Running with Scissors (2 page)

the band was going on tour.

Six months. If he could’ve just hung on for six more

goddamned months, he’d have been there when the record

company offered them a deal. He’d have signed. He’d have 3

been on tour
right now
. He’d have been onstage under

the hot lights instead of dying inside under fluorescents

while he crunched numbers he didn’t care about to make

people he didn’t know rich. If he were onstage, he’d be

whoring out albums to make record company execs rich, but

at least he’d enjoy the work.

Well, he couldn’t go back and change the past, but he

definitely needed to change his future. Maybe he’d give

the job websites another look tonight. And of course, five

minutes into that, he’d be all over Craigslist and any other

place where someone might post that they were in search of a

drummer. Even if it was just a part-time gig where they played

twice a month in shithole bars for less than gas money, and

he had to come into the office every morning with his ears

ringing and his shoulders aching, that would be better than

what he was doing now.

But nobody was looking for a drummer these days. Not

many were looking for twitchy idiots to work in accounts

receivable, either, but that was worth a look too unless he

wanted to spend a decade or two trying not to disturb Steve

and Grant.

All because he’d quit the band like a fucking idiot. Not

that he’d had much choice by that point, especially since

the circumstances that had driven him out of Running with

Scissors were, at least in part, his own fucking fault.

Well, you made your bed. Now go back in there and lie in it.

He crushed his cigarette beneath his heel, tossed the butt

into the ash can, and went back inside.

4

Two hours and too many cigarettes after five, Jude keyed

himself into his second floor apartment. The place was quiet,

thank God. None of his roommates were due home anytime

soon.He tossed his keys on the counter and shot the sink a

glare—it was Tim’s turn to wash dishes, and there were still

plates and cups in there from Gordy’s turn two nights ago.

Jude rolled his eyes. Something told him if it didn’t get done

tonight, he’d be washing it all tomorrow when it was his turn.

Tim would be too tired or too stoned later, and he’d forget

like he always did.

Jude looked under the sink for detergent and a serviceable

sponge. He’d need to make a run to the grocery store before

too long, but he could get the job done for now.

He went to work on the dishes and promised himself an

evening of binge-watching
Game of Thrones
on his laptop. He needed the relaxation and the distraction. From his job. From

the band out there on tour without him. From the roommates

who couldn’t seem to remember when it was their turn to do

chores. At least they managed to pay their portions of the rent on time. Usually.

Mostly he needed a distraction from the miserable,

stagnant state he’d been in since he’d left the band. After he

relaxed a bit, then he’d start looking at new jobs. And then, of course, he’d depress himself with how few options he had, and

he’d be back in the tire-spinning cycle of needing to change

something and having no idea where to start.

He’d figure it out. Eventually. All he knew right now

was there were only so many times a man could pretend his

roommates hadn’t once again dumped a sink full of moldy

dishes in his lap after he’d spent a day walking on eggshells for some jackass in a cubicle before
something
had to give.

5

Sighing, he put a plate into the drying rack. There were also

only so many times he could tell himself he needed to change

things before he had to actually, like,
change
something.

Once he’d finished with the dishes, he smoked another

cigarette on the balcony and then went into his bedroom.

With his laptop on his knee, he lounged on the bed and pulled

up
Game of Thrones
. He’d fallen almost a season behind, so he clicked on the first unwatched episode and—

His cell phone startled the shit out of him. Especially

since it was his generic ringtone, the one that only went off

when it was someone who wasn’t in his contact list.

He picked it up and eyed the screen. Though there was

no name, something about the sequence of numbers seemed

familiar. If memory served, that was—

No, it couldn’t be. Could it?

He accepted the cal . “Hello?”

“Jude, thank God. It’s Kristy.”

“Hey. Uh.” He hadn’t heard the band manager’s voice

since the day she’d tried to stop him from quitting, and the

last thing she’d said to him had involved the words “fucking”

and “idiot.” He cleared his throat. “Long time no talk.”

“Too long, honey.” She paused. “Listen, I’m gonna keep

this short. The band needs you.”

A cough of laughter burst out of him. “What?”

“We’re . . .” She sighed. “Wyatt quit tonight. Just

walked out.”

Jude’s lips parted. “What? What happened?”

“Let’s just say you and he apparently have the same taste

in men,” she growled.

“Jesus.” He rubbed his eyes. Hadn’t Wyatt learned

anything from him and Connor? They’d fought more often

than not, and spent most of their stupidly volatile relationship 6

on the brink of a catastrophic breakup. As friends, they’d

been fine. As boyfriends? An utter disaster. And Wyatt had

watched the whole thing.

Jude exhaled and shrugged for no one’s benefit but his

own. “Okay, so? Why are you cal ing me? I don’t know any

bass players anymore.”

“You
are
a bass player.”

“I . . .” He blinked. “I’m a drummer, remember?”

“But you play bass. I’ve heard you, sweetheart.”

He glanced skyward and bit back a groan. “Okay, fine, but

I haven’t picked up a bass in forever.”

“You haven’t played the drums in forever either, but I’m

pretty sure you could fill in there if we needed you to.”

Touché.

He swallowed. “
Do
you need me to fill in on the drums?”

“No. The guy who took your place is—” She hesitated.

“What we need is a bass player.”

“Why me?”

“Because the band’s got a lot of back-to-back shows

coming up.” The desperation in her voice was suddenly

palpable, thrumming down the line and into his ear like an

off-key chord. “We don’t have time to audition anyone, and

even if we did, there’s no way they could learn the music

that fast. You know it. You might be rusty, but you
know
the music.”

“I don’t know any of the new stuff.”

