Bright Side (6 page)

“I don’t want to intrude.” He’s so formal.

“Pete, dude, it’s just lunch. Besides, Clayton and I aren’t even dating yet. He’s totally ignoring my advances.” I throw my best seductive smile and wink at Clayton.

He shakes his head. “Oh Katherine,” he says. I love that he gets my sense of humor.

“See Pete, it’s going to take a lot of creative scheming and some seriously old school courting. Clayton’s a tough nut to crack. You are
so
not intruding.”

Pete knows we’re messing around because Clayton told him last night that he’s gay. He said he didn’t want things to be weird between them or to leave Peter wondering. Pete was cool about it. Somehow I knew he would be.

Lunch with Clayton and Peter was awesome. We just sat together, making jokes and telling stories. Turns out once Pete relaxes a little he’s actually funny. And Clayton, well Clayton is dry and sarcastic. We laughed our asses off. And considering laughter is like oxygen to me, I really needed it. I medicate with it. I found two people who make me laugh, like tears-in-my-eyes, almost-wet-my-pants laugh. Those are the kind of people I like to be around. And now I have two. Lucky me. 

I return to my dorm room to find the place taken over like
France during WWII. There is shit everywhere, hers and mine.

I wave to the girl standing, hands on hips, in the middle of the room. “Hey, I’m Kate.”

She looks over at me, blows a stray hair out of her face, and tugs the band out of her ponytail. Looking at me coolly, she smoothes all the stray hairs back before she fastens it tight again. “I’m Sugar.”

She’s pretty, like model-pretty. Long blond hair, big dark eyes, full pouty lips, and Jesus, is she tall. Her legs are practically as long as my whole body. She’s thin, but fit. And she’s got ginormous boobs. I can make a fail-safe judgment on her body because, well, she’s not hiding a thing. She’s wearing a bikini top and the smallest pair of denim shorts I’ve ever seen. When did they start making denim underwear? Yeah, this really doesn’t help me with the stripper image.

“I had to move a few things. It just wasn’t going to work for me,” Sugar says, shaking her head and looking around at the mess. “No, it wasn’t going to work at all.”

“That’s cool, we can figure this out.”

Sugar gives orders like a Marine corporal. After rearranging the entire room three times, she’s finally satisfied. I’m sweating like a pig. It seems suspicious that even though we each have the same amount of furniture, she’s taken up two thirds of the room. But whatever. I’ve got enough space for all my things so I’m not going to complain. It’s fairly obvious Sugar always gets her way. Me? I pick my battles.

There’s not a lot of small talk outside of interior decorating and furniture placement, but I ask questions. I
learn that Sugar is eighteen years old, originally from Minneapolis. Her parents are divorced, and she has a three-year-old half-brother and a cocker spaniel named Mercedes. She knows “a lot” of people who go to Grant. She learns nothing about me. When people are interested in you they ask questions. I asked. She didn’t.

Oh, and she says nothing about stripping. An
d there’s no pole.

Damn. I feel cheated.

(Kate)

“Who’s the guy? Boyfriend?” Sugar throws these questions at me the moment my foot crosses the threshold into our room as I return from the shower. She’s pointing at one of the framed photos on my desk. Guess she’s going to make up for not asking any questions yesterday.

“Nah. Best friend.”

She smacks her gum. “Hmm. He’s a
hottie. Pretty eyes.”

It’s the same photo I have on my phone, cropped to show just his face. It shows up every time he calls.
The one in the frame includes both of us. We’re laughing. I’m standing up straight with my head thrown back and he’s doubled over, his long hair hanging over one eye. His other eye is looking into the camera with an expression of joy and mischief, calm and wild abandon. It’s classic Gus. Our friend, Franco, took this photo a year ago when we were all at the beach. “Yeah, he’s got great eyes.” They’re so dark brown, they’re almost black. They sparkle.

She glances at the photo of Grace like an afterthought. “Who’s she?”

“My sister.” I linger on Grace’s face. I took this photo one evening this past April when we went down to the beach to watch the sunset. Grace is posed in front of a blazing orange sunset. It’s washed across the horizon and dancing on the water like fire. But it pales in comparison to the smile on her face. It lights up the photo. It’s the same smile she wore every day. It’s the same smile that made everything better. It’s the same smile that was tangible proof I was surrounded by goodness. It’s the same smile that made me feel like the luckiest person in the world to have her as a sister. That smile, this photo, it’s everything that’s pure and honest in this world.

“Well, I’m outta here. I’ve got people to see and places to go.” She grabs her bag.

She’s wearing very tiny white shorts and a white tank top with no bra. I’m all for letting the girls run free every now and then, but you can clearly see her darkened nipples through the thin white material. What if she just forgot her bra? I can’t let her go out without saying something. “Um, Sugar.” I gesture to my own chest trying to be subtle.

