Gus (4 page)

Sunday, February 5

(Gus)

Last night it seems I was impaired two or three lagers beyond the ability to function. I honestly don't remember any of it. I guess they cancelled the show due to my sudden "illness." It will be rescheduled and tacked onto the end of our tour. Everyone's pissed at me and I know I should care, but I don't. How fucking sad is that? Robbie yelled at me last night. He told me to, "Pull my selfish, fucking head out of my ass." In the five years I've known Robbie, I've never heard him yell. It should've had more of an impact on me, but it didn't.
 

The logical part of me knows I'm letting them all down.
 

Every other part of me doesn't care.

Tuesday, February 7

(Gus)

It's afternoon, and I've been sleeping off another long night. I wake up to the sound of Franco's voice coming from the front of the bus—and he's talking with a woman. This intrigues me because the bus is moving, which means we haven't reached our destination yet, which means there shouldn't be any females on this bus. The longer I listen, I learn that Hitler is gone due to a personal matter back home. Which sucks for him, but is fantastic for me because his constant fucking condescension was getting on my last frayed nerve. He's left us with a stand-in, a new tour manager. I can hear her listing off her credentials to Franco. Based on what I can make out, she's fairly new to the game, but she sounds legit. Like she knows her shit, or at the very least is a great bullshit artist. Either one works for me. And she sounds ambitious, saying something about how she's "committed to helping us succeed" and "keeping this crazy train on the tracks." I almost laugh to myself—good luck with that.

I roll out of my bunk and stagger toward the sound of their voices. The stand-in is sitting at the table behind the driver. Her skirt is so short it's almost non-existent. Thin, mile-long legs are crossed at the knee and presented like an exhibition out in the aisle. They're the first thing I see. The second thing I notice is her blouse. It's strategically unbuttoned to frame her impressive cleavage. The third thing I notice is ... nothing, because I'm still fixated on her legs and breasts. It's February and we're in Sweden (I think) and it's snowy and cold as hell outside—she's definitely not dressed for the weather.

Sex. I'm not gonna lie, it's all I'm thinking about at the moment. Sex with that body. Somewhere in the back of my mind I feel like an asshole for immediately going
there
.

Sex, for me, used to be about exploration of a woman's body, an appreciation of the act itself, a mastery of my craft, and, well, intimacy. Watching a woman come unhinged with pleasure and passion as a direct result of my touch, my body, is fascinating and hot as hell. I've never been in a relationship, but I've been with plenty of women. I lost my virginity when I was fourteen—to a seventeen-year-old, no less—and the train's been in motion since. I wouldn't say I'm good-looking, but I'm decent in the looks department and the ladies seem to like my body. I'm six-foot three, and I used to surf a lot, which kept me in good shape. I'm a big guy. Muscular. Chicks dig big guys.

But everything I knew about sex changed when it happened with someone I loved. Last August—Bright Side. We'd known each other our entire lives. She was my next-door neighbor—my best friend. I was
so
in love with her, but she never knew it. She was funny, smart, talented, and fucking gorgeous. The most perfect creature God ever created. And that one night was all about exploration, appreciation, and intimacy. She's the most responsive lover I've ever had, but it was so much more. It was
emotional
; the best fucking night of my life. Period.

How do you follow that up? The answer is: you don't. At least not with any kind of honest effort. Every woman I've been with since is just a fuck. Plain and simple fucking. I'm in it to get off and that's it—quick and dirty. Selfish? Absolutely. Does it make me feel like a dirtbag? Absolutely. For all that, it's still astonishing how many willing participants I get. It's sad how anxious and indiscreet they are—no shame ... no pride. But you know what? It's not my job to parent a twenty-five-year-old woman just because someone else has clearly failed in that department. So, yeah, I let them accommodate me. I turn my attention back to the stand-in, and let my eyes drift up to her face. It's commercially pretty: big, dark eyes; high, prominent cheekbones; and full lips—all aided by a heavy coat of makeup. I'm a fan of natural beauty myself, but these days I can overlook that kind of thing. She's probably in her mid-thirties given the smile lines that frame her mouth. She's staring at me with her heavily lined eyes. She's stopped talking to Franco now that I'm here, and her expression is like an open book—easy to read.
 

