Unpress Me

“I’m worried about you,” Maryth said.

He looked over at her, wishing on one hand that she’d piss off, and on the other that she’d jump his bones right that minute, to take his mind off everything. He was pretty sure neither of his wishes would come true.

“You’ve been so…you know?”

He stared at her, challenging her – making things difficult, like he always did. She looked back for a moment, then sighed moodily and began tapping her fingers on the tabletop.

“Come on, Jones. What’s going on with you?”

He rubbed his chin and said, “Nothing.”

After a moment she said, “Fucking hell. You’re useless.”

You finally figured it out, he thought inwardly even as he smiled, trying to look stupid enough to make her explode. It didn’t work – she just got up and walked out. Well, his first wish had come true, to an extent. She’d never go further than the next room, but she was still away from him.

In the end it didn’t really matter where she went. He would always feel the same, no matter what anybody else was feeling.

Blane grinned and laughed, and as sexy as she was Jones wondered why her presence never lit up his eyes or buoyed his heart anymore.

“You guys are such fuckers,” Blane said, shaking her thick mane of blonde hair around as her scarlet lips smiled. “But I love ya.”

“How could you not?” Mike said matter-of-factly, in that way he had. Others laughed, but Jones rolled his eyes. He wanted to get up and go to the fridge for a drink, or open a window and breathe some fresh air, but somehow the heaviness within him wouldn’t give him the strength or energy. So he sat where he was, listening to the friendly banter.

Blane was the most well known rock star girlfriend in the industry these days. She wasn’t one of those girls who tried to capitalise in a musical capacity from her boyfriend’s success. Rather, she loved the roadie life, loved the privileges she perceived herself as having. Josh was besotted with her, and so she got what she wanted. Luckily she wasn’t too much of a pain in the ass to have around – luckily, and remarkably.

Though come to think of it, Jones had been annoyed by anybody for a while there. He wondered if he should look back on those days and mourn their passing. After all, at least back then he had cared about something. Wasn’t that always preferable to this useless feeling that now plagued him twenty-four hours a day?

“What about you, Jonesy?”

That brought his attention back to the present. Blane was looking directly at him, and he was again reminded that she was the perfect California girl. Her blue eyes flashed enticingly, but he wasn’t enticed. Her lips curved erotically, but he wasn’t aroused. He just stared at her blankly, not only having missed the relevant part of the conversation but also having lost the will to pretend he hadn’t. Oh, how things changed.

Mike said, “Blane was just asking us if we wanted to go up to Pine Oaks later on. Party tonight, ‘pparently.”

Jones raised his eyebrows, and even that took quite a bit of effort. “Pine Oaks? What kind of a name is that?”

Blane shrugged. “Name of a really fucking awesome resort, dumbbell.”

Jones shrugged back. “Whatever. Sure. I’ll be there.”

Somehow he knew he would be, even though he had no idea how or why.

Jones preferred it this way. Back-up singers had it worse than he did, and Marcie definitely had it worst of all – lead vocalist and guitarist, though she didn’t seem to give a shit about what made Jones’s stomach clench every time they got out in front of a crowd. Marcie was pretty phenomenal. Or maybe it was just that Jones was incredibly un-phenomenal.

Marcie Kendrick always had the crowd in the palm of her hand, manipulating each patron more successfully than any evangelist Jones had seen on late-night television. She put Benny Hinn to shame. If she flicked her hand just so, everybody in the venue besides those on stage fell backwards, well and truly under her spell.

Marcie had sex appeal, that much was clear – but it wasn’t just that. Not by far.

As for Jones, he had a killer hangover and a case of nerves so bad he wondered how he managed to play. Somehow as he fumbled through, nobody leapt up on stage to accost him and kick him out of the band. Yet again he was astounded at the fact that nobody seemed to realise what a fake he was.

He ground out a famous bass line, and somewhere in the back of his mind became aware of the crowd responding, as if by rote. His conscious self didn’t make the connection, and concentrated only on keeping his body on its feet.

The gig wore on.

“I’m just tired, okay?” Jones muttered, trying not to close his eyes as he walked – that could be dangerous.

Maryth sighed. “What, can’t even give me five fucking minutes?”

“I give you more than that every day,” he said.

“You used to, yeah. That was a long time ago.”

There was a dangerous note in her voice, and he knew on some level that he was treading on dangerous ground. Part of him wished he could bring himself to care.

He headed straight to his trailer without saying anything more. She didn’t follow. That itself was a strange new development.

Jones dreamed of a monster that took no bodily form but haunted the recesses of his mind and the minds of others like him, night after night. He dreamed he was running and not getting anywhere – the usual. He dreamed he was hanging from the rafters, his spirit gone someplace his body couldn’t follow. He dreamed that Maryth told him she loved him, and he laughed in her face.

He woke up the next morning with a horrible taste in his mouth, an extreme aversion to sunlight, and a disdain for the act of living.

The tour had only just begun.