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I wonder when we'll realize This is what we got left
Jake wandered into the office a whopping three hours late because, of course, he had. Interviews weren't his favorite thing to be subjected to, and even if they were, he still wouldn't have granted them timeliness. Why couldn't it just be about the music? Performing wasn't pleasurable when it was for the press and compulsory.
The tequila train whistled in the distance, covering the whispered conversation the other three were having sequestered in one of the conference rooms. "What's up?" Jake questioned skeptically over the edge of his coffee mug, leaning against the doorframe.
The suspicion swelled into uncertainty when his bandmates ceased speaking altogether. Pivoting, they gaped at him in equal measures of shocked and scared, like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. If they'd told one more reporter that the new album was inspired by science fiction, Jake was going to throttle them.
"Oh, nothing. Just coming up with a plan for the day's press." Josh's attempt to shake him off with the answer was just that: an attempt. And a poorly orchestrated one at that. Five extra minutes outside the womb hadn't been enough time for his twin to master the art of lying. And even if Josh's too casual comment hadn't crinkled Jake's eyes in caution, the suggestion that they ever planned for press would have. The band approached the media with the same grace as a game of rock, paper, scissors. Whoever was roaming headquarters at the time got reigned in. Whichever member wasn't preoccupied took the plunge. There was no intent and definitely no planning.
"Bullshit," Jake stated simply, slanted eyes slating each of them with a misgiving stare. Sam and Josh were decidedly saying nothing while expertly avoiding his glare. So, that left the weakest link. "Danny?"
The drummer huffed, and his shoulders slumped, offended by being the one picked out of the lineup. "I don't know, man. Did you look at the itinerary?" Obviously, he hadn't. Jake felt that was the responsibility of people who wore suits, but he was a musician. Chords and riffs were his concern, not schedules.
"We have an interview with Rolling Stone at two," Josh informed. "You're doing it with Sammy." So that's what they'd been discretely deciding while he was delayed. Jake wondered if Sam had volunteered or drawn the short straw. It didn't matter, though. It was still bullshit. They were skipping rocks across a peaceful pond they had no business playing in.
"No," he snapped, hand tightening across his cup. A pit began to form in his stomach because he couldn't pretend not to know what it meant. Jake wasn't Dennis Quaid, and they weren't a three-headed Lindsay Lohan. This wasn't The Parent Trap.
"It's non-negotiable," Josh asserted, crossing his arms over his chest like he was preparing for the attack. Jake considered chucking his hot coffee at Josh's head, drenching the ridiculous curls in caffeine.
