Page 2 of Revelry

“Nah, this is just my pain-in-the-arse sister.”

“What’s he been drinking?” Deb asks.

“Whathasn’the been drinking?”

Deb shakes her head. “I’ll have a Cosmo.”

“Darlin’, we’ve got beer, wine or spirits. I don’t do none of that lolly-water shit.”

Deb smiles through her ruby-red lips. It’s not her happy smile. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen what happy looks like on my sister. She’s always been a hard arse. “Fine, give me your best white that doesn’t taste like piss.”

The bartender folds his arms over his beer gut and chuckles. “Whatever you wish, princess.”

“What the fuck, Coop? You don’t answer your calls, you go on this four-day drinking bender. None of the guys can get in touch with you, and I have to give up my weekend hunting down your arse all over Sydney. Look, I know that bitch left you. I know she took your kid and went back to the fucking farm like some hometown hick traipsing back to her second cousin or something. I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” I hiss. “She left me with a note, Deb. She took my baby and left me a fucking note.”

“I spoke to her this morning.”

I sigh and raise my head to look at her. “You called her?”

“No, she called me. I hung up twice before I finally answered, and then I chewed her out for what she’d done.” She says. “I hate that she took my niece away, that she took your baby, but really what kind of life can you offer them right now? You took her away from her friends and family and left her all alone in your dive of an apartment, Coop. I can’t really say that I blame her.”

The bartender sets a glass of white wine down in front of Deb. Her smile is acidic as she takes a sip. Wrinkling her nose, she places the glass down on the bar and pushes it away from her. “Plus, I met the lumberjack. I’m sorry, but I would have followed his fine arse back to the country, too.”

“Did you just come here to rub this shit in, Deb?”

“No. I came to tell you she’s worried about you. She says you’ve been calling at all hours of the night, trying to get her to take you back.”

“Fucking drama queen, I did that once,” I mutter. My sister just looks at me. “Fine, it might have happened more than once.” I lower my voice, “I miss her, Deb. The loft still smells like her. All her shit is there—it’s fucking everywhere and I don’t know what to do. I can’t get rid of it. What if she comes back and it’s gone?”

“It’s been two months. She’s not coming back, Coop.” She pats my hair and I push my head into her hands the way I used to when I was a kid and I’d fall over and skin my knee. “If I were a lesser sister, I’d video this moment and make you watch it back so you could see how pathetic you are in it. Holly’s not coming back. She chose the other guy and left with your kid. If that makes you sad, if it makes you want to scream and yell and throw shit, then use it. Write that bitch the song she deserves. Write a whole fucking album worth of songs about how much you hate her, but quit being a pussy, and quit hiding out in bars with lowlifes.” Deb gives the publican and his patrons a pointed glare.

“Now get off that barstool,” she says. “I’m taking your sorry arse home and sobering you up. You’ve missed an entire week’s worth of rehearsals, Coop. They’re not waiting any longer. Harbour Records needs that album finished, and the guys have no direction without you. Not to mention no vocalist.”

I take another sip of my drink, wishing it would drown out my sister, but no such luck. Deb removes the glass from my hand and holds it out to the bartender, shaking her wrist impatiently when he doesn’t immediately haul arse to take it from her.

“You can’t afford to be slacking right now. Vanessa is already pissed enough that you cancelled this tour. I know the fans love you, but that love is only so deep if you’re not out there shaking your shit in front of them. Forget Holly. Think about your career.”

I groan and slam my forehead into the bar again. “What if I can’t forget?”

“You have to, Coop. She’s not coming back.” Deb pulls her phone out from her tiny purse, punching in buttons. She holds it to her ear and barks into the receiver.

Ah,shit. She’s either talking to the guys, or she’s called our mother.

“Yeah, I found him. Well I did what you idiots were too dense to. I tracked his phone through GPS. Now tell me you’re not too fucked up to come help me with his sorry arse. Mmhmm, that’s great, Zed. I don’t care. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

I watch my sister take another sip of her wine as if she didn’t just call my band mate to come babysit me, and then I bury my head in my hands and just wish it all away. I’d give up everything if I could escape for a day—hell I’d even settle for twenty goddamn seconds. If I could, I’d wish away all of it: the band, the groupies, the money, and the record deal. I’d throw it all away to have her back in my arms again, and the sad part is I can’t even say I didn’t know it was coming. The night I found out about the baby and returned to Sugartown, I knew. The second I saw Jackson fucking Rowe in their lounge room, I knew she loved him more than she had ever loved me. I knew, and still I did everything I could to keep her.

Everything but make her happy.

Zed taps out a rhythm on the table in front of him with his bare hands. If he doesn’t shut up soon, I’m going to fucking lose it. For twenty minutes we’ve been sitting around a table in this stuffy, over-furnished room, staring down the record execs as if they were the enemy. Today they kind of are, so I guess that description is pretty apt.

In less than a half hour this has gone from a cordial meeting to every member of the band wanting to beat Guidelli and his team of lawyers over the head with their instruments. Their list of demands is grating on each and every one of us. I see it in the way Ash’s shoulders are hunched up around his ears, the way Levi is grinding his teeth and the way Zed drums his fingers on the table, working furiously the longer this meet goes on—though, it’s highly possible he’s just coming down and has the jitters.

Vanessa—our Artist Relations Representative, which is really just some bullshit title that makes her feel important, because so far she’s done jack shit in the way of representing us—stands and presses her hands onto the shiny oak table-top. “Listen, boys, I know it seems like we’re putting a lot of pressure on you right now, but we wouldn’t invest all this time and money if we didn’t believe in you. The test audience weren’t happy with the last two songs on the album—”

“Test audience?” Zed says. All four of us share a look, which extends to Deb and Zed’s brother, Leif, who are occupying seats on the side of the room.

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