She looks down at her gigantic and unbelievably perky boobs. Those can’t be real, can they? “What?”

“Not sure what you’re going for, but you do know that the twins are on full display, right?”

She shrugs. “Yeah.”

I throw her a thumbs up. “Okay, you’re all good then sister. See ya.”

I decide today is the day that Clayton must be introduced to Grounds. I open the door gently this time and damn if the bell isn’t thunderous again. The laws of physics have been proven false; the amount of force exerted on the door cannot be equal to the volume forced from that fucking bell. The beast cannot be tamed. Romero is here again and remembers my name, first and last. I introduce him to Clayton and Clayton orders a mocha macchiato with soy and light whipped cream. He looks on the verge of ecstasy the entire time he’s drinking it. Can you climax from drinking a cup of coffee? You’d think I’d know the answer to that. Clayton’s been rendered speechless. My black coffee is epic again too, but obviously not climactic. Maybe that’s what’s so great about putting all the extra shit in it.

Clayton and I spend the afternoon listening to music in his room. Clayton’s strictly into dance, dub step, and house, which I’m all about. We dance our asses off like two thirteen-year-old girls. I love to dance. Gus and I went dancing a lot. There were always bonfires at the beach that turned into dance parties. Grace always loved the music so I would bring her along. Or sometimes Audrey would take Grace for the night and Gus and I would go to a club where he knew the bouncer who’d let us in even though we were both underage at the time. Gus is amazing on the dance floor. After having sex with him, one pretty much explains the other. Let’s just say he’s
very
comfortable with his body and knows it
damn well
.

Pete walked in on the dance party, turned beet red, did a one-eighty, and left again. Guess he didn’t have any moves to bring to the floor. We’ll have to work on that. Clay is good, though. You know when you go to a club and there’s one person that everyone watches? They make it look easy? That’s Clayton. I’m impressed.

I’m sweaty when I leave to head back to my room around 6:00. “Clayton, you can tear up the dance floor my friend. We need to find a club that has a 21 and under night sometime.”

His smile is pure elation and he claps his hands so fast they look like hummingbird wings. “Oh Katherine, that would be fabulous. I’ve never been to a real club before.”

That surprises me. “Really? Where’d you learn those moves, boy?”

He blushes, then asks, “Do you think there are any gay clubs in Minneapolis?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

His blush deepens. “Katherine, would you, I mean if I can find one that we can get into, would you go with me? I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

I give Clay’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Absolutely. Just let me know when.”

He smiles so wide it almost takes over his entire face
and throws his arms around my neck. “Thank you.”

I pat his back, gently trying to prompt some release from his death grip. “No problem.”

After I hit the shower I arrive back to an empty dorm room and decide it’s time to try out Skype again. I text him and by some stroke of luck, Gus is available. Rook is back in L.A. again. They recorded the entire month of July and they’ve been summoned back to approve album artwork and prepare for their tour, which is tentatively scheduled to kick off at the end of September. After the release of the album, the label is hoping to get some immediate radio play to hype them up and encourage a successful tour. Sounds easy, right? It’s going to be a stressful month, and if there’s one thing that makes Gus crazy, it’s stress. I’m already worried about him.

A warm rush of crazy happiness floods through my veins when I see his goofy smile light up my laptop screen. “Long time no talk Bright Side. What up?”

“Hey Gus. You first, how’s it going in L.A.?” Even though we text each other a few times every day, I always want to catch up on details.

“Dude, it’s been fucking exhausting.” Looking closer, I can see dark shadows under his eyes.

“Yeah, you look like hell. When’s the last time you slept?”

He yawns and thinks for a moment. “Thursday night wa
s the last full night’s sleep I got.” The band got the call early Friday morning that they needed to be in L.A. by noon. So they packed up their cars and Gus’s pickup, and headed out. They’ve been in the studio since Friday afternoon working with their producer, going over the final cuts of all the songs. (Well, at least what used to be the final cuts.) This is the first they’ve seen daylight since.

“Dude, you need to get some rest, like ASAP.”

“This from Mother Trucker who drives halfway across the US of A without sleep?” He raises an eyebrow. “I’m a big boy, Bright Side, I’ll manage. I do feel spent, though.”

“I bet. So is everything wrapped up with MFDM?” The first time they met their producer in July he introduced himself as the Dream Maker. Gus ran with it and after calling him DM for about a week he christened him the Mother
fucking Dream Maker. The dude was thrilled; Gus has had him wrapped around his little finger ever since.  

“Yeah. We finally finished about a half hour ago. I mean I’m proud of it, but damn, these past few days have been brutal. Choosing the songs is like lining up your kids in front of a fucking firing squad. We all have a say, but MFDM makes the final call.” He runs his fingers through his hair and pulls it
back into a ponytail. He’s frustrated. Five, four, three, two, one. “I need a smoke. Hold on.” He picks up his laptop and starts walking, making the image on the screen jump and jiggle like a bad home movie.

