I'm With The Band

By Corri Lee

'No boyfriends, no groupies'- that is the standing NBNG rule for Amelia Marsh, the hostile and insular front-man of the internationally renowned alternative rock band 'The Bystander Effect'. Four simple coping strategies have pulled her through five years of tours and eight years of life without having to let her stage face slip and in her mind, she is happy.

But like any tightly wound twenty-two year old, you can count on a man to screw it up. Their eyes meet over the university library at an opportune moment and he sees past the arctic cold front to the fragile child that she seeks so desperately to protect.

There are secrets, so many secrets- his and hers. Can her own words- meet me halfway- force a compromise between the two, or will her turgid grasp on her reprehension keep him and his desire for intimacy at arms length? Maybe not, when four, well, four and a half words have a deeply illicit Pavlovian effect on her- 'I'm with the band'.

Truths are told in a scorching hot tale of trust sought through lust and love won through tolerance and blissful ignorance. What man wouldn't salivate at the notion of spending weeks in the close company of the band he idolises and his 'perfect woman'? Oh, that would be CJ. He has no idea who they are. What a moron.

With coarse language, dark humour and general illicitness throughout, this book is not for the easily offended.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Corri Lee
• Release date: Dec 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301968510

Corri Lee

Self-publishing author and self-confessed fantasist, I vent my ideas into novels that I strive to make emotionally provocative and addictive. Music is referenced heavily and is a huge influence in the way I write. Those who know me well will see the pieces of my personality that I put into my words. Those who don't will see outrageous story lines, gut wrenching twists, raunchy love affairs, and heart stopping romance.Jaws will drop. Eyes will burn. Cheeks will blush. Pages will turn. If just one of those reactions is evoked from every reader, then I know that my time isn't wasted.I write in the hope that my work will be enjoyed and the word will spread. Not for the *unlikely* financial gain, but for the knowledge of knowing that I made a mark on the world by just 'being'.

Book preview

I’M WITH THE BAND

First book of the ‘Meet Me Halfway’ series

Corri Lee

Copyright 2012-2013 by Corri Lee

Smashwords Edition

First published on Kindle™ November 2012

Paperback edition published November 2012

This Smashwords edition published July 2013

Copyright 2012-2013 by Corri Lee

The moral right of Corri Lee to be identified as the author and owner of the cover artwork of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Design and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

ISBN: 9781301968510

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For hopeless lovelorn romantics, survivors and closet rockstars everywhere

And also for the Sweetpea’s, Chris ‘pillow biter’ Hall, Lou ‘you took the bum route’ Turner, and my mother.

Please, Mum, don’t read this book. It’s really rude.

CONTENTS

INTRO

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

OUTRO

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRO

Life has been hard on me. You’d never guess it from the outside, but while I may have burst into the world with the highest of hopes, best of intentions and the wildest of dreams, I have seen things that others shouldn’t, and some never will. Lucky them. My life stopped being about flaunting my genealogy and skills, and became about survival.

I think to some degree, I was robbed of my life. I took the privileges I had for granted and never realised just how precious they were until they were brutally ripped away from me. I didn’t try hard enough and I never dug in my heels enough to come out and say ‘stop’. I have to carry that guilt around with me forever, as well as the echoes that my memories leave behind.

I have new privileges now- legions of loyal followers and stacks upon stacks of money. I am talented and I am huge for it but the fans don’t see what lies beneath. Nobody knows what lies latent beneath my rock hard exterior. I am young and naïve. I try to pretend that I’m this untouchable and confident dare devil, but I’m not. Inside, I’m still that fifteen year old, staring at my bed numbly, the haze of my cheap vodka binge dulled by my life falling apart. I am weak and I am afraid.

Afraid of what people think is ‘normal’. Afraid to be really seen. Afraid of the truth. Afraid of living. Nobody knows what’s hiding.

Nobody can ever know.

ONE

He's looking at you.

Again? Really?

Transfixed. It's positively repulsive.

I glance up from my dissertation and catch sight of that guy again, shaking my head piteously. That's the third time this week, right? Not cool; star crossed fans are exactly what I come here to avoid. Not only the third time today, but again for the thousandth time since he clocked me two months ago. If I wasn’t so used to it, I’d be freaked out.

