CASUAL AFFAIR; brendon urie

Chapter Forty-Four

"Look who finally showed up." Dallon said with heavy sarcasm as soon as I stepped in the door, into the studio.

"Good morning to you too, Dallon." I rolled my eyes, crossing the room, and plunking down in front of the keyboard - I'd worked up a particularly nice ass grove with all the sitting I was doing here in the past weeks. The sheets scribbled with chords, pitch notes and random lyrical lines, where lying as I'd left them the previous evening, me being the last to leave at a relatively early nine pm. I counted my lucky stars one of the a-holes hadn't come and messed them up since then, as what no doubt appeared a jumble, was actually skilfully organised in a way only I could comprehend with my, and to quote Spencer here, 'wonderfully spastic brain.'

And the fact that some of the lyrics were about Florrie. Like my version of a teen girl doodling her crush's name on her textbook with a bunch of hearts.

"So, Mr Punctual, what's the excuse this time?" Spencer asked, tapping one of his sticks on the back of my head.

"Overslept." I mumbled. Which was technically the truth. They didn't need to know that Florrie and I texted from nine until ten, at which point she'd turned up at the door. That we'd played Grand Theft Auto followed by Dead Island until twelve. And then after that, we'd done stuff - fun stuff. And at one she left me with a kiss on my cheek, flat on my back on the floor, giving the ceiling a triumphant smile. I didn't move until twenty minutes later, at which point, I sent her a text. And she replied. And so on until three, when she told me that she'd dropped her phone on her face three times because she was so tired, and we'd said goodnight. But I'd been restless, and hadn't been able to drift off until four, making me clock in a good five or six hours. And that's why I'd slept in.

Spencer rat-a-tat-ed the drumstick against my skull before stepping away from my feeble attempt to swat at him, shaking his head disdainfully.

"I'm super tired." I protested weakly.

"Fair enough." he said with a shrug. "But the second you fall asleep on us I'm gonna sharpie a nose and kitty cat whiskers on your face."

"Duly noted." I replied drolly. I glanced around. Dallon was sitting on the couch, tuning his guitar. Ian was at the laptop, headphones on, clicking at something whilst he sang under his breath. And Spencer threw himself down next to Dallon, rapping his sticks on his knees. "Where's Zack?" I asked.

"Saving your skinny little punk ass, as usual." Zack's voice boomed, as he stepped into the room, bearing what smelt alluringly like coffee and sugar donuts. "You've got a radio interview at three." he gave a stern look to us all. "All of you. Be there on time, or I'm drawing kitty whiskers on all your faces." he did the I'm watching you gesture to me. "Especially you, Brendon Boyd Urie. Mark my words."

I hoped there was enough caffeine in what he had brought to actually get me through the idea of that, let alone the interview itself.

Dallon looked up from his guitar. "I vote we kitty whiskers him anyway." he grinned at me.

I gave him a sarcastic smile back. "And I vote that I shove your precious bass up where the sun don't shine."

"Not in front of company, darling." he sang song in a high warbly imitation of a woman's voice in reply.

"Oh, where are my manners?" I adopted my best 1940's guy tone. "Which end would you prefer? Fret board or-"

"Well, snookums, it's really which end you would prefer." he set the bass down and stood with his hands on his hips.

"Don't interrupt me." I stood too, and strode over to him, shoving his shoulder.

He dropped the girly tone, his face taking on a 'game on' expression. "Do that again. I dare you."