Jameson // Metallica

FLYING LOW

"There's no way I'm doing it." Jason shook his head, his hair flying all around. "No fucking way." He punctuated each word with a kick of his white sneaker against the bottom of the couch.

He'd been saying that for the last ten minutes. First, he'd laughed and flipped me off, then he'd looked at me with an unsure smile saying, "It's a fucking joke, right?" I wiped that smile off his face when I told him that, no, it wasn't a fucking joke, that I was fucking serious.

"Calm down," I said without raising my voice, when he sprang up from the couch. "I told you, we need Ross, and that's how we make sure that he'll take the job." I cocked my head, watching him.

Jason was pacing back and forth. Each time he passed by me, he would shoot me a frantic look from under that mess that was his hair. Each time, I would stretch my legs out a little more, hoping he would trip on them. Just to add some fun.

"You're out of your fucking mind."

"No, I'm not. Lars says that we need some good press right now, and Ross is the only photographer who can make us look like something more than a bunch of fucking drunks."

Across the room, Jason spun on his heel. "But you fucking are just a bunch of drunks!"

"That's a shitty thing to say, Newkid."

"Fuck you." Jason stopped in front of me. "Why me?"

"We've all done this before, and you are the new kid, Newkid." I snickered. "So it's your fucking turn. Now you can prove that you really are committed to the band. And you are committed, right?" I leaned forward, drilling my eyes into his. "Right?"

"You know that I am." Jason calmed down abruptly, his forehead furrowed. "And I would do anything for the band, but this— this— " His voice broke. He turned away from me.

I hadn't seen him cry before, and I wondered how hard it would be to make him cry over this. There was still a shitload of things I didn't know about Jason, but I was very eager to find out.

"Sometimes Ross wants to fuck," I said, reclining, "but it might be enough if you give him a really good blowjob."

"Fuck you!" Jason kicked a chair out of the way and sent it flying into the wall.

Nope, it didn't look like he was any close to tears; maybe it was time to rattle his cage a little.

"Listen, you know Metallica's not only about being in the band, but also about being there for the band, and about giving a fucking 110% to it. Now you have a choice, you can either prove that you can give 110%, or . . ." I let my voice hang in the air.

Keeping a safe distance from Jason sank down on the couch, dug his elbows into his knees, and pressed his forehead into the open palms of his hands. The only sounds in the room were his short gasps for air and an occasional smack of his palms against his forehead.

I would give a lot to know what was going through his head right then. Did he really believe that I would kick him out of the band? I wished I could see his face, but his hair blocked the view.

Fucking with Jason's mind turned out to be almost as much fun as fucking chicks. And, unlike chicks, Jason was always available. Trying hard to fit in, to prove himself worthy—he was such a fucking easy mark. This was so much better than some of those stupid pranks we had pulled off on him.

Another long minute passed and then I heard his quiet, "Fine. I'll do it."

I blinked. "What?"

Jason got up and trudged over to the window, his hands hanging down his sides. "I said, I'll fucking do it. Are you happy now?" he asked, staring into the darkness outside.