“The band can play all old school for a few sets if they

have to. But we
need
a bassist, or the band is fucked.”

Jude gnawed his lip. The band’s music leaned hard on the

rhythm section. The bass line wasn’t as in-your-face as

the guitar or the vocalists, but if it was absent? The whole

thing fell apart just as it would without the drums.

7

He swallowed. “I have a job now, Kris. It’s not like I can

just drop everything and go on tour.”

“Yeah? How’s that job working out for you?”

He flinched, and before he even realized it, he’d picked up

his cigarettes off the nightstand. “It’s—”

“That’s what I thought. Honey, I know you. And I never

believed for a second you’d be happy doing the nine-to-five

thing.”

Jude gnawed his lip. She was right, wasn’t she? And how

many months had he spent agonizing over how to un-fuck

his life?

He was out of vacation days, but he could always take a

leave of absence. Or, hell, quit. His job was miserable anyway, and it didn’t pay enough to keep him afloat for much longer.

It’d be just his luck that his landlord would raise his rent again and he’d have to move back in with his folks or something.

Awesome.

He looked around his shithole bedroom. A mattress on

the floor. Secondhand IKEA furniture on its last legs. Bare

walls with water stains to match the ones on the ceiling.

“So,” she prodded. “Are you in?”

Well. Are you?

What did he have to lose?

Well, for starters . . .

Jude swept his tongue across his dry lips. “What about

Connor?” Just saying his ex’s name filled his mouth with a

bitter taste and his stomach with guilt.

“He knows how desperate we are. If you can be civil, so

can he.”

I’ll believe that when I see it.

“Look.” Kristy’s voice sharpened. “I’m gonna tell you the

same thing I’ve been telling him: get along with each other, 8

keep your dicks out of the other band members, and we won’t

have drama. It’s that simple.”

The second part of that
was
simple. The first part? Not so much.

But would restraining himself from choking his ex be

worse than dealing with the shithole apartment and miserable

job? Hadn’t he been telling himself for months he’d rather

put up with Connor’s crap and his own conscience than work

another day at that desk-in-a-box?

This was the opportunity he
needed
. He’d been an idiot to walk away from the band. How big an idiot would he have

to be to pass up this chance?

“There’s one problem, though. I can’t just take that much

time off from work.” He swallowed. “If I’m going to do this, it can’t be halfway. Either I’m in or I’m not.”

“So, what? You want to rejoin the band permanently?”

“Or at least longer term than a few shows. I can’t afford to

lose my job for that.”

Kristy didn’t speak for a moment. “And if I can bring you

on board for, say, the rest of this tour, the next album, and the headlining tour?”

Well, that would give him a good year, year and a half

before he’d have to start polishing up his résumé again. “Do

you think the band would go for that?”

“They’re in a panic like you wouldn’t believe over losing

Wyatt. I’m pretty sure they’ll go for having a semipermanent

bassist.”

“In theory. But after the way things ended with—”

“Nobody has the luxury of being picky right now. They’ve

got a lot riding on this, so if there’s a solution—especially one that could be more than a Band-Aid solution—they’ll roll

with it if they know what’s good for them.”

9

“True.” He knew damn well he should sleep on it, think

about it, really grill himself over it, but what was the point?

He’d been hoping for something like this for too long to

think twice. He closed his eyes and blew out a breath. “Okay.

If they’ll agree to keep me on through the next tour, I’m in.”

“Oh my God.” Kristy released a long breath. “Thank you

so much. You have no idea how much you’re saving our asses.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“There is one other thing, though.”

Of course there was. “Yeah?”

“We need you back, but . . .” She fell silent for several

seconds. “Keeping you on for the next tour and everything?

I’m sure I don’t have to spell out for you that part of the

arrangement is contingent on everyone behaving.”

He glared up at the ceiling. “I assume ‘everyone’ means

me in this context?”

“Yes. Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart. I’m grateful and

the band will be too. But after last time . . .”

He cringed, guilt pressing down on his shoulders. “Yeah,

I follow. I’ll stay out of Connor’s way if he’ll—”

“Perfect. I’ll make sure he toes the line too.”

Good luck with that.

“Where are you guys now?”

“Some godforsaken town in the Bumfuck Egypt

Midwest.” She paused. “I’ll text you with our stops. They’re

not performing again until we get to Des Moines, and that’s

on Wednesday.”

Jude coughed. “You’re aware that today is Monday, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And . . . are you expecting me to be onstage in Des Moines

on Wednesday?”

“Um . . .”

10

“Kristy, I—”

“They’re the opening act, so they can afford to bail on

one show.
Maybe
the one in Omaha the next night. But more than two in a row, and we’re fucked. The headliner’s manager

doesn’t have a lot of patience, so I guarantee he’ll be bringing in another opener if we bail more than twice.”

He swallowed. “Where are you after Omaha?”

“Denver. On Saturday.”

“Okay.” His heart sped up, and the cigarette pack crinkled

between his twitchy fingers. “I’ll meet you guys in Omaha.

That should give us some time to rehearse a bit.” A tiny bit.

Not nearly enough. Jesus, what was he doing?

“You’re a lifesaver, sweetie. I’ll see what the band says, and

assuming everything’s a go, I’ll book you a ticket and we’ll see you in Nebraska.”

“Yeah. See you in Nebraska.”

After they hung up, Jude col apsed back on his mattress.

Panic and excitement mingled behind his ribs. Everything

about this seemed reckless and stupid and . . . right.

Like it was the first time he’d made the right decision

since before he’d quit. After that, he’d had about a week of

feeling like he’d done the right thing, before spending the

next eighteen months wallowing in regret.

Maybe this would blow up in his face. Maybe it wouldn’t.