Copyright © 2013 Nicole R. Taylor
Kindle Edition – published 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All song titles, song lyrics, products and band names mentioned in this book are the property of the sole copyright owners.
Cover Design: © Christa Holland - Paper and Sage Designs
Paperback ISBN: 1490969497
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1490969497
You can holler, you can wail
You can swing, you can flail
You can f**k like a broken sail
But I’ll never give you up, If I ever give you up
My heart will surely fail
- Future Starts Slow, The Kills
CHAPTER One
Zoe
"Zoe Granger! I knew I recognised those hot legs of yours."
I looked down at my black skinny jeans and combat boots and shrugged. That slick looking busker with the guitar there? That's my best friend Dylan, but I call him Dee. Everyone does and I always have.
"Sup Dee, making any cash today?"
Pointing to the blue velvet interior of his guitar case, he wiggled his eyebrows. "There’s a couple of tenners in there, Zo Zo. The Milky Bars are on me tonight."
He threw an arm around me, tugging on my hair and planted a kiss on my cheek. I breathed in his familiar scent of leather and musk and pushed him off with a playful shove. I have long dark brown hair that hits my lower back and wearing it in a braid is better than brushing it most days when I roll out of bed at five am for work.
Dee and I have been best friends since year seven. We were both about twelve then. The first year of high school we were both awkward outcasts and we just fit together. We ended up in different classes, but still managed to hang out every chance we got. Now, we're both twenty-four and I can't remember a week going by where I didn't speak with him. I can't even remember us having a fight that lasted more than an afternoon.
The brisk mid-afternoon Melbourne swelled around us along with the sickly sweet smell of the natural cosmetics and soap shop Dee's currently out front of. How he managed to sweet talk the girls in there to plug in his amp for free, I'll never know. I'd bet anyone anything that they all have an epic crush on him.
Dee busked here almost every day. He's the die hard musician type. Always on the lookout for his big break into stardom, but truthfully he earns a bucket load playing on the street. That's the reality of being Dee. The awkward kid from high school grew up to be a smooth talking, handsome, tattooed man. When the hell did that happen?
"You off work for today?" he asked, propping his guitar against the shop front.
"Yeah," I said and buried my hands in the pockets of my leather biker jacket. I worked in the mailroom of a building up on William Street, the business end of the city, sorting mail for a law firm. It's not glamorous, but they don't care what I wear or that I have an arm full of tattoos as long as I do my job and exit by the side door. They learned quick smart that I put my head down and worked and for what must be the first time in history, they rewarded me with a slackened dress code.
"Wanna play with me? I'll take vocals," he asked.
"Hell, no."
The last year and a half had been hard. The only thing that kept me on the up and up was my guitar. I just couldn't face the world anymore and the only one who stuck around was Dee. He gave me his beat up black Stratocaster to practice on, promising that it would take my mind off all the bullshit that had happened. And he was right on the money. I played every day, got blisters on my fingers, sat there for hours nutting out some silly chord progression that should have been simple until I got it. I moved onto harder things and worked those out on my own, too. And soon enough, life got a little easier as well. I still hid from the world in my own shell, but I didn't dwell on those things as much.
As I got better and better with the guitar, I decided to buy my own and give Dee's back. I now had a matte black Epiphone Les Paul with a pedal collection to rival Jack White's and Dee was jealous as hell. He still tried to get me to busk with him, but I still decline and it's like a running joke now. Hey Zo, wanna play with me? Hell, no.
Dee laughed and shook his head. "One day I'll have you up there on a bloody stage, chicken."
"In your dreams, buddy."
He wiggled his eyebrows at me again. "I have the best dreams. Wanna hear one?"
"Ugh," I screwed up my face in disgust. "No thanks."
He bent down and started scraping the coins and notes from his case. "I'm cutting it early today. Are you going home?"
"Yeah," I shrugged. "Do you wanna go get a drink later?"
"Sure. Anything to spend time with a hot woman."
No wonder the girls fall over themselves when he's around with a mouth like that. "You'll never get a girlfriend if you keep flirting with me like that. You know I'm a dead end."
"If I'm still single at forty, I'm proposing to you."
I can't help but laugh as I went to retrieve the other end of the amp's power cord. "Deal."
After Dee's done blowing kisses to the girls in the shop, we walk the three blocks down to Flinders Street to catch the train home. Dee with his guitar and case full of shrapnel and me with the amp. It's only a small thing, so I don't mind carrying it into the station.
Dee lives in Prahran with dodgy roommates and I live across the highway in St Kilda in a one bedroom shoebox. We're both within ten minutes of the same station and it makes getting home by cab a hell of a lot cheaper. And riding the train is more eventful with someone to share it with. I wasn't the kind of person who made friends easily. I guess you could put it down to a few bad experiences. Trust is a hot commodity in the world of Zoe Granger, outcast extraordinaire.