Meredith glances back over in his direction and joins my head shaking. The sad thing is that he knows that you know that he's staring. He's playing on it.

I type out my final sentence and lean back triumphantly. Against all the odds, I can claim my extremely well-earned Bachelor's Degree in Sociology, and stick my fingers up at the university advisers who said I couldn't do it while maintaining a musical career. Meredith thoughtfully leans over and hits 'save' on my screen to stop me from repeating the foolish act of carelessness that nearly lost me my Psychology BSc.

That's it. I'm done with uni. No more. Two degrees is more than enough considering I’ll never actually use them.

Are you sure you don't want an MD and a PhD? You'd walk it. I roll my eyes at her, my wonderful raven haired, Asian, pain in the arse best friend. I know that she’s considering her MD just so that she can claim higher bragging rights--nothing to do with an intellectual tendency to excel in the science of ‘the mind’.

I don't want one, you know that. I'd get mistaken for a bad white rapper. She chuckles throatily at me and twists a strand of her raven bob around her finger. Not really sure why she persistently flirts with me, she knows that I’m sold.

So what are you going to do about the hanger on? He's still looking at you.

Of course he's still looking. I casually glance back in his direction and contemplate my options. Reel him in or cut him loose. Not so bothered either way. And as he doesn't strike me as a stalker-- I don't think he's going to be much of a problem, seeing as we're under no obligation to come back here unless I pick a post-grad course. Which I won’t.

Aren't you even slightly tempted to have a little fun at his expense? When was the last time you got laid? Willing her to shut up, I raise an eyebrow. Admittedly, I am aware that it’s been what she would classify as ‘a long time’, but I don’t need reminding.

I turn and absorb as much of his image as I can from this distance. Dark haired, okay. Looks kind of lean, I guess, definitely not muscular. I can't see his eyes from here, which would help, and there's not a trace of a single tattoo poking from the arms of that Halo 3 t-shirt. He looks a bit normal for my tastes, Mer. And you know I'm not in the market for a groupie. She nudges me playfully and looks as though she might be taking pity on him. That's unusual. Pity doesn't often occur in her emotional repertoire.

Just throw him a complimentary bone then if he doesn't stand a cat's chance in hell of getting under you. I've seen you flirt from this distance before. Ah, all right, I'll indulge her wicked streak just this once.

I angle my chair around to lean one elbow on the table and run the connected hand through a section of my hair. Christ, it's a battle, I really need a trim. I let my eyes travel leisurely around the library and eventually lock on his gaze. He looks around for a moment before he realises that it’s him I'm looking at, and then mimics my pose. Hmm, cocky. He flashes me a small smile and I return the favour. I'm amazed by how intense his gaze is, I'm actually the one hooked and being reeled in.

Go on, baby doll. Finish him off. Meredith's goading is the wake-up call I need to rouse me from my daydream. I narrow my eyes slightly, letting my tongue lick my top lip and then bite the bottom. She descends into stifled laughter as his jaw drops and he looks like he's going to expire. He visibly inhales a wrenching breath and is disturbed from his thoughts by the guy next to him knocking a can of Dr Pepper on the floor. I wonder if he saw my taunt, too.

The eye contact breaks and I grin to myself. I like having the power to do that to people but it always baffles me why they can idolise me across rooms and allow themselves to be so affected by me but never actually approach me. I'm famous and loaded, but I'm not made of stone. 

Meredith leans over and hits 'print' on my screen, waving me off towards the printer with a flick of her hand. Jesus, over fifty pages--I am a machine. But this printer is fucking ancient and I'm going to be here for a lifetime. I glance back over at her and her jaw is on the table. I take a step back and I immediately understand why. 

Mr. All Eyes and No Action is standing behind me at the next printer. He didn't even have a laptop, what the hell? My teasing appears to have kicked him into action. I wasn't prepared for this. 

Whatever. I've had enough crazy groupies and stalkers to know how to look after myself.

He leans against the wall next to the printer and is quite clearly sizing me up. How rude. So I reciprocate his bad manners and see exactly what I'm dealing with, starting from the bottom up. 

