Running with Scissors (9 page)

appetite was MIA.

I’m insane, and paranoid, and
seriously
fucking attracted
to you. Wait, where are you going?

He took a gulp of soda.

Jude drummed his fingers rapidly beside his own drink.

“So, how’d you get started drumming?”

“School band.” A.J. played with the edge of his cup’s lid.

“I started out as a brass player, believe it or not.”

“Yeah? Trumpet?”

“Trombone.”

“How’d you get from the trombone to the drums?”

A.J. tapped a nail on his front tooth. “Braces. First time I

tried to play after they were put on, I turned the insides of my lips to hamburger.”

Jude shuddered, sucking his lips into his mouth. “Ouch.”

“Tell me about it. Didn’t want to drop out of the band,

though, so I asked the band director if I could switch to

drums. And I was hooked.”

Jude smiled. “Something about the drums, am I right?”

“So right.”
Back off my drums, dude.

Jude opened his mouth to speak, but the cashier called

A.J.’s order number.

“Back in a second.” He got up and went to the counter to

get his food. While he was putting on condiments and mixing

ketchup and mustard for his fries, Jude’s number was called.62

Moments later they both took their seats again, this time

with food in hand. Though A.J.’s stomach was still fluttering

from being alone with Jude like this, he did find enough of

an appetite to take that first bite of his burger. That was all he needed—the food was delicious, and neither of them said

much of anything until the burgers were gone and there was

nothing left but two huge mountains of fries.

Jude drenched a fry in barbecue sauce and, after he’d

washed it down with some soda, asked, “So, you been in any

bands before this one?”

A.J. nodded. “Three. One kind of ran out of steam, the

second had zero chemistry, and the third was a little . . . I don’t know. Out there.”

“How so?”

“It’s hard to explain. Our lead vocalist had all these grand

visions about changing the world with our music, and every

time we played a small gig somewhere, or even when we were

opening for a solid headliner, he’d get depressed and pissed

off that we were wasting our time. He thought we were

being unappreciated. Apparently the world was supposed to

magically recognize his genius or something. I don’t know.”

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t have the slightest idea about the

concept of ‘paying your dues.’”

“Yeah.” Jude snorted. “That’s a foreign concept to some

people, I think.”

A.J. chuckled. “So what about you? Any other bands?”

Jude shook his head, lowering his gaze. “No. Running

with Scissors was the only band I was ever in.”

“Oh. Right. You said that.” A.J. hesitated, not sure how

raw this nerve might be for him. “Even after you left, you

never—”

“Nope. It wasn’t for lack of trying, though.” Jude sighed.

He picked up a fry but then dropped it back on the pile.

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“I looked for bands who needed—” He met A.J.’s eyes. “Bands

I could join. But . . .” He gnawed his lip, and then shook his

head. “Anyway. I never did start playing again.” A faint smile

formed. “But I’m playing now, so I can’t complain, right?”

“Wait, wait. Back up.” A.J. studied him. “You haven’t

played at all since you left?”

“I couldn’t, to be honest. I fucked around on a guitar once

in a while, and my mom couldn’t keep me away from her piano

whenever I went home, but otherwise I didn’t really have the

opportunity. Roommates, paper-thin apartment walls . . .”

Another shrug, this one tighter than before. “I wanted to play, but I couldn’t.”

“But I heard the way you played this afternoon. I . . . How,

man? How do you do it?” He tried to be casual, dragging a

fry through the ketchup-mustard mix and hoping he didn’t

sound too much like a squealing fanboy. “You listen to a song

one time, and then . . .
How
?”

A hint of pink bloomed in Jude’s cheeks. “To be fair, I’ve

heard those songs a million times. I helped write some of

them.”

“Stil .”

