she was attractive. Her hair was long and dark except above and around her right ear, where it had been shaved short and dyed pink. “I’m Carissa.”

  She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place the name or the face. Then again, I’d been introduced to hundreds of people in the last year and had sung in front of thousands of faces. So, I’d pretty much given up on remembering any of them.

  “Hi, Carissa,” I said, sticking out my hand. “I’m—”

  “You’re Declan Hollis. Born and bred just outside of Los Angeles. Dad’s a shrink. Mom’s a school guidance counselor.”

  Well, that settled it—I was out of here.

  “You started playing guitar when you were thirteen and created Self Defense with your bestie, Trevor Finley, when you were both fifteen. Pete Lopez and Sam Hawthorn were added a few years later. Except the band wasn’t called Self Defense back then—”

  “Carissa, I say this with the utmost respect, but that was really fucking creepy.”

  I guessed she wasn’t offended when she leaned back and burst out laughing. “I swear I’m not a stalker or crazy or anything. I just love your music and the way you sing it.”

  Nope, this never got any easier. Or as humbling. “Thanks.” No matter how much I hated the music industry’s bullshit, I don’t think hearing someone compliment my music would ever stop feeling fucking incredible.

  She leaned closer as if she wanted to tell me a secre
t. “Plus, I’m not sure if you know this, but you’re kind of nice to look at.”

  I pulled backwards as soon as her comment made it through the noise of the crowd and into my ears.

  “Only in clubs with bad lighting, I swear.” In another time and place, I might’ve wanted to keep talking to her. But at this time and place she wasn’t the woman I wanted to talk to. And until I could stop thinking about Sara I’d just be faking it with anyone else.

  “Carissa, it was a pleasure to meet you. Unfortunately, I’m actually taking off—”

  “No, you can’t!” She grabbed my arm and paused for a second. As if she were having trouble thinking of a reason to make me stay. “Not until we make the friend I came here with insanely jealous. I can pretty much guarantee she has no idea who Self Defense is, but you’re so her type. Or, like, her type on steroids. She even texted me a picture of you last week. Damn, I keep forgetting to give her shit about that. She’s around here somewhere.”

  “Carissa…”

  “Damn it!” She held on to my shoulder to raise onto her toes and look around the club, pointing toward the bathrooms. “She was right over there, like, a second ago.”

  “Maybe another time.” After all the letting women down easy I’d been doing lately, you’d think I’d be more comfortable with it.

  “Don’t go,” she pouted. “Do you really have to?”

  “Yeah.” In fact, it was quickly becoming a life or death situation.

  Luckily, that’s when Trevor accidentally saved the day by backing up right onto my foot.

  “Speaking of friends”—I grabbed Trevor’s shoulder and turned him around—“this guy would love to get you a drink. If you can do that creepy thing you did before, but with Trevor’s life instead of mine, I bet he’d buy you more than one. Right, buddy?”

  “Should I be following this?” he asked, glancing back and forth between us skeptically. Thankfully, Carissa didn’t see him wink at me and mouth, ‘Best wingman ever.’

  “I wish you didn’t have to leave.” She was really good at pouting. “Fine. Before you go, can I at least get a picture of us together?”

  I couldn’t think of an excuse why not to, so…“Sure.”

  Carissa handed her phone to me, raising her arm to silently show me the angle I should take the selfie at. I reached my other arm around her and pulled Trevor closer until all three of us were in the frame. When Carissa threw both arms around my neck, I bent my knees so she wouldn’t strangle me. Trevor stood slightly behind her, peeking his head around her to be seen.

  “Say—”

  At the last second, Carissa forced my head to turn and kissed me. If I hadn’t been so surprised and jerked away as far as her grip allowed, the kiss would’ve been head-on and involved my shocked-open mouth.

  What the fuck? “Nope.” In one motion, I peeled her arms off me and stepped back. “That wasn’t cool.”

  It wasn’t an actual kiss, and she’d only done it as a stupid joke or to have something scandalous to show her friend. And maybe I was feeling too sensitive after my talk with Doug, but I had the sudden desire to chuck her phone into the nearest wall. Objectification aside, what if I had a girlfriend and she saw the picture?

  “I’m sorry, Declan.” At least she looked sincere. “Are you mad at me?”

  Mad? “No.” But I’d never felt less like a person than I did in that moment. Unfortunately, I’d only make things worse if I tried to explain it to her. So, with a clenched jaw, I handed her phone back.

  “Did you take the picture?” she asked.

  Instead of answering, I wiped the side of my mouth where her lips had landed. “Good night, you two. Be safe and stay out of trouble.” For some reason, it seemed apropos to say it to both of them.

  As I turned to walk away, I heard Carissa ask Trevor if he was sure that I wasn’t angry.

  “Nah, he’s fine. Dec’s just a little grumpy because the girl he likes dumped him.”

  I couldn’t have explained it better myself. Although, I might’ve added a couple more details. None of them would’ve been flattering.