She excuses herself from the conversation and stands to meet me in the aisle, extending a hand. "You must be Gustov." She's talking to my bare chest.
 

I shake her hand. "I must be," I say, not embarrassed in the least by the fact that I'm standing here in my underwear on the verge of an erection.

From my peripheral, I catch Franco out of the corner of my eye behind her. He's shaking his head slowly and he's wearing his serious face. He rarely brings out his serious face. It all adds up to say,
Don't do it.
He's been my wingman for years and he has an uncanny gift for spotting batshit crazy a mile away.

She's still holding my hand and her eyes have dropped to my midsection.
 

I follow suit and let my eyes drop to her chest. I don't want to look at her face. This isn't going to be personal. Eye contact makes everything more personal.

Now she's urging me backward. I oblige and when we reach the bathroom door I open it. It's an invitation that she accepts without hesitation when she follows me in.

I'm unbuttoning the rest of her blouse before the door shuts behind her. And by the time she manages the lock on the cramped quarters her shoulders are bared and her bra straps are pulled down to her elbows freeing her huge, obviously silicone tits. Again, I prefer natural, but once they're in my hands, my mouth, I'm not complaining. She's theatrically moaning. I tune it out.
 

When she starts wiggling out of her micro-skirt and panties I stop her, "Save it. I don't have a condom in here."

She whispers in my ear, "It's okay, I'm on the pill." Her voice is husky. It's not sexy. It's needy. I hate needy.

Now she's trying to kiss me.
 

That's not gonna happen either. It's too intimate. I haven't kissed anyone since Bright Side. I turn my head. "Not okay. The way I see it we have one option here—"

I don't even have to finish my ultimatum before she's dropped to her knees and my underwear have been tugged down.

When she takes me with her mouth I can't hold back, "Ah shit, that feels good."
 

She's aggressive. It's obvious this isn't her first rodeo. There's no fooling around with just the tip, she's taking me all in. And I'm a big guy; this is full-fledged, deep throat, porn material.
 

She's got my ass in her hands and is holding me tightly against her. I'm worried I'm hurting her so I pull out. She literally begs me to continue. Well shit, you don't have to ask me twice. It's not long before her hair is knotted in my hands and I'm full-on thrusting.

Release isn't what it once was. It's momentary blinding satisfaction, followed up too quickly by reemergence into bleak reality.
 

I reach down and pull up my underwear as she's standing, wiping her lips and chin with the back of her hand. Her eyes are dilated and tell me that though I'm finished ... she isn't. "I'm Clare, by the way."

I nod absently. "You have quite a way with introductions."

She runs her finger down my chest. "So do you. I look forward to working with you." The look in her eyes tells me "working with" in that sentence is interchangeable with "fucking."

I release the lock on the door behind her, "See ya around," and leave her alone in the john to her own devices.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Jamie is sitting with Franco at the table playing poker. Jamie raises his chin in greeting. We aren't talking much lately. Franco shakes his head. I know he's disappointed in me. He tried to warn me. It's strange, because I used to be the one that looked out for the band. I used to be our leader. Now it's Franco. Maybe it makes sense; he's the oldest at twenty-five. Or maybe it's just inevitable given that I'm failing miserably at life.

Thursday, February 9

(Gus)

Our producer, MFDM, called me today. He said he's been talking to our record label and the label wants to re-release our album in a few weeks and include a bonus track. The bonus track is a song called "Finish Me" that Rook recorded last December with Bright Side. I wrote the song in the days following the bombshell—the bombshell being the discovery of Bright Side's terminal cancer diagnosis. The band flew to Minneapolis and recorded it in a studio there about a month before she died. Bright Side wrote and played the violin arrangement and sang with me. The song is our best to date, but it's also personal. Too personal. There's no way I'd be able to perform it live, which is what would be expected after an album release. Hell, we only started playing "Missing You" live again this week, and that was only after I wrote a new guitar arrangement for it and we picked up the tempo. It's morphed from a sad ballad to a hard-driving angry screamer. Because I'm
outstanding
at angry these days.