Jude lowered his gaze, watching himself dip a couple of

fries in barbecue sauce. “It’s . . . hard to explain. Once I hear it, I know it. That’s how music has always been for me.” He

munched on his fries and washed them down with a swig

of soda. “It drove my instructors and band directors crazy. I

never wanted to fuck around with scales or exercises or any of

that shit, because I knew the fucking music, you know?”

“But they still made you do it?”

“Yeah, and to a point, they were right. I needed the practice

and the exercises so I could develop the muscle memory, and

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working on my precision and all of that. Just because my brain

knew the music didn’t mean my hands did.”

A.J. nodded. He understood the need to develop muscle

memory, but it was weird to imagine a time when Jude had

anything less than flawless technique. Of course that was

ridiculous. All musicians, even the prodigies, had to start

somewhere. But all A.J. had to go on with Jude was what he’d

seen on the bus, and that hadn’t been someone who’d ever

struggled with the basics. The bass wasn’t even his primary

instrument; put him behind a drum, and he’d probably wipe

the floor with A.J. and every drummer before him. Making

him practice rudimental drumming or scales seemed like a

colossal waste of his genius.

Easy, Palmer. You’re going to start drooling.

He fidgeted, reaching for his drink. “Well, you’ve

obviously got the muscle memory down.”
Way to sound like

a fucking tool.

Jude chuckled and held up a taped hand. “Now if I can

build a decent cal us, I’ll be good.”

“I know the feeling.” A.J. showed his own hands, which

had long since cal used where the drumsticks rubbed. “And

shit, there’s building up a cal us, and there’s building one up for a fucking tour.” He whistled, lowering his hands. “Amazing

what happens when you go from one or two gigs a week to

performing every other night.”

“I can imagine. Good thing I brought more of this tape.

I have a feeling I’m gonna need it.” Jude dragged another fry

through the barbecue sauce. “I’m looking forward to hearing

you play, by the way.”

A.J. gulped. “You . . . really?”

“Well yeah.” Jude’s smile threw every one of A.J.’s vitals

out of whack. “I know my bandmates—if they hired you on,

then you’re good.”

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A.J. swallowed. “So, no pressure, right?”

Jude laughed. “You’ve already impressed anyone whose

opinion counts. I’m just a drummer who appreciates other

drummers.”

“And you’re talking to a drummer who gets nervous as

fuck around other drummers.”
Especially when they’re
that
good.
Jude held his gaze for a moment, then shook his head.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about. Relax. You’ve already

done your audition.”

So have you . . .

A.J. nudged his half-empty basket of fries away. “Well, if

I screw up the first time you hear me, just promise me you’ll

write it off as nerves.”

“Sure.” Jude half shrugged, adding a wink that didn’t

help A.J.’s nerves or any of the other systems that were

going haywire. “It’ll be all right. Besides, I’m the one who’ll be getting up in front of a few thousand people, playing an

instrument I’ve only picked up in the last week.”

“Yeah, and I heard you play it today. Pretty sure you’ll

be fine.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Or rather, Jude ate in

silence while A.J. pondered whether he had any appetite left

for the cooling fries he’d pushed away. He needed to eat today.

Tomorrow, preshow nerves would keep him from holding

anything down, so unless he wanted to pass out onstage . . .

He brought the basket back toward him and made himself

eat a few more fries. Slowly, his stomach settled. Maybe he’d

finish them after al .

“So.” Jude drummed his fingers rapidly on the table.

“As long as we’re here and it’s just the two of us, maybe we

should, um . . .”

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A.J.’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. So much for

finishing his meal.

Jude continued. “Look, I’m sure you know about all the

shit that’s happened between me and the band. And I’m not

going to lie—I did what they say I did.” He held A.J.’s gaze.

“You weren’t a part of it, and I don’t want you getting caught

in the middle.”

A.J. cleared his throat. “I . . . don’t really feel like I am. It’s not really my business.”

