Failing Upward

Chapter 3 (part 2): Que Sera, Sera

Wonderful. Good friend and worst nightmare--together. The voice behind the door came out of hiding. A really hot red head. She gave me a wink and offered me her number. I didn't take it. The band stopped playing as I walked back to the table. Mary gave me an "up-yours" look, so I decided I'd be the one to ditch her first tonight and ordered another beer.

"I'm going to go talk to the guys," I pointed toward the stage, taking my beer with me.

"I'm coming," Sherlock said.

Shit. I thought, Mary was right, but I mean, I know he liked me, but in love? No. Irene was wrong.

We both walked up to Bill. He and Smith, who played bass, were sitting on the edge of the stage drinking complementary Miller from the tap.

"You look one-eighty better than the last time I saw you," said Smith.

"Yeah, I feel only ninety degrees better, though," I answered, taking a swig and pointing with my little finger. "Who's the sub?"

"Some guy came up to us the night of your accident. Said he could play. It was like our psychic friend saw you weren't gonna be here. He even had a guitar out in his car. Talk about a stroke of luck."

"Yeah, real lucky," Sherlock said, dripping with sarcasm. Who was this character anyway? Short like me--maybe a bit taller. Not unattractive, but not great looking either. Brown, expressive eyes though. To look at him, he had a sense of humor.

"He's pretty good, too. Says his brother is some big time manager dude. Name is Sean Hopkins." This is getting better and better. Maybe his uncle owns Aftermath, too. "He knows all the covers we do and even the originals."

"He knows the songs I've written?" I asked, finishing off the bottle.

"Yeah, weird isn't it?" Smith said. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked at my replacement.

"Where'd he come from? I can't remember seeing him in the audience--you know, a regular or something? He has to be if he knows our songs," I said. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my temple. "Um...I don't mean to sound cliché, but the room has started spinning, and I've only had a few beers."

"John? Are you ok?" Sherlock grabbed my arm to steady me. I shrugged him off and walked back to our table. He followed me, but he also watched over his shoulder at the sub.

"You turned kind of gray there for a moment," Sherlock said. "Looked like you we about to pass out."

"I'm feeling better now now that I've sat down. Must be not over the accident. I feel like I got kicked in the head. Not that if they threw me aside for this new guy, the end of the world would come, but fuck. Bad things happen in threes--isn't that what they say? Like Karma? I don't think I did anything in this life..."

I stopped. No use going on and on. Sherlock didn't need to hear my problems. And I was really thirsty. I ordered one on tap this time.

"You know I don't believe in Karma," Sherlock said slowly. "I make my own destiny. As for reincarnation, if I lived before, I'd like to think I was someone who had vision--you know--like Dylan Thomas."

I laughed. I sat and just looked at him. He was impossible to figure out. Mary was right; he had really nice eyes. God, maybe I shouldn't have had that last drink, I thought, looking down at my empty glass. Then I ordered one more.

'"Dylan Thomas," I said, leaning into him. "I never would have thought you'd compare yourself to a writer like that. More along the lines of someone with an analytical, brilliant mind."

Beautiful eyes, I thought. Must. Look. Away. God, I hated rock-heavy uncomfortable silences. So I drank.

Always happened when the room got quiet. I looked down at my half-filled glass, and I heard the rusty nails scraping together in Sherlock's chair, creaking as he fidgeted. He cleared his throat and sat forward.