DC trainers, fine. Baggy jeans that are barely covering the waist band of his CK boxers, fair enough. Halo 3 t-shirt, so he's a video-game geek. No visible tattoos, that's almost a deal breaker for me, but his wrists are covered with wooden beaded surfer bracelets and festival wristbands. I recognise Download, V and Sonisphere having played at all three and I have to say that this works to his advantage. But I don't know the others so they must be tame pop festivals.

And then I reach his face and I'm inexplicably bowled over. He's got the most soul exploring camel lashed green eyes that I've ever seen and they're burning into me. There's a five, maybe six millimetre black stretcher plug in his left ear and it's all the more obvious for his side swept dark brown fringe flecked with copper strands. He's grungy but not grimy, just the type I go for. I could do him some serious damage. 

I quickly glance back at Meredith and she's obviously impressed by her marginally closer view because she's giving me that 'you know you want to look'. I glance down at my half printed dissertation and get my stage face on. That's obviously what he's here for.

Yes? His nostrils flare a fraction, like he's surprised that I spoke.

You look familiar. His voice is silky smooth and impassive, like he doesn't even care that I'm there.

I should imagine I do when you've been eyeballing me for the past two months. He splits into a smile and suddenly that hard ass exterior cracks a little into something boyish. He raises an arm and scratches the nape of his neck. Hmm, I want to bite that neck. Wait, what?

Sorry, I have been a bit tactless, but I don't usually go for girls like you. Girls like me? What the hell!

I beg your pardon?

You know, boyfriend cut jeans, over-sized hoodies pulled up over your head to hide the fact you're self-conscious. I raise an eyebrow at him and put a hand on my hip, thinking more about breaking his neck than biting it. What an arsehole, it's obvious that I dress like a bum so I don't get hassled on campus.

You're way off base. Why the hell did I write such a long dissertation? I look down at the printer’s display and roll my eyes. Out of paper--you've got to be joking, and of course Mr. All Mouth And No Trousers here is right in front of the paper drawer. 

I turn back and let my eyes bore into him until he moves out of the way. I'm horrified by his proximity when he leans down with me and lets that shocking green gaze linger over the tattoos on the backs of my hands. How can he possibly look so surprised? I’m notorious for my ink.

I straighten myself out and set the printer back into motion, excruciatingly aware of his persistent presence.

Let me take you for coffee. His request hits me like a bolt out of the blue.

If I'm not your type, why the hell would you take me for coffee? He shrugs at me with his irritating impassiveness, and against all my better judgement, I'm starting to view him as a challenge. I don't have a good reputation with challenges, I tend to attack them with a ferocity comparably only to starving panthers circling a steak. Fine. One coffee. I can't believe I just said that. 

I pull what's printed of my dissertation off the printer and march back to Meredith.

Uh oh. She shakes her head. I've seen that look before. He's thrown down some sort of gauntlet, hasn't he? I adore this girl's amazing understanding of the way my mind works.

Coffee, apparently. I'll make it quick. She bids me farewell with one of her sloe eyed winks and ensures me that she'll track my phone if I'm gone too long. I stride back to Mr. Challenging, pinning my hair up and hiding my face with a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, and wave a hand. After you then. 

For the first time I see a hint of nervousness and it cheers me up to no end.

Now?

I'm not coming back on campus after today; I've done my time. It's now or never. I stride off to the door and he follows, hot on my heels, just as it should be.

Before I know it, I'm stood outside McDonalds in Birmingham City Centre and I don't know whether to laugh or cry. McDonalds, seriously?

He holds a hand out to the doorway and raises an eyebrow. Sure, you've seen the adverts, right? I shake my head at him in disbelief, hide at a table in the furthest corner from the entrance and keep my head low. I don't think he appreciates the humiliation that I'd face if I got caught sitting in here. 

He finds me and puts a cardboard cup of coffee down in front of me with a handful of sugar and milk sachets. Fucking hell, he could have at least taken me to Starbucks. Aren't you going to take those off? I look at him poisonously over the rim of the aviators and make it perfectly clear that no, I won't be removing them. His nostrils flare again and he removes the plastic lid from the coffee cup--my coffee cup--like I’m a child who can’t safely handle hot beverages without ending up with third degree burns. I'm CJ Pearce, by the way. Oh, it has a name. 