“No, but being part of the band, it’s sort of inevitable to

get pulled into everyone else’s drama.” Jude chewed his lip and played with the lid on his soda cup. “I mean, it’s good to have a shot at getting to know you and being friends. At the same

time, though, with all the other shit going on, I don’t want to put you in a bad spot. I’m a temporary member. You might as

well think of me like a touring bassist—I’m part of the group

onstage, but after the show’s over . . .” He shook his head.

A.J. shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t really want to get

involved in the drama. You seem like a pretty cool guy, so if

I’m hanging out and talking with you, it’s not really anyone

else’s business.”

Jude lowered his gaze. “I’m sure you’ve been with this

group long enough to know it’s not that simple.”

There was that. Everything about this band was starting

to feel like the days leading up to his parents’ divorce—just

speaking to one side of the volatile pair had been an affront

to the other side. Neutrality had been grounds for suspicion.

A.J. rarely resented anything more than the implication

that he was either with or against someone. He hated being

forced—implicitly or explicitly—to either take sides or stay

away completely.

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He took a drink to wet his mouth. “Is this where I’m

supposed to throw up my hands and scream, ‘Can’t we all just

get along?’”

Jude laughed. “Yeah. Good luck with that.” He winced.

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m . . . I’m really not helping, am I? Here’s the thing. I’m trying to mend fences with the band. They’re my

friends. Or at least they were, and I’m trying to get us back to there. It’s a slow process, but . . .” He waved a hand. “Anyway.

That’ll happen in its own time, but I’d . . . I’d like to be friends with you.”

A.J.’s insides flipped.

Jude stared at his food for a moment. “The thing is, I

haven’t been around musicians in a long time. And I miss it.

I miss being friends with people who get it.” His eyes flicked

up to meet A.J.’s. “I guess I just want us to get off on the right foot.”“Oh.” A.J. took another drink. “To be honest, I’m not

all that close to everyone else anyhow. It would . . . I guess it would be kind of nice to have someone to bullshit with on

this tour.”

Jude smiled, but it quickly faded. “If it starts making

things weird with everybody else, though, we can—”

“Don’t worry about them.” A.J. gestured dismissively.

“You deal with your shit with them, and I’ll deal with mine.

I’d rather not let other people dictate who I’m friends with.”

Jude studied him, and slowly, his smile came back to life.

“Cool. But, um, if by some chance you get dragged into the

middle of this bullshit, or you feel like you are, just say so, okay?”

A.J. nodded. “I will. Thanks.” He knew himself well

enough to know he’d never take Jude up on it. Push back? Say

“enough”? Yeah, right. Not this guy.

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But still, although there wasn’t a snowbal ’s chance in hell

that he’d ever do anything with it, he was grateful that Jude

had made the offer.

Late the next morning, everyone in the band was slowly

rol ing out of their racks and taking their turns in the bus’s tiny shower, which was actually functioning for once. They’d start

getting ready for the show in a few hours, after the roadies

had set up the stage, but for now it was coffee, breakfast, and smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em. The usual routine, except for two

minor
problems.

One, having Jude and Connor on the same bus.

Two, the coffeepot picking that day to refuse to work.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Connor pushed

out a breath and ran a hand through his wet hair. “We just got

the fucking bus fixed, and now
this
? Can just one goddamned thing work the way it’s supposed to on—”

“Connor.” A.J. jumped in before he could talk himself out

of it.The lead singer’s teeth snapped shut, and he turned to

A.J., eyes narrow.

“I’ll check with the facilities guy and the roadies.” A.J.

kept his voice low and even. “It’s probably just the electrical hookup outside. The same thing that happened back in

Charlotte, remember?”

Connor pressed his lips together, glaring at the piece-of-

shit coffeepot like he was about to do them all a favor and

smash the damn thing.

“There’s a Starbucks half a block from here,” A.J. went on

calmly. “And if you go the other way, there’s a café that the

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roadies say has really good coffee. If you’ll go get us each a cup, I’ll make sure the facilities guys get the hookup fixed before