That call. That wonderful, amazing, life-changing phone call.
Ever since I’d gotten it, I’d been a bundle of anticipation and nerves. The whole thing reeked of Pick, however. I mean, seriously. Why would some big-time casino owner from Chicago be down here in Ellamore and inside the Forbidden Nightclub, of all places, to even hear us play? I had a feeling my new brother had pulled a few strings to get the guy into the building. And yep, when I’d straight up asked Pick about it, he’d suddenly turned too vague and busy to talk.
I wasn’t sure what to do about that. Just appreciate it and move on? Somehow try to repay him? Tell him to stop because I knew someday he’d regret helping me? I wasn’t sure, so I decided to not even think about it for now.
I concentrated on the positives...like the fact Non-Castrato had just been given the opportunity of a lifetime. Good things were about to happen, I could feel it, like some kind of adrenaline rush surging through my veins. It had my muse running wild with ideas for songs, and my chronic insomnia hitting a new high.
The afternoon after the call, I sat on the seat of an old exercise bike, scribbling lyrics in my notebook, and jiggling my knee to expend some of the extra energy still tweaking though me. I paused every few seconds to sing the words in my head, then I marked out a phrase here, or sometimes a whole line there that didn’t work, and I wrote in something new above or below it.
I’d just come up with a stanza that made my blood pump eagerly when someone called, “Knock, knock.”
Glancing up, I grinned at the new drummer. “Hey, man. You’re early again. That’s going to be a thing with you, isn’t it?”
Sticks shrugged as he strolled into the garage, carrying a restaurant’s takeout bag, which shit...smelled really good. “And here, I’ve yet to be earlier than you,” he noted.
“Touché,” I murmured, watching him plant himself on his drum set stool and open the bag, only to pull out a fried burrito-looking thing that made my mouth water, and reminded me it’d been too long since I’d last eaten.
I never remembered to eat or sleep when I was binge writing.
But when Sticks sank his teeth into the fried breading, I couldn’t handle it. “What the hell is that?” I demanded. “It smells amazing.”
Pausing mid-bite, Sticks lifted his eyebrows and glanced my way. Then he bit down, chewed a second and finally covered his hand over his mouth before saying, “Sorry. I had to come straight from work and was starving.”
“No.” I waved my hand. “I don’t care if you have to eat. Whatever. That’s totally fine. I meant, specifically what is that you’re eating?”
“Oh. It’s a chimichanga.” When I licked my lips, he arched an eyebrow and held it higher in my direction. “You want one? I have more in the bag.”
“Really?” I instantly came to my feet. “Fuck, yes, I want one.”
Smirking, Sticks pulled another chimichanga free and handed it over. I unwrapped it and took my first bite, barely thanking him before diving in, and that was that; I was a goner. We spent the next few minutes in silence, quietly inhaling our food before I could form a coherent word. Finally, I pointed at my mostly eaten chimichanga and announced with a full cheek, “This is good.”
“I know.” Sticks wiped his mouth with a napkin. “My family owns the restaurant. I grew up on this shit.”
“Lucky bastard.” I made a small whimper and closed my eyes as I downed the last little bite I had. Taking note of the name of the restaurant on the side of the bag, I decided I needed to go to Casta?eda’s for a full meal someday soon.
“Seriously, I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever you were doing.” Sticks motioned to my abandoned notepad across the room.
I shrugged. “No worries. I’d just written down what I needed to. You got any other extra food in there you don’t want?”
With a chuckle, Sticks reached into the bag. “I have a couple empanadas.”
I had no idea what that was. But when he handed me one, my mouth watered. “You’re a goddamn saint.”
He watched me stuff my face a few seconds before he lifted his eyebrows and opened his mouth to say something. When he didn’t, I motioned for him to talk.
His shoulders fell a fraction before he cleared his throat. “You know the other day when you said I could go through all our songs...?” When I nodded, he cringed. “Is that offer still open?”
“Sure.” I dusted crumbs off my fingers and onto the thighs of my jeans, tempted to lick them clean. “The box is over there. I usually keep it here in the garage because it just seems easier that way. Less of a chance to misplace anything.”
Sticks nodded and sat his bag on the floor next to his stool. As he wandered toward the box, I returned to the bike and tried to come up with a line to complement the last few I’d written, but nothing seemed to measure up.