Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 50

"Okay, guys, last night was an absolute disaster," Tim declared as we drove to their next venue, the singer's gaze flickering between the road and his bandmates whom he looked at through the rear-view mirror, "We have to step it up tonight." He smacked his hand against the steering wheel. "We need to do better."

"Why don't you try practicing before the show instead of getting shitfaced at the bar?" I suggested dryly, earning a discouraging smack on the arm from John. I stuck my tongue out at him and pettily turned my head to the side, looking out the window and listening as Tim scoffed.

"Why don't you just shut up and enjoy the ride, Taylor?" he spat back, pulling up to a red light and pivoting his torso to face me, "This is serious stuff, unlike what you and the...the queens are doing." His pathetic insult earned a brief round of poorly stifled laughs from his passengers—all but John and me, of course.

"Really, Tim?" I retorted angrily, sitting forward in my seat and clinging onto the back of his, continuing over the seat's shoulder, "You're just jealous that we proved you wrong, and that we're doing a thousand times better than we ever did with you. In fact, I'm glad you left us for this dumb band." A small wave of disapproving, mumbled remarks washed over the van.

John nervously chuckled and placed a strong hand on my shoulder, pulling me back and making the amicable suggestion, "H-Hey there, why don't we go back to talking about tonight's show? I-I actually had some ideas about what we could do differently if you'll let me—"

"Well, all those voicemails you left me after I walked out beg to differ," my former band member snarled, his grip tightening on the steering wheel and my jaw clenching in irritation. His bandmates joined together one final time in a deriding, vexing coo of interest, tinting my cheeks a faint shade of red. If it wasn't for the side-eye that John gave me, and if we weren't cruising down the country roads like we were running from the cops, I would've retaliated by choking the fucker, but instead, I just crossed my arms and bit my tongue.

Four more days, I reminded myself, just four more days.

"What ideas did you have, Deaky?" Humpy Bong's guitarist, Jonathan, interjected, causing my forehead to crinkle.

"Deaky?" I repeated coldly, leaning forward to meet the guitarist's confused gaze, "Deaky? What kind of stupid name is that?" It hadn't occurred to me that I'd used the same name myself the night prior, but how was I to know? I couldn't remember.

"Roger, please," the bassist begged under his breath, stealing my attention with a pacifying hand on my thigh, "It's just a nickname. Don't get hung up on it."

I threw my hand towards Jonathan, ready to reply when the guitarist reaped me of the chance to do so by blurting out, "So, John, those ideas?"

"W-Well for starters," he began shyly, a blush creeping up in his cheeks, "I feel like some of the songs we're playing aren't our strongest. Not that they're bad! I just...I feel like there are better ones we could include in our set, songs that would really...you know, catch people's attention."

Silence fell over the car as glances were shared and heads were eventually nodded. I looked at all of them with a raised eyebrow, trying to decipher and interpret their secret, wordless language.

"Okay then, Deaky, what songs do you think we should do?" Tim questioned from the front, an intrigued smirk on his face.

John smiled.

*****

"I can't believe they actually took my suggestions!" John excitedly gushed as he tuned his bass, the rest of the band—once again—at the bar. I was sat on the stage in front of him, my legs dangling over the edge and my hands clasped in my lap. I glanced back over my shoulder and flashed him a weak grin that went unnoticed as he went on to say, "I just...I really think tonight's going to be a lot better."

"Why? Because you're going to play a bunch of songs with the same four chords everyone uses and drumbeats that even a beginner could keep up with?" I muttered, maintaining the sardonic grin on my face.

He shook his head, having heard what I said but choosing to ignore it by replying with, "It's just nice to be heard for once, Rog; to be taken seriously."

I couldn't hold back the laugh that slipped past my lips as I jumped up onto the stage and turned around, folding my arms over my chest and waltzing over to him. "'Wouldn't know what that's like."

"It's nice," he reiterated, a newfound seriousness to his voice as he continued messing with the tuning of his strings.

"And what's the supposed to mean?" I inquired, an offended undertone to my question as the smile that appeared on my face faltered at his words which held more weight to them than he led on.

He heaved a sigh and dropped his arms over his instrument, finally meeting my gaze and asking, "When's the last time Freddie or Brian actually listened to you, huh? Or the last time they let you make a decision about a song or a show that they didn't change on you last minute?"

I stared at him blankly, racking my brain for an answer that didn't exist.

"My point exactly," John murmured, setting his bass aside and standing up from the stool he was perched on. He took my hands in his and whispered, "Don't you see it, Rog? I'm actually appreciated in this band. They care about what I think and what I have to say. Can you honestly say the same about the other two?"

I couldn't.

I couldn't say the same about the other two, yet I struggled to admit it.

It seemed clear as day to me why Brian and Freddie were the better option over bloody Humpy Bong, and it wasn't because they were more cooperative and collaborative, or more open to considering ideas that weren't theirs. It was because they knew what it meant to be a family; to be loyal to someone or something, and because they weren't willing to immediately throw in the towel when they didn't get their way or jump ship when the going got tough.

Tim, on the other hand, was the exact opposite, and it angered me that John didn't see that. He was too blinded by some false promise to see that Tim was just telling him what he wanted to hear, making him feel like he mattered to them, but I knew deep down that as soon as John got the band to where they wanted to be, they'd drop him like he was nothing. That's just the kind of guy Tim was.

Before either of us could attempt to carry on the conversation, a voice shouted from across the bar. "Hey, break it up, you two! You wouldn't want to get arrested now, would you?" We both looked back to see the trio drunkenly sauntering across the empty room towards us, a wild grin plastered on Tim's face as he finished his stein of beer while the other two made fun of John and me by grotesquely pretending to make out with one another.

I wondered if they knew, or if they were just being assholes.

Probably just being assholes.