Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 22

A groan emanated from the back of my throat while I pulled myself up, rubbing my tired eyes and blinking a few times before looking up—eyes narrowed—and seeing Freddie standing over me, notebook in hand.

"What'll you do for loving...when it's only just begun?" he read, the corners of his lips stretching outward to his ears and revealing those godawful teeth that always walked into the room before he did. It took me but a second to process what he was saying, sending my heart into a chest-pounding frenzy.

"Hey, give that back!" I yelled, scrambling to my feet as Freddie ducked out of my reach, darting across the room and into the corner, where he kept his back to me and continued reading what I'd written the night before.

"I want you..." the singer began, looking back over his shoulder at me with a wide grin and continuing as I rushed towards him, "...to be a woman."

I let out another scream and tackled the dark-haired man, struggling to rip the notebook from his hands. He wiggled his way out of my hold and escaped into the kitchen, thinking he'd be safe from my attack since Brian was in there making breakfast, and I wouldn't dare act so belligerently around a hot pan.

He was wrong.

I followed him in there in a flash of fury and leapt over the small table, jumping at him and earning a "Jesus Christ, Roger!" from Brian as I latched onto the notebook and growled, "Give it back, Fred."

"Who is this song about, Rog?" he inquired, unrelenting in his mockery of me. "I mean," he looked back down at the graphite-smeared paper, reading verbatim, "What'll you think of heaven if it's back from where you came? This person must really be something..."

"Just give it back," I repeated sternly, tugging at the pages that wouldn't budge from Freddie's hands.

"Oh, would you two cut it out?" the guitarist intervened, snatching the notebook out of both of our grasps and looking at the two of us like we were out of our minds. "You're acting like a couple of schoolboys!"

"Well, he started it!" I whined.

The singer scoffed. "I was merely admiring my bandmate's new song."

"Oh sure, Fred. That's what you were doing." I rolled my eyes.

"I don't care what you were or were not doing." Brian shoved the notebook into my chest and shot a glare in both of our directions, one at a time, as he told us, "Roger, put the damn notebook in your room, and Freddie, get the mail."

"But—"

"Just get the fucking mail, Fred!" he snapped, lighting a fire underneath the singer that sent him scurrying out of the kitchen like the rat he was. I stood there for a moment before Brian—his eyebrows crinkled together in anger—threw his hand in the direction of the bedroom hall, sending me on my way. I slipped into John's and my bedroom and turned around to see the bassist bent over, hands on the waistband of his pants, mid-pull, and a terrified look in his eyes.

"Roger," he muttered, standing up and pulling his pants up the rest of the way; zipping and buttoning them up with urgency. "I-I didn't hear you."

I couldn't help but chuckle, hiding the notebook behind my back with one hand and using the other to point over my shoulder, asking, "You really didn't hear us all yelling out there?"

"Well yeah, I did," he admitted bashfully, a subtle blush creeping up in his cheeks as he slipped his hands into his pockets, "That's why I stayed in here. I usually try to stay out of your guys' arguments."

I nodded my head in understanding, starting to sway on the heels of my feet as I awkwardly waited for the moment to pass, hoping desperately that he would ask me to move out of his way or spark a conversation that would alleviate the silent blanket that had been cast over the two of us.

I became hopeful when he cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head, as if he was preparing himself to say something, but much to my disappointment, he just brushed past me towards the door. I closed my eyes and kept my back to him, trying not to let our encounter get to me like it already had begun to. I could feel the tears starting to form, but they wouldn't get the chance to stream down my cheeks as hands fell upon my shoulders and a warm presence pressed itself against me from behind.

"Meet me on the roof at midnight," John whispered, his breath tickling my ear and his teeth biting at my earlobe, quickly returning my vision to me and stealing the air from my lungs. The presence escaped me as I looked over my shoulder, catching only a glimpse of John's hair as the door closed behind him.

"Midnight," I whispered to myself, unable to hold back the smile that appeared on my face as I spun around and went to leave the room. I didn't even get a step out the door before being pushed back by what felt like a freight train, the realization of how far away midnight was hitting me with a powerful sense of urgency.

It was only morning, early morning at that, and the thought of enduring an entire day around John without drawing any attention to us seemed impossible. Freddie and Brian had made it very clear that they both had their own ideas about what was going on between us, and if we were to have a repeat of yesterday, there was a high chance of their thoughts being affirmed. Granted, I wasn't as concerned as John seemed to be, but I still couldn't risk it.

I wrapped my hand around the brass knob and yanked the door open, heading straight for the front door—hoping to slip out unnoticed—when Brian's voice stopped me dead in my tracks, just before I could make my grand escape. "And where do you think you're going?" I slowly looked back over my shoulder to see him and Freddie at the table, sitting across from one another with two extra plates in between them—one for me and one for John.

"Out," I replied bluntly, unwilling to back down for the second time this morning. My eyes trailed over to John who was leaning against the kitchen counter, a sly expression on his face as he poured himself a glass of orange juice. I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat and added boldly, "I think we should have the day off today."

"Roger, we can't take another day off," the curly-haired guitarist tried to rationalize with me, "We have a lot to do today!"

"Yes, what he said," Freddie joined in, waving his hand flippantly as he kept his attention on the mail he and Brian were working on while eating their breakfast.

"Where were you thinking of going?" John inquired, a playfully mischievous look in his eyes as the corner of his lip perked up into an amused smirk. "Perhaps I could tag along."

My eyes traveled from one band member to the next, the room shrinking in size as my answer became an obvious priority. If it wasn't my whereabouts, it was Freddie's, and if it wasn't Freddie's, it was Brian's. As a group, we were notorious for sticking our noses in each other's businesses, and in that moment, I wished we weren't.

"Sit down, Roger," Brian demanded in an exhausted yet stern tone, pointing his fork at the open seat beside him and raising his eyebrows as if to say Now.

I scoffed. "You wouldn't give John this much trouble!"

"Yeah, because John doesn't drive me up the wall like you do, so sit down and eat your breakfast before it gets cold!" he snapped, stabbing his fork right into his plate—a horrible metal-against-porcelain sound piercing our ears—and heaving a shaky sigh. "Please," he tacked on softly, glancing over at me with remorse in his eyes.

I stood by the door for a moment or two before dragging myself over and plopping down in the open chair, snatching up a piece of bacon and biting down on it. I ripped half the crispy piece of pork from in between my teeth and looked over at John, the bassist winking at me as he turned away, leaving me in a helpless fluster as I nervously chewed the food in my mouth.