“Dude, you’re making me seasick.”

“Sorry Bright Side, I need to go out on the balcony to smoke.”

The laptop comes to rest on a solid surface and he’s fishing through his pocket for his lighter, cigarette already between his lips.

“You should quit.”

He smiles, cigarette held firmly between his teeth. “This is not the week I quit, or the month, or probably even the year with the way things are going, so don’t start.” He cups his left hand around the end of his cigarette and lights it. It flares to life and he inhales like it’s his last breath. After all of the smoke is exhaled he closes his eyes and slumps back against his chair.

“Better?”

He nods, eyes still closed, and takes another long drag.

“So are you happy with the way the songs turned out?” I ask nervously.

He smiles sleepily, eyes still closed. “I’m happy.” He means it.

I still don’t know what songs made the cut and are going to be on the album. They recorded fifteen, but only eleven survived to thrive. Gus has insisted on secrecy up to this point. I think he’s afraid he’ll jinx it if he talks about it too much. Like he’ll wake up and find out it was all a dream. “So what made the cut? Can you tell me now?”

His eyes open and he smiles the smile that means he’s really happy, like deep down in the pit of his stomach happy. “
‘Missing You’.”

I’m floored. “No shit?”

He’s still smiling. “No shit. I didn’t want to say anything earlier in case the song didn’t work out, but when you were in the studio with us in July MFDM went fucking bananas over you. He thought the violin was genius,
because it is
.”

“Wow, that’s … I don’t know what to say … that’s … amazing.” I think back to July, recalling the experience in the studio. “He didn’t act too jacked up about it while we were playing. I thought he was just yanking my chain when he said he liked it.” I’m shocked. Gus wrote the song and told me it was a gift from me to Grace. It’s one of the only ballads he’s ever written. He wrote a part for violin and insisted I play on the song. I came out of retirement only for Grace. I went into the studio with the band and played, expecting it to end up on the cutting room floor somewhere. Which would have been fine, because simply playing in a studio was something I’ll never forget. Another night, after everyone else had gone home, Gus coaxed me into singing with him just for fun on another song “
Killing the Sun.
”
This song is kind of their anthem at shows. Everyone sings along. It gives me chills every time I watch them perform it live. We sang it together, and once I even sang it alone. I’m not trained like Gus but I like to sing and I can carry a tune. We sing two-part harmonies pretty well. It was fun. He recorded and downloaded both songs for me, so I can say I had my rock star moment.

“Yeah, he was trying to play it cool in front of you, but the next day when we all listened to it again he went ape shit. So thanks, you know, for being some kind of virtuoso.” He winks as he stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray that’s already overflowing. “Enough about the album, I don’t want to talk about it right now. I want to hear the dish on what’s happening in the mighty metropolis of Grant. Fill me in.” He scoots his chair closer to the table.

“Okay, let’s see, I’ll make this short and sweet. I made two new friends, Clay and Pete. They live across the hall. My roommate Sugar—”

Gus interrupt
s. “Wait, hold up, your roommate’s name is Sugar? As in nature’s delicious sweetener?”

I nod. “Sugar Starr
LaRue.”

He throws his head back in laughter. “Oh shit, that’s classic … What the fuck were her parents smoking?” He leans forward toward the screen. “Bright Side, tell me she’s a stripper or … or an escort or something?” His eyes look bright and curious.

I clap my hands together and laugh. “That’s what I said!” I shake my head, serious again. “She’s not.”

“Dude, that would’ve been fucking righteous. You know you just got robbed of some killer stories?”

“I know. I’m kind of sad about it myself. I still may end up with some good stories though, because she is built for the profession and this morning she left for the day wearing a see-through white tank top sans bra.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Damn, what’s your address again? I may have to come for a visit sooner than later.”

“Perv.”

He shrugs. “Guilty. I’m a guy, it’s embedded. So, what else? What about these two guys across the hall?”

“Clayton and Peter?”

“Yeah. What are they like? Do I need to be worried about your virtue?”

I roll my eyes. “Dude, you know that ship sailed years ago. But, um yeah, there’s a better chance of hell freezing over than me getting it on with either of them.”

“Why do you say that?” he says, looking almost hopeful.

“Well, Clay and I play for the same team, and I think Pete is one of those people who will either be a forty-year-old virgin or he’s kinky as hell and into some weird shit but uses his super uptight persona as a front so no one suspects it. Any way you slice it, I’m out.”

Gus nods and smiles. “If I were a betting man, and you know I am, I’m
gonna say Pete’s a role-playing sex addict that gets off on S&M. Possibly bondage. Do you think he’s the dom or the sub?”

I cover my ears and shake my head. “
Eww, you know I’m going to picture Pete wearing only leather chaps and holding a riding crop every time I eat lunch with him now, right?”