Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 63

I let out a frustrated sigh and plopped back down on the edge of the couch, resting my arms on my knees and sniffling. "I mean, who knows when we're going to see him or hear from him again?" I chuckled sadly as I thought about the answer to that question. "We can't keep waiting around for him to come back, because he's just not. He's clearly fucking moved on, and we should too. This isn't going to work without him; it never was."

The defeat in my voice silently brought the singer and the guitarist to the couch with me, each one taking a side. I was too upset to revel in the fact that for once they listened to me, too paranoid that maybe they were just waiting out the episode so they could nudge me in the arm and tell me that we were running late and needed to get going. Regardless, a heavy tension formed among us as my embittered words lingered in the air.

Brian took in a deep breath and placed his hand on my thigh, attracting my hateful gaze from behind the dark tinted lenses. "You're right, Rog. We can't keep waiting around for him to come back." I straightened my posture ever so slightly, and the corner of my lip perked up into a smirk, grateful someone finally saw where I was coming from. "That's why we have to go to this audition." My small burst of confidence instantly faded at his words, and I slumped back onto the couch, crossing my arms over my chest and staring angrily at the small hole in the wall near the floor across the room, big enough for a mouse. "Come on, Rog, we can't give up now. We're finally onto something good, I feel it! Freddie does too. Right, Fred?"

"I just want to see if I can snag me a man this time," the singer replied cheekily, grinning at the guitarist who wasn't amused by his playful response at all. He tutted. "Oh, lighten up, dear. Of course, I think we're onto something good. I wouldn't have put up with this bloke for so long if I didn't." He pinched my shoulder, earning a smack on the arm from me. He raised his hand to return the favor when Brian stuck his arm in between the two of us, preventing him from continuing the fight that would've gone on all day had he not intervened.

"Enough, you two," he warned, his voice low and terse. He shifted his gaze solely to me and asked, "Now, Rog, can you please get dressed and brush your hair? I don't think John would want you moping around like this."

"You don't know what John would want," I growled venomously.

"Well he certainly wouldn't want to kiss you with breath like that, dear," Freddie sneered, waving his hand in front of his nose for added effect. I smacked his hand away and stood up from in between the two men dying from the bout of laughter the darker-haired one brought upon them, grunting before making my way to the bathroom and pushing through the nausea that worsened with each step I took. When I reached my destination, I collapsed on the tiled floor, hugged the toilet, and expelled every drink I'd downed the night prior into the porcelain bowl.

This was going to be a long day.

*****

"Well this has been a bust," Brian murmured under his breath as he looked down at the list of names set out in front of him, staring at all the names crossed out. More than twenty bassists had signed up, but it felt like there were nearly fifty that showed. I guess people's ears pricked up at the name Queen, making them think they had a chance of being part of something big.

I wanted to warn them before they got their hopes up that we weren't going anywhere; that they'd be better off trying to get in with Humpy Bong, but Freddie and Brian silenced me before I could get the chance with a bottle of vodka. "To keep you from throwing up again," they claimed, "To tide you over until after the auditions are over with," but I knew they really just didn't want me dismissing every bassist that stepped on stage before they could even play for us. Smart move on their part, I guess, because I was ready to say no to each and every audition regardless of who they were or how well they did. I'd even thought about all the different ways I could say it, ranging from the simple two-letter word to a long-winded, contrived-from-bullshit explanation as to why I didn't think they were a good fit.

There were so many auditions, though, that I wondered if I had enough different ways to reject them, because they all sucked.

There was Josh who played the slowest rendition of the Liar solo I'd ever heard, and Christian who was interested in playing with us but thought we should change our name to something a little less—as he so kindly put it—gay.

There was Chad whose hair went down to the middle of his back and kept getting in his face while he played, making him pull both hands away from the instrument to fix it every time, and Brent who thought the audition was an AA meeting, pointing at me for reference even though we were at a recording studio and not some church or bingo hall.

There were Richard, Matt, and Bill, all of whom were so boring and so uninteresting that I only remembered their names for that sole reason.

Then there was Adam, who was alright, I suppose. He played well, he knew our songs by heart, his singing range was comparable to Freddie's, and he winked at the singer before he walked out of the room, instantly winning his vote. The problem was that he was too good, and knowing Brian, that was going to be a problem. I could see it in his eyes as he tried his best to listen to Freddie gush about how far we could get with Adam as our fourth member.

"I really think he's the one!" Freddie proclaimed, attracting my lazy gaze while narrowing Brian's.

"I really don't think he is, Fred," the guitarist disagreed, his sympathy and concern for other's feelings not as believable as it usually was.

"I told you this was a waste of time," I interjected, my voice a low rumble as I twiddled my thumbs in my lap, leaning far back in the chair and glaring at the empty glass bottle sitting in front of me on the table.

"Well, we've got one more on the list," Brian announced, willfully ignoring my comment as he picked the scribbled piece of paper up and read off the final name loud enough for whoever was still lingering in the corridor outside of the small studio the Sheffield brothers had set us up in to hear. "John?"

The name immediately struck a wrong chord in me; I couldn't fathom having another John in the band. It was too much for me to handle. "No," I sternly objected, jumping up from my chair and feverishly shaking my head, "No, we are not having another John in this band. You audition this guy and I quit. I-I mean it."

"Roger, come on," the guitarist muttered, his exhaustion from the drawn-out day evident in his defeated plea.

"Believe it or not, I actually agree with the blonde," Freddie replied, earning a surprised look from Brian and confused one from me. There had to be more to his siding with me, I thought, he never sided with me. As predicted, though, his true intentions revealed themselves as he justified his remark with a smirk and the sly comment of, "I already think we've found our guy. It's—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Freddie," Brian groaned, bringing an irritated hand up to his forehead and heaving a frustrated sigh, "Enough with Adam! Alright? He was good, I'll give him that, but he's not what we're—"

Just then, the sound of someone tapping the microphone interrupted our escalating conversation and drew our attention to the other side of the room. There, standing behind the mic stand and next to the amp with his bass strapped over his chest and hanging low by his waist, was John—our John, my John.