Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 23

"I thought you said we had a lot of work to do today," I mumbled as the four of us walked into the studio—Brian with his guitar cases in both hands, John with his bass strapped across his back, and me with my toms tucked underneath my arms. Freddie, as usual, carried nothing, claiming he needed to "lead the way" and that, if he were to strain himself with "excessive lifting," it would compromise his singing.

Load of bullshit, if you asked me.

"We do, Roger," Brian acknowledged my complaint, rolling his eyes like an annoyed parent who didn't understand why their child wasn't listening to them, even though they'd repeated themselves a thousand times over.

"Then how come the entire ride here, all you two blokes talked about was going over the songs we've already recorded? We've gone over them so many bloody times; I can practically play them in my sleep."

The guitarist sighed and explained, "Exactly. That's why we're only going over vocals, guitar, and bass today."

I stopped dead in my tracks, his words hitting me like a brick wall, and furrowed my eyebrows together in anger. "Wait, are you serious?" I lifted my arms and relinquished my hold on the drums' rims, letting them fall to the ground in an echoed clamor that froze everyone in their places. "Then why the hell did you make me bring my fucking drums?" I yelled.

"To get a reaction like that, dear," Freddie responded with a smile, flipping his hair over his shoulder and continuing into the studio. Brian shook his head in exasperation and followed after him, John tagging along too, but not before picking up and taking my drums for me with a small, kind, almost humored grin.

I heaved a sigh and dragged myself down the hall, pushing in the control room door and strutting over to the couch positioned behind the recording console, taking a dramatic turn before flopping down on it.

I remained lying there for what seemed like forever—tossing and turning, feet up on the arm and feet up on the back, drumsticks thumping against the cushions and the pillows. You name it, I did it. It was pure agony, and I was so close to fulfilling the growing, deeply rooted desire of barging into the studio, grabbing my cymbals from their stands, and bashing in all their heads when I saw Freddie pull John aside. I raised a curious eyebrow and rolled off the couch, leaning forward on the mixing board and squinting my eyes to try and read their lips to figure out what they were talking about.

I was shit at reading lips, though, so instead I watched in unadulterated awe as John's facial expression changed from concerned to embarrassed to horrified, the bassist storming across the practice space and the singer throwing his arms out to the side in a pathetic attempt to continue their conversation. However, it was clear that John wished to no longer have any part of it, walking straight out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

I pushed myself away from the console and contemplated my options. I could either stay in the control room or catch John before he left the studio altogether, but I couldn't determine which plan of action was better. I staggered back to the couch—the decision too difficult for me to make in fears it would ruin my chances with John tonight—and plopped down in the middle cushion, hunched forward with my elbows resting on my knees and my gaze locked on my feet.

My eyes eventually flickered up to Brian who had wandered over to Freddie and was now walking away from him. His eyes met mine through the window in a disappointed and exhausted way as he set his guitar down and took John's lead, abandoning Freddie who stayed behind for only a brief moment, just long enough to meet my gaze with the same expression Brian had.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and jumped to my feet, breaking out of the control room and finding the three of them standing in the hallway—John on one wall and Brian and Freddie on the other. They all had their arms folded over their chests and their heads turned away from each other, as if they couldn't stand the sight of one another. It was unsurprisingly a common occurrence among us.

"Hey," I blurted out, pulling their attentions in the same direction and regretting my choice immediately, for their looks were more intimidating than I was prepared for. I took a cautious step back and stammered, "W-What's going on? Are...Are we done for the day?" There was no disguising the glimmer of hope that came across in my tone of voice, worried that if I spent another silent minute in that control room, I would've lost my mind.

Brian looked over at the clock on the wall and heaved a heavy sigh. "Well, it is almost time for us to get headed out to that show."

"What show?" I asked, placing my hands on my hips and shifting my weight to one side.

"Oh, don't play stupid, darling," Freddie chimed in, peeling himself away from the wall and gravitating towards the center of the hallway, "We're playing at Bri's college tonight. That's why we've been trying to get these songs down. Maybe if your head wasn't always stuck in La La Land, Mr. I'm-Going-Out, you would've known."

I brushed off the singer's comment that—subpar, at best—made a mockery of the way I spoke and shook my head, muttering, "I can't believe it."

"Can't believe what, Roger?" Brian enthused, though his reply was everything but.

"I can't believe I'm in a band with a bunch of morons who seemed to have forgotten how long it takes for us to get ready for a show!" I exclaimed, brushing past all of them and into the studio, collecting my drums that hadn't been assembled and looking back over my shoulder at three of them who'd gathered in the doorway. "Well, don't just stand there staring at me," I snapped at them, "I know you haven't seen me all day, but we need to get going!"

"You're unbelievable, Roger," the curly-haired man shot back with a chuckle, entering the room and dragging the other two in with him.