And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 7
Chapter 7 - "Viva Las Vegas"
POV: Patrick
The thing is, everything sort of goes back to normal after that. I mean, yeah, in the beginning, I feel Pete trying to make everything feel normal, but after a few weeks or so, it totally just is. The only thing particularly different is that Pete is on his computer more than usual, hauling it along to every studio session when all we really need is mine (and really, all the music's in my head anyway, we probably don't even need it-everyone knows their parts). I just figure he's gone back to blogging with a vengeance, looking for a distraction from the press, from the recording, from Warped approaching like a fucking freight train when it feels like we just got home. From me.
Until, in one of our final sessions, when we're laying down one of Joe's guitar solos and the both of us are sitting there with nothing to do but watch him behind the soundproof glass with our headphones on (me listening to Joe, Pete's attached to his laptop) and Andy's gone out to some nearby vegan place to pick up lunch, Pete turns to me and says something along the lines of, "dude, come here." which I can't hear properly over the music.
I pull my headphones down by the right ear piece - the one facing him - and turn from watching Trohman to him. "What?"
"Come here, you gotta hear this."
"The fuck, man?"
He rolls his eyes, because I'm one of the people who's not allowed to not understand. I hear the prolonged buzz of Joe's final note. "Just fucking come here, Stump."
I sigh and cast a glance at the tech guy sitting on my other side, fiddling with switches we don't understand. "I'll be right back."
He nods without looking at me and turns the knob in front of him (I know what that one does). "Hey Joe, take five, man, okay?" he tells him and I see my friend acknowledge the direction with a hand wave.
I walk over to Pete and plop down unceremoniously next to him on the small sofa. "Now, what is so important that I-" Before I have a chance to finish, his headphones are shoved onto my ears and I see him fiddling around with his media player.
"Just, listen," he says, sitting back and giving me his Cheshire Cat grin. Which, for the record, is never a good thing.
Before I know it, unfamiliar music is bleeding into my ears. Now, this is not the first time Pete has approached me telling me I have to hear this song or see this movie (When I told him I hadn't seen Pretty in Pink all the way through two weeks after I met him, he insisted that my punishment would be a road trip to find Shermer, Illinois. Which, in case you're wondering, does not exist. And which Pete knew at the time.). And usually, I agree that I am the better for having been exposed to his tastes. But this is different. This is...unprofessional.
I remove one ear piece again, keeping my hand on it to replace it when necessary. "Where was this recorded? In a basement?"
"No, no, on a computer apparently," he says, then looks thoughtful. "But that's not a bad idea for a video. A basement. Or a living room or something. Like old times." I see him pull out his notebook, presumably from under his ass, and as he's making a note to himself, he waves his pen at me. "Keep listening."
So I do. It's not bad. It's actually damn good. Downright poetic, even. Just shitty quality.
"What is this?" I ask, because Pete's never handed me something like this before. I didn't even hear Gym Class until they were officially labelmates.
And he's still grinning, like he had been for - I look at the media player display again - three minutes and forty-eight seconds, waiting for my reaction. "I'm right, right? I'm totally right. It kicks ass."
I quirk a skeptical eyebrow at him. "It may have the potential to kick ass. Maybe."
He shifts in his seat, pulling his legs up under himself until he's facing me, Indian style. "I've been talking to this kid," he begins.
"Uh oh." The last time a sentence began this way, Jeanae happened.
"About music," he adds, obviously exasperated with me. "He's the guitarist." He gestures at the laptop, indicating the song. "He wrote that shit. Kid's like eighteen. And he's the oldest one."
I glance back at the screen, a little curious now. "Seriously?"
The grin is back. "We all know amazingness comes in young packages sometimes."
And it doesn't matter how many times I hear shit like that, I still fucking duck my head and blush, because some part of me still screams "This is Pete from Racetraitor!" occasionally, like a little fanboy. (Until he does something stupid, like running headfirst into a door, and then I remember he's just Pete).
"Okay," I say, acquiescing. "Okay, so they're good. So what?"
"So, I'm going to Vegas."
Because of course, in Pete's head, that's the logical next step. I assume that's where these kids are from, but no part of me would have been surprised if a trip to Vegas was just randomly on the menu. Suddenly, that Matthew Perry movie pops into my head and I remember him saying "Everything that's famous about Vegas is about leaving it. That movie, the song, even the Mob left Las Vegas." I sigh. Why would anyone want to go out to the middle of the desert if they didn't have to? "Pete. You can't go to Vegas right now."
"Yeah, I can."
"No," I reiterate. "No, there's no time for that right now." Something occurs to me here and I start slightly and look at him like he's maybe a little crazy. Because he is. "And besides, what the fuck are you gonna do when you see them? Are you gonna sign them? After one song?"
His face falls a little and I feel kind of bad. Telling Pete shit like that is always akin to telling a five-year-old that there's no Santa Claus. "Two songs. And I haven't exactly worked that part out yet. But I think groveling to the label will be involved. I mean, they finally gave me it. It's mine, right? I'm gonna need more than one band eventually. It's my fuckin' job." He sits back. "And what the fuck do you know, man? You thought there wasn't time to add that song to the album, but we pulled it off, didn't we?"
I sigh again and look at him. Really look at him. The same way I do when Andy asks "Who drank the last of the fucking soy milk?" on the bus and Pete is swearing up and down it wasn't him. And he's serious about this. The same way he was about getting us off the ground. He wasn't gonna give up on it, even if he had to drag me kicking and screaming. And as usual, I'll probably thank him for it in the end (or at least feel like I should).
I shake my head at him. "You'd better be fucking right about this."
I feel like he's about to start bouncing up and down and he opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by the sound of my Sidekick buzzing in my pocket (which had been turned off while I was recording the vocals on "Of All The Gin Joints," but is now on vibrate). Pete, still overcome with his excitement over my agreement I guess, places his chin on my shoulder and says, "I believe your pants are vibrating." in this low voice and for a moment, I kind of forget to breathe. And I look up at him and watch him nervously pull away suddenly, because seriously, shit like that just isn't the same anymore and neither of us know how to make it so it is.
As a distraction, I fish my phone out of my pocket and stare at the screen as it continues to buzz. I probably wouldn't have answered it in the studio, currently recording or not, if I hadn't needed a reason not to look at Pete. I see who it is and my heart starts pounding a little faster, because now I'm nervous and Pete's somewhat expectant. I swallow hard and glance at him.
"Anna," I say, by way of explanation, before accepting the call and lifting the phone to my ear. "Hey," I tell her, never removing my eyes from Pete, although his dropped the moment I answered. And she's talking, about wanting to see me again before the tour starts, but I'm watching Pete stand and tug his shirt down from where it had ridden up, patting his pockets and searching for his keys. He locates them, not in his jeans, but in his hoodie and then looks back at me.
"I'll just be gone for the weekend," he informs me and my forehead crinkles before I remember, oh yeah, Vegas. I swallow again and nod at him. He returns the gesture and then turns, tapping the tech on the shoulder and telling him he's running out for some coffee really quick. The guy nods and I watch as Pete makes a too hasty exit.
"Patrick?" I hear. "Are you still there?"
I shake my head and clear my throat, returning my attention to my girlfriend's tinny phone voice. "Yeah," I manage. "Yeah, I'm still here."