  10

  Declan

  Brushing everything off before my emotions ended up blowing shit even further out of proportion, I made my way through the crowd. It was so thick in here, I opted to use the side door that led out to the side alley versus battling my way to the front of the club.

  As soon as I shoved the push bar, cold, fresh air filled my lungs.

  “Sweet, sweet relief.” The mad chaos of the club muted as the door closed behind me. Then I heard the sharp shout of a woman from farther up the alley, closer to the street.

  “Leave me alone, Cal!” she yelled.

  They were far enough away that I could only see shapes—a tiny woman with her back against the wall, and a much larger guy trapping her there. It could’ve just been a lover’s quarrel, but the guy should’ve known better than to use his bulk to intimidate her.

  Already walking toward them, I called out, “You alright, miss?”

  They turned toward me, their faces still in the shadow.

  “Mind your own business,” the guy yelled back. “She’s fine.”

  “I’m going to need to hear that from her, actually.” My steps sped up the closer I got. “Miss?”

  As soon as I could make out her face, I stopped. What were the chances I would run into her again, a week after she’d fled my apartment?

  “Hey. Are you okay?” I asked more softly.

  Sara didn’t nod, and she didn’t shake her head—it was kind of a mix of the two, which meant I wasn’t leaving.

  “Do you need help?”

  “Back off, idiot,” the guy said. “We know each other.”

  “Cool.” I kept my eyes locked on Sara’s. “Except knowing someone and wanting to be cornered in a dark alley by someone are two very different things.”

  “Back the fuck off.”

  I hadn’t even realized my feet were still moving—my entire body tense and ready for anything.

  “You need to follow your own suggestion, Cal,” she finally said. “It’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said in weeks.”

  “Jesus, Sara. I just want to talk to you,” he whined. “Alone.”

  “Hey, man,” I said. “I think there’s something wrong with your ears.”

  “Thanks for your help, idiot, but we’re fine.”

  “No, I don’t think you are.” I was within swinging distance now and waiting. “The lady just told you in a straight-forward and fairly amusing way that she wasn’t interested in talking to you anymore. But you didn’t seem to hear her.”

  “How ‘bout you mind your own business and let us finish our conversation?” Sure, it might’ve sounded like a question, but I didn’t think he’d like my answer.

  “Now I’m really starting to worry about your ears, Cal. You should get them checked. Do you get headaches? Ever hear ringing?”

  “Are you a fucking optometrist?”

  I would’ve laughed if the guy weren’t being such an asshole. Okay, I laughed anyway. I mean, come on—an optometrist? For ears?

  “My ears are fine. We are fine. Now, go away.”

  “Cal—”

  He pushed her against the brick wall and then shoved me in the chest.

  I swung, my fist connecting with the guy’s jaw, sending him barreling back into a dumpster. “How about now, Cal? Headache? Ringing in your ears? You feeling better or worse?”

  “Motherfucker!” he cried. “I think you broke my nose!”

  “Shoot. You should probably get an optometrist to look at that.”

  Blood dripped out from between his fingers and onto the pavement. Right next to about six small baggies filled with white powder that Cal snatched up and slipped into his pocket with a blood-covered hand.

  “Serves you right, asshole,” Sara shouted at him, her foot lifting as if she wanted to kick him.

  I glanced at her, wondering if I’d just stepped into a lot more than I bargained for. Wa
s this creep her dealer? Fuck it. Even if he were, I didn’t regret helping her.

  While Cal was busy blinking, stumbling, and cursing, I grabbed Sara’s hand and led her to the sidewalk in front of the club, ducking under the covered awning. I could tell she didn’t want to stay anywhere near the ass in the alley, but when she yanked her hand out of mine, I got the feeling she didn’t want to stay anywhere near my ass either.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded at the ground, then took a deep breath and smoothed down her shirt. When she looked back up at me, she was smiling.

  “What just happened?” I asked.

  Good thing I didn’t expect an answer because she didn’t really give me one.

  “That was a case of an asshole acting like an asshole. And a good guy acting like a good guy.” She reached out and took my hand gently. “Does it hurt?”

  “Oddly, no.” I looked at my knuckles, expecting to see a lot of blood and finding nothing. “Cal must have soft bones.”

  I opened and closed my fist a few times to check for damage, then sighed in relief. I’d never hit anyone in my life. And not to be prissy, but my hands were important to me. I couldn’t play guitar without them.

  “I don’t mean this to sound ungrateful,” she said, “but are you stalking me?”

  I laughed. “Nope. Purely coincidence.” Not sure why her comment seemed so funny. Maybe because, in the split second between seeing her face and realizing why I recognized her, I’d wondered the same thing about her. Even in my relatively short time as the front man of the band, I’d already had to deal with potential stalkers. Fans who were just a little too attached or a lot too unstable.

  “Not a stalker, I swear.” I held up both of my hands, hoping Sara understood that the last thing I’d ever do was hurt her. “Honestly, I didn’t even recognize you at first.” Shit, that sounded cold—like I’d slept with her and, a week later, had already forgotten her face. “I mean, it was too dark to see you until I got close enough.” What was it about her that made me feel like I had to over-explain everything?