Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 10

I sat at my drum kit, my leg restlessly shaking as I stared at a single spot in the studio, Brian's and my conversation from this morning playing over and over again in my head. He turned my alarm off this morning, he had seen John and me, and he knew.

He knew, goddammit. He knew.

I should've been more careful. I should've just left it at John touching my cheek. Who knew what would've happened had I not leapt out of my chair and kissed him? He could've just dropped his hand back to his side, told me he was tired and went back to bed, and that could've been the end of it. But no, I had to follow my instincts. I had to let my sudden and still confusing desire get the best of me.

You fool.

"Roger!" Freddie's voice erupted in my ear, stealing my locked gaze from the wall socket. "Get your pretty little head out of the damn clouds and remember your cues."

I glanced around the room, spotting Brian and John looking at me in anticipation—the guitarist with his hands on his hips, and the bassist with his arms resting on the body of his instrument that was strapped over his shoulder. I swallowed the nervous lump that had formed in my throat and twirled the drumstick I was holding in my hand, shifting my attention down to the cowbell set up beside me. I positioned the stick over the instrument and saw John shaking his head no out of the corner of my eye.

"What?" I asked, irritated, "Aren't we working on 'Lover'?"

"No, dear," Freddie snarled, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the metal of the mic stand he'd pulled out from its place tightened, "If you were paying attention, you would've known what song we were doing."

"Well, what song are we doing then, your royal highness?" I replied with just as much as sass, folding my arms over my chest and cocking my head to the side. Freddie clenched his jaw and started to cross the room, raising the mic stand like he was a baseball player and the stand was his bat. I jumped up from my seat and tossed my drumsticks over my shoulders, snatching the cowbell and holding it high in preparation for defense.

Brian quickly picked up on what was about to ensue and set his guitar down, rushing over and stopping Freddie and me before we could make contact. "Guys, guys!" he cried struggling to keep us apart as we pushed against his hands that were held up to each of our chests, the two of us shouting overlapping insults at one another and trying to find ways around him. "Put the stuff down, please!" he screamed as his head snapped in John's direction, his wild eyes asking for assistance. The bassist didn't take long to intervene, slipping out from behind his bass and running over to help.

He, of course, took it upon himself to remove me from the situation. I didn't make it easy for him, though, squirming and jumping in his hold and wanting nothing more than to go off on the singer. I wasn't really mad at him; he didn't do anything wrong. The anger had been boiling up inside of me ever since this morning, and Fred became the perfect target when he started coming for me.

"Let me go, John!" I screamed.

"Yes, let him go so I can beat his distracted, unprepared, perky little ass!" the fearless singer snapped back, attempting to break through the barrier Brian had created between him and me.

"We're not letting either of you go until you both calm down," the guitarist growled, holding his hands out to the sides, his head turning back and forth to keep an eye on both of us. Freddie and I continued to try to break free from our restraints, but they stood their ground, eventually even prying the makeshift weapons from our possessions. As John bent down to set the cowbell on the floor, I took the opportunity to escape. However, instead of attacking Freddie like I could tell Brian was expecting—seeing the terrified expression that appeared on his face as he watched me stumble forward—I simply left the room, needing to clear my head; to regain my composure that I hadn't had since I woke up.

In the hallway, I began to pace and take deep breaths—in, out, in, out—but it didn't take me long to find the relaxation technique unhelpful. I stopped myself abruptly and punched the wall, instantly regretting my decision and clasping my throbbing hand in the other. I grunted in pain and fell against the wall, frowning at my reddening fist. The door I slammed behind me on my way out of studio clicked open shortly after, but I didn't care to look up to see who it was. That didn't stop them from approaching me, though, their footsteps pattering across the floor as the person joined my side.

"I don't like this feeling," I confessed exhaustedly, keeping my attention on my hands that I'd started to rub together anxiously, the pain eliciting a brief, sudden gasp from me.

"You think I like it any better?" the one voice I didn't want to hear responded. I quickly glanced up to meet John's empathetic gaze, his remorseful face angering me more than hearing his concerned voice did. I scoffed and peeled myself from the wall, heading towards the door at the end of the hallway. "Roger, come on!" he exclaimed, quickly following after me, "What's going on?"

"What does it look like?" I yelled, pushing forward and ramming my body into the door, breaking out onto the street cast in sunlight and starting down the sidewalk. I didn't get very far before he caught up with me and grabbed me by the arm, unsuccessful in his attempt to turn me around to follow him back as I, for the second time that day, tore myself out of his grasp.

I popped the collar of the jean jacket I'd adorned myself with earlier and continued to my undetermined destination, leaving John in the dust, all without saying another word to him. After all, he was the reason I seemed to be unraveling at the seams. If Freddie had never introduced us to him, and if we never asked him to be part of our band, I wouldn't be in this place right now.

It was all his fault.