His foot brushed against the shag carpet as the elevator door closed. His finger landed on the black button for the fourteenth floor. The lift shook and creaked at the start but soon enough carried him up the cable.
Angus glanced down at his watch and stamped his heels to the floor. One two...one two... Bon was up on the fourteenth floor no doubt sleeping off a hangover. The show was in less than three hours and Malcolm did not take kindly to screw ups.
None of them did. But Angus' brother had a nefarious reputation when dealing with lollygaggers. Angus got his first scolding session when he was eighteen and they first started the band.
He shuddered at the memory. One more time with one more girl was one minute too late. He showed up to the studio, breathless and carelessly put together. Angus insisted he had slept in (which wasn't uncommon for the schoolboy) but the lipstick mark on his collar told a different story.
One smack to the head was all it took.
Malcolm's strict authority must have leaked off his palm and into Angus' brain because now they were both just as rough as the other. Their band was one of profesional standard and if you couldn't meet the need, you couldn't do the deed. No ifs ands or buts about it.
The hands on his watch were spinning way too quickly for Angus' comfort as he bit his lip. Blood pooled on the surface and he licked it away. His time was running out to collect Bon from his room and (literally) carry his ass out. Finally the lift dinged, then let the boy off.
His shoes pounded down the hall sending waves through his head. All the doors looked the same from one end to the other. It was then he realized Bon never actually specified what room he was staying in. Angus mentally smacked himself for not checking with anyone first. He wasn't about to go knocking every door down he came across, the impression this band made in this building was bad enough. The young man mentally smacked their drummer for putting his foot through the drywall.
Standing in the middle of the long rug staring at the doors made him feel like an idiot. He looked like a lost puppy out there, panting with eyes darting around. It would have been worse if Bon himself hadn't walked out of one of the rooms Number 133! and came toward him.
Neither one said a word in the greeting, and the singer simply continued on his way to the elevator. Angus followed, silently observing.
His hair was washed and blow dried to the extent where it looked professional. His outfit, albeit less professional, was planned and put together. No sign of sleep crossed his eyes nor drinking on his lips. Maybe he hadn't been getting wasted again...
Even his walking was intended. His feet swept the floor in swift motions like he knew he was going to be late. Angus thought if he knew, no matter what he did the night before, that he was gonna be late, that he would just say 'fuck it' and plan ahead. How many people can do that?
Both men stood silently in the elevator waiting for the doors to close. It gave an unnecessary feeling of anticipation; as soon as it happened, it was over. Nothing exciting. Not like waiting for a concert to start, not at all.
The extra time allowed Angus to daydream about the upcoming evening and the sweaty nights ahead. Every concert followed the same routine. They'd play a show using only half their energy, then spend the rest of it backstage. Greet fans who came with albums to sign and the occasional tee shirt. Eventually some girls would come along and they'd finish the night off with them. It was a difficult schedule to keep up with as these present moments showed, but it was the rock lifestyle. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll wasn't just some cartoon catchphrase.
His attention was pulled a sharp left when Bon hit the button for the eighth floor instead of the lobby. "What are you doin'?" he asked bluntly.
"There's a fella on the seventh floor that hangs out in the corner," Bon responded without turning around.