We sat on a seat on the open platform, waiting for the next Sandringham train as people walk past us. There's nothing out of the ordinary about that. It was something we did all the time. I knocked off work and go find Dee in the city and we share the ride home. A group of girls walked past and giggled, eyeing him as they passed. The thing about Dee is that he looks like he's in a band even if he is only walking down the street with his slicked back quiff and sunglasses and all. He’s smooth as hell. Total ladies man. Sometimes I think I'm jealous of the attention he got.
I snort and look the opposite way and see someone interesting coming down the escalators. My eyes don't focus at first, but my brain registers that this guy is worth a second look, but Dee elbowed me.
"Train's comin'."
I stand and watch the lights of the train approach through the tunnel and the guy passed us on the platform. He's a typical indie looking guy with a shock of long curly hair in his eyes. Eyes that looked at us indirectly. You know when you want to check someone out, but at least attempt to be a little covert about it? He's trying at least. Me, I stared at him as he walked by. He looked very familiar and I wondered where I'd seen him before.
Dee looked at him over his glasses. “You know him?”
I shrugged, “Isn’t he in that band, The Stabs?”
“Yeah. Bass player.” I can tell Dee is disinterested.
At that moment the train pulled into the platform and we dragged the gear into the carriage.
Me and guys? Well, that was something that I didn't go near anymore. And guys in bands? That was so
mething I especially didn't go near. I absently rubbed the scar on my arm through the sleeve of my jacket and settled into a free seat next to Dee. Yeah, I definitely didn't need a guy.
Dee and I frequented this bar off Chapel Street, mainly for the cheap drinks and especially not for the decor. It's called Ted's Shed and it looked exactly like its title. They serve Mexican food and alcohol. The place isn't exactly upper class, but the people are friendly and it's within our price range. Because of this, it's always crammed with a lot of young locals. Students, artists, hipsters. The posters on the wall are either Hawaiian themed or some kind of tattoo art and every now and then there is a fake potted plant strategically placed to hide a pole or an ugly wall of corrugated iron. There are plastic hula girls on the bar and it's decorated with fake flowers. This place is what you call ironic.
When I'm feeling down, I come here and get a fluro coloured cocktail. Eight bucks gets you a sugar hangover and a few hours of ignorant bliss. Dee sat with me at a lopsided table in the corner. He's scowling at his bright pink drink like it'll sprout wings and steal his manhood. Mine is orange and it's already starting to help.
I stroked the scar on my arm hidden in amongst the Japanese dragon that's tattooed there and I don't realise I'm doing it until Dee narrowed his eyes at me. When I broke it, it was the beginning of the end and it's never healed one hundred percent. I covered up something ugly with something beautiful.
"Is your arm worrying you?" Dee asked, watching my fingers.
"No," I shook my head and let my hand fall away. It's a nervous gesture I'd developed more than anything. My arm aches sometimes, but nothing bad.
A group of girls across the bar laugh loudly and I looked over. Sometimes I think I'm dragging Dee down by being such a mess. I feel bad about it, but I know that without him, I'd be in a much worse place than I currently am. And right now, I'm just coasting and I guess that's better than sinking.
I looked over at the group of girls again as they put on their coats and I recognised Beth amongst them. I don't know who the others are, but Beth I'd recognise anywhere. She's the super alternative goth type, with long black hair and Bettie Page fringe. She looks like a pin up model even when she's in her gym gear.
"Isn't that…?" Dee began to ask and I elbowed him.
I hope she doesn't see us and goes the other way. I can't take her judgment tonight. I can't take her judgment at all. Once, we used to be good friends before everything. When I was happy and I didn't have the constant reminder of my pathetic life scarred on my arm. Before she took sides and believed a lie. Like I needed her around to remind me how blind I had been.
They walked towards the door away from us and to my relief, didn't look our way. Close call.
I needed some serious cheering up then, so I downed the rest of my fluro orange cocktail and dragged Dee to the bar for something else. I either needed to get drunk to forget or find something else to dwell on. Starting with an electric blue Fruit Tingle sounded like a good idea to me, so I shouted Dee one, much to his horror. Girly drinks are not hard enough for him and two in one night is stretching his friendship.
I let my eyes scan the bar, which has emptied out since the night was getting on. I'd never admit it to Dee or even myself, but I just wanted to look at a handsome guy. If he smiled at me, then I would feel less like the mutant I was. That was the aim anyway. Seeing that echo of a much happier past had shaken me up.
The thing is when you're single you can’t help but look twice at any decent looking guy anyway. Nice hair, nice eyes, crap shoes. The shoes are always a deal breaker. Beat up white runners turn me off. Much the same way that skivvies and scrunchies were never fashionable. So, when I saw this guy leaning against the far wall, I looked at his shoes first. He's wearing those tailored combat boots with the laces all undone, scuffed to hell. Sexy as. One hundred bonus points already. So naturally, I looked up to see what the rest was like.
To my surprise, it was the guy I'd seen before at the station. The bass player in that band, The Stabs. I don't recognise the people he's with, but right now they don't exist to me. I have time to look at him without anyone but Dee noticing. He has a faded Strokes t-shirt on and tight grey jeans, tattoos on one arm and the wildest curly hair I’d ever seen on a guy. And I knew some unkempt guys. All short at the back and sides and that shock of blonde curls falling into his eyes. I wanted to brush it away to see what colour they were.