I lean back in my seat and blow on the steam spouting from my coffee. I don’t do milk and sugar, Daddy tells me I’m sweet enough. Sycophant.

Amelia Marsh BSc. And I can see the cogs starting to grind in his head. Yes, we're finally starting to make a realisation that this is not my usual haunt, aren’t we?

If you already have a BSc, why have you just printed a dissertation? Okay, wrong realisation.

Because I've done another degree?

Why in hell would you do that?

Because I can. My retort seems to effectively silence him for a while--he's quite clearly having to thoughtfully plan out his conversation. Poor guy, I should cut him some slack. What's your major? His green eyes stare up at me but their intensity is dulled by my shades.

Sociology. Duh, he’s been eyeballing you during lectures, remember? I think McDonalds is making me stupid.

No shit, mine, too. My other degree is in Psychology. And again he's silenced, probably intimidated by my intelligence. I glance back at his wrists. Music fan? This is so forced…

Yeah, sure. I love festivals, they bring out the animal in me. Interesting. How about you, what do you listen to?

I'm really having to resist the urge to laugh at him. Rock, mainly. I have a specific interest in that genre. 

My torture is interrupted by my phone ringing. Am I ever glad of the cavalry? Sorry, I need to take this. I turn my side to him and answer the call. Amelia Marsh.

Hey baby doll, we have a problem. Oh jeez, if Meredith ever calls and says there a problem, I can guarantee that she's not exaggerating. She doesn’t do problems. Puzzles, diversions, deterrents; yes. Problems; no.

Uh oh, what's wrong?

Ryan has broken his foot skateboarding. We have no driver.

That's not funny. Please tell me you're joking. She doesn’t do jokes either, but I live in hope.

I'm not joking, Ams. It's lucky that we're gigging in town tonight but come Friday, we are screwed. ‘Screwed’ has an upper inflection that tells me that she’s trying to drown out her frantic concern with humour. And most likely vodka.

Shit, Meredith, I'll make some calls. She hangs up. I rest my phone against my forehead in frustration. My 'making some calls' means I have to phone my dad, and if I phone my dad--

Is there something wrong? Anything I can do to help? I'd almost forgotten about the poor company I was sat with in a poor setting.

I snicker at him. Not unless you know someone who can drive a tour bus. 

He shrugs at me and sips his coffee. When? I drive. I'm glad he can't see me eyeing him warily behind these shades because I am seriously considering his offer. We are screwed without a ride into Manchester and then beyond. 

I run my tongue over my teeth awkwardly. Starting Friday. But we have another sixteen gigs going up to Scotland and back down to Plymouth, and you have uni.

I can email my work in. I'm free until further notice. He reaches over boldly, takes my phone from my hand and starts to programme his number into my contact list. Think about it and give me a call. I look him up and down again and shake my head. He doesn't stand a chance of keeping up with us. He looks like a sweet little momma’s boy who gets woke up with a cuppa every morning.

Retrieving my phone from his hand, I have to ask on the off-chance. Have you ever hung out with musicians before? I mean ‘real’ musicians? It's pretty intense.

I can handle intense. I have my serious doubts but we really need a driver. I hate calling my dad for help--it just makes it look like I'm piggybacking off his career. I got to where I am on my own damned merits.

I glance down at the time and swear out loud. I'm sorry, I have to bail. I have a sound check at 5pm.

You have a gig tonight? Perceptive.

Yeah, we're playing at the O2 Academy. 

All of a sudden, I'm witnessing this guy's face light up like a Christmas tree. The Bystander gig.

I nod and pick up my coffee. If you really think you're up for driving the bus, drop by and see how we roll. Just tell the security team you're with me. I shoot him an awkward smile and make a hasty retreat from Mc-fucking-Donald's.

TWO

16 gigs to go…

I can’t even begin to articulate my rage. We set aside an hour for a sound check and so far we’ve been here for ninety minutes because some idiot boy who looks like he’s fresh off the playground has been let loose to screw around with our equipment. I can hear Plato berating the shit out of him while our roadies take over the technical side. Seeing the baby faced little twat scarper out of the building makes me feel marginally better but frankly, I’m still seeing red here, and it’s not being cured any by Meredith ribbing me over my coffee date.