I know the label will get their way. It's about time to release a new single. What a coincidence.

Saturday, February 11

(Gus)

Clare has turned into a welcome distraction. In between phone meetings, assisting us with interviews, interacting with venue staff, smoothing over the day-to-day fuck-ups I create, and whatever else she does, frequent doses of sex—whenever and wherever—have become routine. I may have to start buying condoms in bulk. She seems happy to do her part in our one-sided exchanges. I know, I'm a huge asshole, getting bigger by the day, but no one's twisting her arm. Aside from taking smoke breaks together we don't spend any significant amount of time in each other's company, which is ideal. When we talk it's strictly business, and that's kept to a minimum since Franco's handling most of that these days anyway.

Sunday, February 12

(Gus)

"Gus, can I be straight?" Franco gives me a hard look, and I know I'm in trouble. I used to hate being in trouble with Franco. Still do a little bit I guess, but not enough to change my ways.

"Of course." I don't really want to hear it.

"Dude, we've been on the road for two weeks now. Though I love the man bun and hobo beard—" I try not to laugh, but it sort of comes out like a snort. "Seriously, you're rockin' the hipster, mountain man, homeless look like a champ," Franco continues. "But you need to shower. Like, every day. This bus is small, man. Hygiene is priority one. You smell like road kill."

I nod. "Point taken, dude."
 

Nothing is a priority.

Saturday, February 18

(Gus)

Tonight we play our biggest show yet. It's in London at an arena called O2. Twenty thousand people.
Twenty fucking thousand
. That's a far cry from playing Joe's Bar in San Diego in front of two hundred just two years ago.

Sometimes I wish we were still playing Joe's.

I'm nervous. I never get nervous, but my hands were shaking all through soundcheck. Maybe I need a drink. What am I thinking? I
definitely
need a drink. I haven't had one since last night. There wasn't any beer on the bus. I suspect Franco has begun his attempt at a passive intervention.
 

I already resent passive.
 

And intervention.

With two hours until the show starts, I need some grub. I'm walking back to the bus to grab a pack of cigarettes, when Clare runs up behind me. I don't know how she runs in five-inch stilettos, but she does. She's panting. She's always out of breath, probably because she's the only person I've ever met who smokes more than I do.
 

"Gustov," she gasps. Even my name is a pant.

I slow my pace but don't stop to wait for her. I turn my head to address her, but not enough to meet her eyes. I have trouble looking her in the eye. Every time I do I see a disappointed Bright Side staring back at me, like a ghost haunting me. I can't face it. Bright Side would've hated Clare—polar fucking opposites. "Clare." That's the extent of my greeting.

"I noticed you seemed a little off during soundcheck," she says matter-of-factly.
 

I'm not insulted. It's true. "I need a drink," I respond.

She's next to me now, leaning in so her mouth is near my ear. "I have something better than alcohol."

At that I do turn and face her because this woman is insatiable. "Jesus Christ, we fucked an hour ago, Clare," I say, exasperated. "I'm good for a few more hours. Thanks anyway." She irritates the hell out of me and I don't try to hide that fact from her.

She smiles seductively. It's flirtatious. It's also my cue to look away. She giggles. Her giggle is annoying on many levels: it's high pitched, which is in stark contrast to her low, husky voice; it's given too freely when it's not earned, maybe it's a nervous tick; and it's fucking loud. "No, love. Although that sounds like a
fabulous
idea, I'm thinking of something else."

By now we've reached the bus. I follow her up the steps before I join back in on the exchange. "Well, what is it?"

She reaches into her overcoat pocket and pulls out a small glass vial of white powder held between her pointer finger and thumb and waves it in front of my face.

My initial reaction is
hell no
. I don't say anything though.

She's grasped my wrist and is pulling me to the back of the bus and into the small bedroom she claimed on the first day she joined us. "Come on. Just do one line with me. It'll help you get through the show."