Animal Instinct

1-Disappointment

And it won't get any higher
But it all boils down to what you did there...

That morning, my house looked like a real madhouse. My brother Johnny and his band of stupid Celtic punk players, had obtained a real record deal to publish an EP of four songs, but one week before the recording, Patrick, the guitarist, fell from his skateboard and broke his arm. It was a unique opportunity to be known even outside of our county, where they were already quite famous, so they needed to fix that problem.

-We must find a substitute!- thundered my father, who was also the manager of those three idiots, and his choice eventually fell on Miles Kane; to me it didn't seem such a brilliant idea.

-Maybe we could get in touch with someone else, Jamie Cook for example?

-Oh Alex, ya know he's very busy. Miles is an excellent guitarist.

-But have ya ever seen him? Calico hair, earring, tight tanks. Always tanned and pumped by too much gym: he looks like he comes from the Geordie Shore show!

-Don't judge the book by its cover, he is a true professional who works hard.

-And in addition to this he's pretty- intervened inappropriately my brother- maybe Mr. "single by choice" will find someone who suits him.

-That fella? I doubt it. And then I don't understand why he has to stay the whole week at our house. Why can't he sleep at a hotel?

-Céad Míle fáilte, Alex, don't forget- said my mother from the kitchen.

I sighed resignedly: when my parents were obsessed over one thing, there was no way to change their minds. Their whole life revolved around my brother's dream to break into the world of music and in our family, we all had our own role within the band: I, for example, was the public relations guy, therefore it was my turn to welcome Miles the day he had to get to our house.

The others were already in the basement that we used as a rudimentary recording studio, so I sat on the sidewalk with my eyes fixed on the clock, puffing because it was late and shutting down the phone to the unknown number that was calling me for the umpteenth time.

-So much for the professional, he's just a coconut head with a mohawck- I said aloud.

-Always more professional than a public relations guy who doesn't answer to the phone!

I winced at that: Miles Kane was behind me, tanned, with his black Ray-ban settled in the neckline of a close-fitting white tank top, a bag on his shoulder and a packet of cigarettes tucked in the back pocket of his shorts. It was mutual hatred at first sight.

I accompanied him in the basement.

-L'Enfant prodige of guitar has come- I announced.

My father and my brother flashed me with their eyes, but there wasn't time to argue, they only had a few days to perform the songs before going to record in Dublin.

I sat in a corner, trying not to disturb them and it was amazing to find out how good Miles was: musically intuitive and professionally humble. And in spite of myself, I had to admit he was pretty damn cute too, as Johnny said.

My kindness vanished instantly, during the first break, when he came to me arrogantly, saying:

-What do I have to do to get something to drink here?

I pulled him a bottle of supplement, while, behind him, my father was making me sign that he would cut my throat, if I continued to be rude with Miles.

The more time I spent with him, the more I was in agreement with the jokes about guitarists. That idiot had already bumped and dropped me "accidentally" at least in a couple of times and he had fun to touch my butt with the neck of his guitar, when my father wasn't watching.