McDonalds, seriously? What’s wrong with Starbucks?

I know, right? That’s exactly what I thought. Even Costa would have done but fucking McDonalds. I can see the gossip blogs now; ‘The Bystander Effect’s Amelia Marsh shares fries with mystery male in fast food chain’. Chase would have a field day off something like that. Erek laughs behind me and he thinks that I can’t hear, but a simple one fingered gesture assures him that I can.

So did you call your dad? I flash Meredith an innocent, apologetic smile--she knows full well how much I hate drafting in my dad’s goons. Call him in the morning, please. We are so beyond fucked without a driver. Plato waves down at us and she slings the strap of her giant red beast of a bass guitar over her neck. So did you get any? 

I can’t resist, I have to flash her the look I reserve for her most intensely stupid comments.  ‘Amelia Marsh indulges in quickie and fries with mystery male in fast food chain?’ Honestly, Meredith, I’m not set to self-destruct. Not today anyway. 

Plato appears by my side and takes his guitar from my hand with a twinkle in his eye that tells me Meredith has already given them the background of this… this. But he’s cute though, right?

I dunno, he’s got the classic grungy emo look about him and has a pretty sexy pair of peepers, but I didn’t see any tattoos.

He inhales sharply and shakes his head. Ouch, deal breaker. 

I nod and turn to the microphone as the roadie shouts from the sound desk. Visible ink is a universal standard in our happy little family of heavily disfigured rockers. Tell me about it. He volunteered to drive the bus but he’s clearly never experienced anything remotely like a tour. 

There’s a collective groan of protest as I test the microphone and it squeals harshly with feedback.

He offered and you didn’t care to mention it to us? 

I raise an eyebrow at Meredith and pick my sexy black Stratocaster up from its stand. He’d never keep up with us. I told him to turn up tonight and see how we roll, but he won’t. Even if he does, he’d never get past the door without a ticket. Besides, he called us ‘Bystander’. 

There’s a wince of pain from my band mates at this unwelcome arrival of news. Our band name is very close to our hearts and we hate it being shortened down to one word. We’re all Psychology graduates, except Erek, our Polish prince, who’s still doing his degree. But we love him through his lack of qualification because he’s our demon drummer.

We could train him, you know. What’s his name? I’m appalled to turn and see the look in Meredith’s eyes that tells me that she’s actually considering Mr. McDonald’s offer.

CJ.

CJ works. What’s it short for?

I wasn’t interested enough to ask.

Okay, well if he actually turns up, let’s consider it. 

Big Dave, our number one roadie, waves a hand at us. Sorry to interrupt your riveting conversation but its 6:30pm and the doors open in two hours. Quit yapping. We’re instantly silenced--Big Dave is the only person who has that kind of power over us. It’s less due to the fact that he’s about twenty stone and built like a brick shit house, but more down to the fact that he’s a seriously strong willed man and we deeply respect him. He’s stuck with us through everything, thick and thin. Though typically, he throws back cans of Carling like they’re water and had his driving license revoked for drunk driving. Fucking plank.

We can hear the mad rush of little rockers filing in through the door at 8:30pm, and even after five years of this, it still gets me every time. I’ve got my stage face on and Louise has dressed me up in a polka-dot swing dress, TUK Mary Jane fuck-me heels, and styled my hair into some swanky victory rolls to try and set me at ease in the comfort of my rockabilly image of preference, but I’ve still got that nagging feeling of nervousness in the pit of my stomach. There again, it could be dodgy sushi.

Our support acts are cute--they’re a little more at ease with us after four gigs and have stopped treating us like celebrities. We all really appreciate that because so few people remember that we’re still humans regardless of our status. We’ve been in the support act position ourselves, that’s where we started, and a record contract didn’t suddenly turn us into four hollow, elitist arseholes.

I’m desperately clutching a glass of cheap Pinot Grigio, knowing full well that white wine is the only thing I can drink and keep a steady enough mind to remember our set list without heaving, when Plato sits down beside me backstage. You really love watching the support acts play, don’t you?

