My Brother's Band

chapter 10: the death penalty exists

I'm awoken to the sound of screaming.  And when I say awoken, I mean I roll out of bed, slam my knees on the floor and my head on the frame of my bed, with a shriek of my own.

That doesn't stop the noise; however.  I would be surprised if anyone could hear their thoughts over that ruckus, much less my own cries of pain. 

Luckily, this isn't this first time I have throw myself out of my bed.  It will also likely not be the last time, either.

With a huff, I pull myself to an upright position by clutching the edge of my grey sheet clad mattress.  Now that I'm more awake -relatively speaking, seeing as I have a level of absolutely zero caffeine in my body- I realize that the screaming I am hearing is sounding more and more like the high pitched screech of a guitar.  A heavily abused guitar, that is.

Whatever that is, it is not music.

I'm beginning to doubt the talent of my brothers band, again.

A thump of what I assume to be drums begins to echo through the house, as a very un-rythmic undercurrent to the horrifying noise.  A quick glance at my cellphone screen tells me that its five o'clock.  In the morning.

What the absolutely poopsicles?

Another screech sends me stumbling out of my bedroom door into an empty hallway.  The noise seems to be coming from somewhere in the basement of the house, if the vibrations beneath my feet are any clue. 

If this is their version of music, I'm going to have to very nicely explain to them that their apparent fan-dome is due more to their looks than their skills.  If this isn't their music, then I'm going to have to kill them.

Plain and simple.

I stumble through the house, wishing desperately that I didn't maintain an unwritten rule of 'no-potty-mouth'.  The filth that they utter almost daily would be so fitting in this situation. It would probably scare the poop out of them if I burst in cursing, too.  Their reaction, I expect, would be worth breaking my own rule.

But I will not stoop to their level.

I carefully lower my bleary eyes to the steps in front of me as I descend into the pits of hell (not a swearword if  it's a real place!).

When I have successfully navigated the slippery wooden staircase -by clinging to the wooden railing, I might add-, I pause for a moment to allow my eyes to grow accustom to the seriously, ridiculously bright lights. This is pure insanity for my delicate little sleepy eyes.

"I told you that would get her out of bed," Ben chuckles from somewhere to my left.

"I'm surprised she didn't fall down the stairs, to be honest," Paul adds with a smirk that I don't have to see to know is there.

"She shouldn't have doubted our skills," Grey shrugs.  My eyes find him sitting behind a drum set across the room, set up on the back of a raised platform.  The boys have the most magnificent man cave in their basement; something I discovered one night a few weeks ago when I heard the distinct sounds of billards from the living room.  Everything a guy could desire, is here.  A huge flatscreen tv takes over one side of the room, with black leather sectionals spread out to allow for each of them to laze around.  A pool table is set up right behind the longest sectioal that faces the TV directly.  A few feet from the head of the table, there's a foozball table, with pretty ad polished little metal players.  At the other end of the table, they have a bar: a fully stocked bar. One with so much liquor and beer that I didn't dare touch it for fear of having my hands lobbed off. 

It's a full bar, with a polished oak bar top, colourful and fully functional beer taps, sparkling fridges and sinks, and shelf upon shelf of liquids in glass bottles that I fear costs more than the average man's rent.

The lifted platform is clear across the massive room, and that is where I locate all four of the men responsible for my rather rude awakening.

"I didn't realize you guys even knew five o'clock existed," I sigh, moving to perch myself on the edge of the pool table.  Ben makes a move to call me on it, but Rob's warning glare changes his mind.

Sometimes having a brother that is desperate to reconnect is useful.

"They don't," Rob grunts, setting the red and silver electric guitar at his feet and slipping a pick between the strings. "But they wanted to show off."

"Yeah, you're gonna listen to us practice!" Grey grins, standing from behind the drum kit and moving forward. His hair is scattered like he just rolled out of bed, and the red pillow lines along his left scruffy cheek tell me that he probably did.

"The room is soundproof when we close that door," Rob explains, nodding his head in the direction of the stairs I had just come down from.  "We practice late every night, but you won't hear us when once we close it."

"Why did you have to wake me up then?" I moan, rubbing my eyes tiredly.  I can only imagine what I look like, sitting in front of three hot guys and my hideous brother in nothing but a small tank top and sleep shirts.  When I open my eyes once again, Grey is standing less than a foot away and is in the process of shucking his hoodie over his broad shoulders.  "What are you doing?"

"Put this on, please," he grunts, thrusting the sweater at my chest. I look down at the warm black material, then back up at his fatigued expression.  His eyes are meet mine, and his expression changes to one portraying a hint of strain.  "You're not wearing a bra, cupcake," he says in explanation to my quizzical expression.

The expression 'as red as a tomato' doesn't even do justice to how bright red I must turn.  I feel the flush work its way up from my chest until my cheeks are burning.

"On. Please."  He nods to the sweater in my hands before spinning back to the stage and the rest of the boys, who all happen to be staring in odd directions, keeping their eyes off of me as Rob glares at them all one by one.

"You all deal with women throwing their topless selves at us on the stage and you can't handle keeping your eyes off of my little sister in her PJs?" Rob growls, crossing his arms over his chest.  "Sweet jesus boys, I don't want to have to punch you but I will."

"Just removing the temptation from the equation," Grey says evenly, aiming a light kick to Ben's shin, and taking the guitar out of his hands.  Ben moves back to take the seat behind the drum kit, as Rob grabs what looks to be a four stringed guitar and Paul sits himself behind a keyboard I hadn't noticed off to the left of the stage.

"For the love of all things holy, sis, put the sweater on before I have to kill someone.  And wear clothes next time."

"These are clothes!" I cry, slipping the hoodie over my head and pulling it to its full length. It covers me almost to my knees, and I feel like I'm swamped in a delicious smelling garbage bag.

Man, what a contrast.

"It's not my fault that you guys made me fall out of bed at five o'clock in the freaking morning!"

"That's ten bucks, boys.  I told you that was her hitting the floor!" Paul cheers, raising both hands in the air.  Rob rolls his eyes at him, playing with the knobs of his instrument thingy silently. Ben slips a ten dollar bill in Paul's direction with a pout, and Grey, I notice, is carefully avoiding looking in my direction.  I choose to  ignore the fat that they were placing bets on my wake up, and instead sit back to listen to them play.

There will be plenty of time for revenge later.  Besides, this is an island, and I'm the only female present.  That immediately places me in charge, and I just might decide that the death penalty in this house is a thing.

When Ben sends his drumsticks smashing off of the cymbals with a cheeky grin, I decide while covering my ears, that it isn't a maybe.

It's a definitely.