What If I Can't Forget You?

{16}

Jaime's POV

I glanced across the circle of people at Vic, who looked a little sick. Mr. Becker didn't know Claire was on tour with us. If he saw her, we were screwed. If he knew Vic was dating her, we were screwed. If he didn't like us, we were screwed.

The man basically owned us. Without his record deal, we would be nothing. Thank God he was a nice guy. I think he liked us, but that could easily change if he found out we had his daughter.

All in all, we were screwed.

"Hello, boys." Bob smiled at us. He was an older guy, maybe in his fifties. He was heavier, and he wore slacks and a crisp, white shirt and tie.

"Sir," Tony stepped forward. "It's an honor to meet you again." The rest of us nodded in agreement, and a multitude of handshakes and polite 'hello's took place.

"It is an honor to be here. I cannot wait to see you boys perform tonight." Mr. Becker clapped his hands. "Now!" He said. "Do you think I could sit in on your sound check? Privately?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Yes! Yes... Great." Vic said, turning to the rest of us, flustered. We scrambled to the stage and fumbled for our instruments. Vic turned to us, motioning for us to huddle up.

"Guys, okay. Let's all just... Stay calm. Guys, I'm freaking out." Vic started.

Mike quickly took over for his brother.

"Okay, guys. We're going to play A Match Into Water, Hold On Till May, and Hell Above." He looked around to ask for any objections. We all nodded, nervous as hell. "Alright then. Ready?"

We broke up and went to our places. Mike started the beat on his drumsticks, and we began to play. I could tell Vic was nervous. He held his guitar awkwardly, and his voice shook a little. It was funny to think he could perform in front of thousands flawlessly, but as soon as you put his boss in front of him, he froze. Classic Vic. I sent him a subtle reassuring glance, and he gave me a small smile.

As we finished A Match Into Water, Vic had loosened up, and was performing like normal. We flew through the last two songs, and Bob gave a standing ovation. Relieved, we approached the edge of the stage to accept his praise. I broke away to go to the bathroom.

Performing for Bob made me forget, momentarily, what was weighing on my chest. Vic was my best friend, and I couldn't bear the thought of telling him what happened. I was so angry at Claire, so angry at Ian. No one ruins my best friend's happiness like that.

As I washed my hands, I heard the boys start playing Bulletproof Love. What the fuck? I thought. I could even hear the bass, as if I was up there playing with them. I raced out of the bathroom and down the hall to the stage door.

There, playing on MY bass, with MY band, was Ian.

I was overwhelmed with anger and jealousy. Those were MY friends. I helped write that song he was playing.

Before I knew what I was doing, I stormed over to Ian's amp and unplugged the cord, fuming. He whirled around, looking a little guilty and annoyed. The rest of the band stopped playing mid-note.

"Hey, you little shit. The shirt says 'set crew' not 'bassist'." I spat.

He looked legitimately scared of me, and that bothered me. This isn't me. This isn't the way I am. But he was making me crazy. He stole Alex, and he's ruining Vic.

He lowered my instrument from its strap, gingerly handing it over.

"Jaime, what the actual fuck?" Mike stormed over. "Kid was just trying it out." Ian stared at the floor.

"I-" I felt horrible now. My face was hot. "Hey, I'm sorry-" I touched Ian's shoulder, gently offering my bass back to him. He shook his head, not removing his gaze from the floor, and quickly left the stage, almost in a run.

"Way-to-fucking-go, dumbass." Mike stared at me. I still looked at the floor, guilty for what I'd done. "That kid is almost a bigger supporter for our band than you, asshole! It might have been his dream to play with us. And guess what? You ruined it." I looked up at him, miserable.

"What's going on here?" Bob approached the stage. Fucking great. Not only was I an official dream-crusher, I had just embarrassed myself bigtime in front of our producer. I stood there in shame, hot-faced and guilty.

"Mr. Preciado, I'd watch your back. That boy was one of the best bassists I've seen. Seeing you kick him off stage was a little disheartening, to say the least." Bob stared at me down his nose. I swallowed hard.

"Yes sir. It won't happen again." I managed. Bob nodded, turning back around and returning to a quiet conversation with our manager Michele.

I looked apologetically at the other boys, then returned my bass to its place. I turned and left the stage. I had to find Ian. I had to show him who the real Jaime Preciado was. Not the jealous one; not the angry one. The one that accepts his mistakes, the one who wholeheartedly apologizes for his actions.