Sure, it’s kind of nostalgic for me; knowing that it used to be us warming up the crowds. Admittedly not for long, ut they were good times nonetheless. He nods and wraps his arm around my shoulders. How are things with Levi? Plato blows a raspberry and sighs. He still thinks I’m a closet hetero after finding that girl of Erek’s in my bunk at the Wolves gig. I mean, we’ve all explained the situation to him and shown him the pictures of them sucking face all night but he’s still being bitchy with me. What’s a gay to do, huh?

He’ll come round. He always does. You know he can’t resist a tour. Plato takes one of my tattooed hands and threads his fingers between mine. I know that advance--he knows that I’m nervous.

Why are you still bricking it after all this time? You know all this fear will dissolve as soon as you step out there. We hate seeing you withdraw like this before every gig. 

I pull him into a hug and bury my face in his neck. I don’t know, but I don’t think I really mind that this happens. It means that I still have a soul right? I raise my head as Meredith strolls over, looking hot as ever in PVC trousers and a satin corset, heavily tattooed forearms on show. Meow.

Right back at you, baby doll. Looks like you have company.

What? She jerks her head towards the staff entrance and I can vaguely hear raised voices on the other side. Chase? Frowning, she shakes her head, holding out her hand and leading me over to the door.

Fucks sake man, I told you! I’m with the band. Your chick Amelia invited me. Amelia Marsh. My mouth hits the floor. I know that voice.

I think you should calm down, mate. I haven’t had any messages to say she’s accepting company. Meredith sticks her head through the door and whispers in Big Dave’s ear. He pushes the door open and shoots me a disapproving look. Ah hell, you do not want to piss that guy off. I slink over slowly, afraid that he might squash me, and bat my eyelids.

Well? Did you invite that? I peer my head into the corridor and step out. It’s him all right, and he looks delicious. He’s still wearing those baggy jeans but he’s had the decency to don a black shirt with red pinstripes and rolled up the sleeves. He’s got Skull Candy headphones around his neck and their lead is fed into the iPod Touch in his breast pocket. I refer to my previous statement--I could do him some serious damage, and from the noises Meredith is making next to me, I reckon she wouldn’t mind a stab at breaking him through overuse either.

Yeah, that's my fault all right. Sorry, sugar tits. I lean up and kiss Big Dave on the cheek, leaving the shape of my lips in bold red arches on his skin. He shakes his head at me and I know that all is forgiven; the guy is a sucker for blondes. Actually he's a sucker for anything with a pair of tits, but that's a negligible point.

He points at his cheek and raises an eyebrow. I’m not wiping that off, you know.

I’d be offended if you did, big guy. The next time you nearly die from a diabetic coma on the bus, I’m peeling that section of skin off and eBaying it. He flashes me a surprisingly handsome grin and turns back out to Mr. McDonald’s as I head back inside.

Alright Maccy D, in you go. CJ walks in with a look of distinct confusion and I put my stage face back on. The moment I do he spots me and his face tells it all. He’s shocked. I left him looking baggy and dishevelled, and now he’s staring at a vixen. 

Meredith passes behind me and dips her face next to my ear. Okay, you were right. He’s never going to keep up with us if he comes in his pants every time he looks at you. I slap her backside for her vulgarity and put my hands on my hips. 

CJ approaches me with caution, head cocked and green eyes glinting. When he’s finally close enough, he reaches out and runs his hands down the oriental tattoo work on both my arms. His touch does strange things to me from the waist down, least not because he’s actually had the balls to do it. Holy shit. Hmm, suddenly seeming a little more like your type am I?

You seem surprised.

That’s one word for it. I narrow my eyes before the guys square up to him behind me. He doesn’t look half as intimidated as he probably should, and honestly, I’m a little disheartened. 

Erek extends a hand and looks at CJ expectantly. He doesn’t hesitate to grab it and shake briskly. CJ, right? Welcome to the dark side. Meredith hasn’t said a word and I know damn well that it’s because she’s sizing him up. If I don’t utilise him, I can guarantee that she will.

Plato puts a protective hand on my shoulder. So you want to drive our tour bus? You ever been on tour before?