“Zoe?”
“Shit, Dee,” I cursed, looking away.
“Who you checkin’ out?” he winked at me. He saw where I was looking and whistled. “The Strokes, huh?” he said almost sarcastically. “Since when are you into indie guys?”
“Since when does it matter?”
“Since I knew you.”
“You’ll know my fist in a minute.” When I looked back, the guy was gone and the bar was almost closing.
"You're so volatile," Dee said, putting his empty glass on the bar.
"You know who we have to thank for that," I snapped and instantly regretted it.
Dee frowned and linked his arm through mine. "C'mon, Zo. I'll walk you home."
"Sure," I said, giving his hand a squeeze and making a mental note to see if I could get a ticket to that Stabs gig I saw advertised.
The first thing I did when I got home was go onto the Corner website and buy a ticket to the Stabs gig. The second thing I did was swallow my fear and get the tram up to Richmond the next day. The third thing I did was hand over my ticket and go inside.
I'd be lying to myself if I said the mystery bass player didn’t intrigue me. I caught myself thinking about him when I brought the ticket to the gig. It was all wishful thinking on my part. I would never know him. I mean, I'd never approach him in the first place and why would he look twice at me? How could you go up to a guy in a successful band to say hi when they probably think you're another groupie looking for a quickie. And I don't think I could ever have a quickie with a stranger, no matter how hot they were.
I stood awkwardly in the semi-dark as people milled around me. No one looked at me and no one would probably remember me, but I still felt uncomfortable. Alone in a crowd. I busied myself looking around, waiting for the support band to come on.
The thing I hate about this venue… I mean dislike. Hate is too strong a word for architectural detest. There is a pole right in the middle of the floor. Right behind the mosh. Sucks if you get stuck behind it, worse than inadvertently positioning yourself behind the only seven-foot tall bloke in the whole place. What a stupid place to put a pole. What I do like about The Corner is the curtains. It makes the whole experience feel like you’re at the theatre. These red velveteen curtains that swing open and closed after each support. Who’d stand at the philharmonic anyway?
My phone vibrated in my pocket then, saving me from staring vacantly at nothing. That’s what I dislike about going to shows on my own. Not knowing anybody and standing around between sets. I mean, what do you look at? Get a drink so you have something to do.
The text said, Look behind you. It’s from Frank. Frank is the drummer in a punk band called The Deadshits and to tell you the truth he is the least deadshit-est of the lot. I turned around and there’s Frank behind me with four bottles of Bulmer's balancing in his arms trying to launch himself onto me laughing like a madman. He's got a shaved head and wears an assortment of flannel shirts and he's buff, all muscle. Tonight it's a blue shirt with beat up black jeans. Frank kills me, he really does, but I’m glad to see him. He's one of the few who seemed to like me.
"Thanks for the drinks," I joked and took two from him before they ended up on the floor. "Why you got so many? I didn’t think I’d see you here."
"Zoe, babe! I know this guy in the support, put me on the list." He hugged me and slapped me on the back and gestured to the bottles in my hands. "Keep ‘em and drink up!"
This is the thing I love about Frank. He's hard as nails, but over the top generous. He makes everyone feel included. He stood beside me and call
ed out to some guy who was walking past with his girlfriend trailing behind in her stiletto heels and tiny dress. I looked at her and I looked at me and it's no wonder I get along with guys better.
To be honest, people at gigs kind of annoy me. There are always groups of girls dressed up like they are going to a mainstream club, high heels and all. And somehow I always stand behind the people taking the piss out of the support bands. Bands that are just starting out and just good enough to get a great slot, you can tell they are stiff on stage. What I hate are people in the crowd trying to be funny about it and not giving them a go. Laughing and not listening. Plenty of times I've heard these bands and later on they've got headline slots and become the next big thing and the same people suddenly think they're amazing.
In this case, the support is a whiney Joy Division/Smiths wannabe band. I swear the singer wants to be Morrissey on a bad day. They're okay, but have to find their own thing.
Despite the crowd, I do love to go and see bands. I like to watch them play. I mean, really watch. How they play their instruments, how they move onstage. I like to see what they do, so I can try it when I get home. What I don’t like especially is if the songs sound the same as on their record. Like they are all miming to a backing tape. It’s about the moment, isn’t it? The feeling and emotion of whatever song they're paying, the little variations in the vocals, an added riff or drum fill that makes it a unique experience. That's what I love.
As the curtains begin to close on the support band, someone shoved me from behind and I turned around to glare, but they're whispering in my ear, "Zoe, sweet lips."
I get an eyeful of Dee laughing like he's a comedian and slapped him playfully on the shoulder. "What are you doing here?"
"Frank got me in," he winked, taking one of my drinks and I knew he thought I was here because of that guy. What I didn't admit is that he's right.