See Her (Turn it Up #1)

Chapter 6

6

JACK

A bead of sweat rolls down my temple as I furiously work the strings of my electric guitar, adrenaline coursing through my body.The sound of Matt’s bass guitar and Chris’s drums are pounding out of the speakers and causing a thump in my chest that makes me power on, as we sing a song about a guy whose girl drives him crazy but he just can’t stay away.Matt’s ex inspired this one, and he and I wrote it together. I know we’ve got a major crowd tonight, but I can barely see them past the lights we’re under, as I keep playing the frantic rhythm that Matt and I decided this song should have.I’m connected to an amp that’s giving off just the right distortion to create the feeling we want to give out, helping the listeners to experience the energy of the song.I belt out the lyrics, standing so close to the mic you’d think it and I have a score to settle.

You mess me up,

Then you set me right.

You wanna play,

Then you wanna fight.

Oh, what do we do about us ?

And what do I do about you?

I need to walk away,

But I can’t stay away,

I can’t take you,

But I can’t shake you.

It’s the last song of the night, and we crush it. With a few powerful strums of the strings and a hardcore drum out, we end with a bang.We give our usual thank yous to cheers and whistles in the crowd. We played until closing time, and now we’re grabbing some drinks as the crowd is ushered out of the bar.It’s nice this way. We can catch our breath and pack up in peace.

It’s 3:30 by the time I get home. I let Trooper out, take a shower, and then collapse on my bed, exhausted. But I’m thankful. I love playing those songs with those guys, and I don’t care where we’re doing it. As the buzzing in my head quiets down, my mind sleepily drifts to Mayzie.Before we went on tonight, I was still thinking about her, and while I don’t want to bombard her so soon after meeting her, I decided shooting her a quick text wouldn’t hurt anything.I’d waited a minute to see if she’d respond, and she did.Then I put my phone in my guitar case and walked onto the stage with a smile on my face.

Jack: Hope we’re still on for tomorrow. Can’t wait to see you.

I’m staring at my phone screen, at the very text that kept me from getting any sleep last night because Jack seems to make me revert to a teenager.

“Here, have some quiche,” my mother says, snapping me out of la-la land, shoving a casserole dish of evil my way across her granite countertop.

“Blech.”

“Oh come on, you still don’t like quiche? I thought you’d grow out of that. Try some, I bet you’ve changed your mind and don’t realize it.”

“No.”

“Don’t be such a brat. Try it.”

“No!” I say, turning my head away with my tongue out.

“Quit being a shithead and try your mother’s damn quiche,” my dad says, strolling into the room.

“I don’t like baked eggs mixed with vegetables. Give it to Ian.”

Besides, I’m almost too nervous about seeing Jack later to stomach anything. Unless it’s banana pancakes.

“He’s not coming,” my mother answers.

Figures.I kind of had a feeling Ian would be wrapped up in more Tina drama.When he has the weekend off, he can’t really justify not spending time with her. That’s one more reason I came over for breakfast today, in addition to the hopes my mom would make pancakes, that is. I’m only half here though. My mind is still swirling around Jack. I’ve known him for three days now, and it scares me that I’m so taken in such a short amount of time.He said he’d call today, but I’m doing my best not to hold my breath

“How’s work going?” my mom asks. I can see she’s given up on the quiche as she’s getting the pancake griddle out.God, I’m spoiled.

“It’s fine.It’s not thrilling or anything, but the work is coming in nice and steady.” My dad tops off his coffee and heads back out of the kitchen, seemingly satisfied with his drive-by.

“Have you been looking for anything else? Something that would help you branch out and write what you want?”

“Yeah, but just casually,” I say, shrugging and pulling out the pancake mix for her. “I would like to blog, or write articles at some point. I figure I just have to pay my dues for a while, like anyone else.”

“You know,” she starts as she measures a cup of mix and dumps it in a bowl. “They say you should journal every day. I read somewhere that it keeps you disciplined as a writer.”

“I know, but I struggle with that part. You know, writing when I have nothing to write about.”

I wonder if that’s how Jack feels, trying to write songs. My job is easy; I write what I’m told to write about.I want to do something creative, express myself with words the way I do with dance, and even better, get paid for it.I’ve bought a journal, because as my mom says, it’s one of the rules of thumb for writers. But it feels all kinds of awkward to sit down with it when I have nothing to say.

“Well, if that’s the case, you simply write, ‘I have nothing to write about’, and go from there. Maybe write why that frustrates you,” she says, pouring little pools of batter onto the griddle. I’ve learned that, too. I just don’t see how that leads to getting one’s creative energy to flow. I know she’s right because that’s what I was taught while getting my writing degree. It was just the one basic principle I couldn’t latch on to.This whole subject is so frustrating, and I steer the conversation to much safer waters – like how much of a dingbat my brother is.

Later, after cleanup, I’m still feeling small laces of frustration when my phone goes off in my back pocket. After temporarily forgetting about being gaga over a guy, I casually reach for it, only to have a zing shoot up my spine when I see Jack’s name lighting up my screen.

An hour later, I find myself leaning back against the brick wall of The Cedar, my old leather jacket draped over my arm, trying to relax. As I wait here where Jack asked me to meet him, I’m stressing about how my feelings seem to once again be running away with me, but I’m quickly distracted by the thundering sound of a motorcycle approaching.I turn towards the back parking lot’s street entrance to see a classic Harley pull in, its rider dressed in faded jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a well-worn leather jacket.It stops about ten feet away from me, and the rider cuts the engine. He takes his black helmet off to reveal rock star bangs hanging in front of dark blue eyes, and a smile that just won’t quit when he turns his head in my direction.

“You have a Harley?” I ask, approaching Jack as he dismounts the bike, setting his helmet on the seat.

“Eh,” he says, sliding his hands in his back pockets and shrugging.“It’s my dad’s.He’s had it forever and I’ve always loved it. I do regular maintenance on it for him and he occasionally lets me take it out in exchange. ”

Okay. Let’s take stock for a moment. I’ve been stewing this whole last hour about how I’m in danger of getting in too deep with this guy, and then he rolls up on a motorcycle, looking all badass and dangerous.

I see what you’re doing, universe. You’re fucking with me. Well played.

And not only that, he works on it for his dad, like a good son.The hits just keep on coming.

“So,” he says, bringing me back to the now. “Have you ever ridden?”

“A few times,” I answer, sweeping my hand at the bike, which for the most part is black on black with a few chrome embellishments. “My dad has one, too. He doesn’t go out on it a whole lot anymore.”

“Nice. Sounds like they’d get on great.”

Is he talking about our dads one day meeting? The concept both thrills and scares the shit out of me. I’ve only known him a few days, and yet I already know I would take all he had to give. And when he says something like that, that hints at the future, it’s all I can do to keep it from messing with me.

“Do you want to go for a ride with me? It’s beautiful out,” he says, gesturing around us. It’s sunny in the 70s, with only a slight breeze. But get on a motorcycle with someone I’ve just met? I’d have to be crazy.

“Yeah.” I’m giggling with excitement like an idiot. Turns out, I’m certifiable.

“Alriiight,” he draws the word out enthusiastically as he turns to pull another helmet out of a saddle bag.