No, but I drove in the Gumball Rally. I scoff in disbelief. Sure, every punk from uni gets sounded out as a Gumball driver.

Really, who for? 

He holds up his hands and shakes his head. I’m sworn to secrecy. 

I roll my eyes and turn on my heels to the side of the stage and watch our first support act rev up our crowd with their last number. They are really awesome--I can see them being signed in the not too distant future. CJ slinks up by my side and leans up against the wall. God damn it, Does he need to follow me everywhere? 

They’re good. Bowled over by his enthusiasm? No.

I glance sideways at him and a raise an eyebrow. Have you ever been back stage at a gig before? He shakes his head. Everything that you thought you knew about the rock industry is going to get blown to shit if you come on tour, you do know that, don’t you?

Who says I know anything about the rock industry? I’m a blank canvas. I reach over and pull his iPod Touch from his pocket and scroll through his current playlist- It’s full of Prodigy, Pendulum and a bunch of crappy looking bands I’ve never heard of. Of course, he’s one of those emos that listens to dubstep and drum ‘n’ bass. He just suddenly got slightly less sexy. 

What are you even doing here?

He turns his head to me and frowns. Still sexy, even when baffled. You told me to come.

I didn’t think you actually would. I’m not your type apparently. The support act filing off stage is a welcome distraction for me. I’m starting to get a little worried by how much this guy insults me so effortlessly. He’s barely spoken to me and I want to punch him in the teeth.

Meredith slinks up behind me and slings a bare arm around my shoulders. Hey, Maccy Ds, any ink? He blinks at her for a moment before he starts to unbutton his shirt. Whoa there, ace, what do you think I mean by ‘ink’?

It’s on my back, arsehole. Meredith digs her nails into my shoulder to stop herself launching her fist into his face and plasters on a fake smile. I’m glad it’s not just me who reacts to him with suppressed violence.

Call me ‘arsehole’ again and I’ll get Big Dave to sit on you. CJ smirks and pulls his shirt off. I get a first time glimpse his torso and feel myself clench. He’s ripped and immaculate--the muscles in his abdomen pairing off into beautifully sculpted sections. My initial observation across the library could not have been more wrong. Meredith pinches me to pull me back to compos mentis before he turns around and reveals a full sized HR Giger tattoo across his toned back. I don’t know who his tattoo artist is but he deserves some serious kudos.

Meredith tuts and shakes her head. Ooh, this is embarrassing. CJ looks a little dazed as she makes an uninvited grab at the hem of my dress and reveals the same HR Giger piece on my thigh. He has that look of expiration on his face again and inhales slowly as his eyes examine my leg with immense satisfaction. She leans across and pats his arm sympathetically. You really need to exercise a little self-restraint, mate. 

I watch as she swans off to Plato’s side and when I turn back, I’m astonished to find CJ on his knees at my feet running his thumbs across my thigh. Holy shit, this is hot.

Um, hello? I understand that I haven’t explained my personal boundaries to you but there’s a basic level of human decency that should be ingrained in all of us. 

He looks up at me numbly from the ground and slowly rises back to my eye level.

Sorry, I’ve just never seen a chick with Giger on her before. What the hell? My Giger tattoo is iconic--it’s probably been in every rock magazine in the country. Maybe he means in person.

I look out across the crowd as the background music dips to silence for a moment and they go insane before the next track kicks in. On an intellectual level, this reaction pleases me every time. Poor suckers are like Pavlov’s dogs out there. I glance back at CJ and smirk--an expression which is promptly wiped away by his look of blank ignorance.

Who’s dogs? Of course, he’s not a psychology major.

Pavlov. It’s called classical conditioning. He was doing a study of dog’s gastric functions when he realised that they started to salivate for food before there was any real stimulus- no smell or visual cues. He realised that the dogs had learned to associate the appearance of lab coats with the arrival of lunch. Through further testing, he discovered that this association with food could be changed--he rang a bell before the dogs were fed and before long, the dogs would begin to drool at the sound of the bell.

So how is this like that? Oh Jesus, what an idiot.

I point outside to the crowd. "They associate the break in the music with the arrival of a band and go nuts whenever it happens. Every time the music breaks,