Page 40 of All Right No
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The guys all left on Thursday, taking the motorboat to Mariefred thus stranding Ash and Ginny unless they wanted to row to the mainland.
Ash refused to see them off. They’d be back long before he missed them—things were still tense—and while he wasn’t desperate to go on a ’round the world trip for a single performance that didn’t mean he wasn’t still pissed over the arrangements.
As he had the run of the place, Ash gathered his gubbins and settled himself on the mezzanine floor. The upper floor was bright and airy, and he liked to watch the way the sunlight dappled the walls and slopes of the A-line roof.
Also, the book nook was handy for some entertainment or as a place to crash. His problem with his fingers wasn’t the only issue, only the most noticeable one. Ever since his brush with death, he was forever having to take impromptu naps.
Having settled on the couch, Ash planted his feet on the coffee table, and opened up his laptop. The only thing missing was a decent brew. A hot drink was too much to carry alongside his other stuff when he could only rely on one hand, and stuff the notion of making two trips. He could live without the caffeine. He had a bottle of water that would suffice. It was healthier too.
See world. Effort is being made.
It didn’t take Ginny long to return from the jetty. Sounds of her bustling about downstairs drifted up to him. Ash flicked on some background entertainment while he deliberated over the melody that had come to him during the night. It looked like a series of blobs an underachieving toddler might make and call art. He’d jotted it down left-handed on the back of an appointment letter from the hospital psychologist. If anyone managed to decipher it well enough to play it, the result would hopefully sound rather more sophisticated.
It sounded amazing in his head. Now, if he could just write the accompanying lyrics he’d be set, and he’d have something to wave in the rest of the band’s faces.
Ash didn’t pretend that lyric writing was his thing. In the past, he’d been content to leave the actual song writing to Xane and Spook, only contributing the occasional idea or riff when asked to, but as everything else he valued had been stolen away, he needed a way of contributing.
Yeah, about that… It turned out that song writing was pretty damned hard, if you didn’t want something that sounded shit or resembled bad goth poetry. Being less pompous and wilfully clever seemed to be the answer. Straight talking, yep. Simple but effective phrasing: that too! Also, he needed a hypnotic chorus with an infective draw, so that listeners were reeled into the story being told. A song was a mini story, or in his eyes, the best ones were. He was pumping a lot of himself into this one, and even if it was dire, there was something very cathartic about bleeding all over the page.
Having written the same couple of lines and deleted them numerous times over, Ash hit up YouTube, seeking a break and inspiration. He was watching Christina, Mya, Pink, and Lil’ Kim shimmy their way throughLady Marmaladefor the umpteenth time in succession when Ginny interrupted him. Okay, mostly he was watching Christina, ’cause big hair, seedy undertones, and fishnets got him every time. Like every friggin’ time. Also, this particular video brought back vivid memories of better times, like when Ginny had shown up out of the blue in Paris and enthralled him with her own interpretation of the Moulin Rouge. She’d been dressed in a similar fashion to Ms. Aguilera, only six times as pretty, and boy could she shimmy her tight little arse. Never mind what she’d done with the rest of her stupendously hot and supple bod. She’d given him the night of his life.
“Are you cheating on me again, babe?” Ginny asked. She was standing on the top step, the sunlight illuminating her, and looking as crazily beautiful as she always did.
“A guy’s got to get his fishnet fix somehow,” he sighed, and because he was pissed off added, “And you’re not humouring me.”
Rather than bite his head off like he probably deserved, since sex ought never to be a given in any relationship, she sashayed over to where he was sitting. “I’ve worn them. Me thinks your interest’s just been elsewhere.”
Possibly, that was true. Though he was pretty sure she’d been deliberately holding out on him. He noticed fishnets. Always.
She sat next to him. “Whatcha doing?”
“Nothing.” He blanked the screen. He wasn’t ready to share yet. “Did you want something in particular?”
She snuggled up to his side and took hold of his hand. “As it happens, yes. You might not have noticed, but we have the place to ourselves.”
“And?”
He knew what she was hinting at, but it gave him a perverse sort of kick to be obtuse about it. It felt weird knowing that in the past he’d have been ripping his clothes off and volunteering as her love slave right about now, with no more than she’d already said as a prompter. He didn’t feel he had a whole lot in common with that guy anymore. Iain had killed him. He’d stabbed him right through the heart and twisted the knife until all that was left was a twisted, mangled mess.
Yeah, so he was engaged in a pity party. That was his right, exactly as it was everyone else’s. Sure, he appreciated that he wasn’t the only one who’d had a hard time recently. The whole band had been subject to a ton of shit in recent weeks, what with Xane falling off the wagon and Elspeth’s nightmare exit from the band, but he’d had that and more. He was still living the aftermath of Karlstad every fucking day.
One of the things that continually bugged him was that none of them ever talked about what had happened. They asked him how he was doing, but never drilled into the details of what happened and how badly it had fucked up his life. Any concerns they voiced were only ever in the context of him getting better.
Ginny was looking at him with her lips pursed.
“Look, I’m not exactly feeling sexy at the minute.” He raised his fucked hand to remind her of how damaged he was.
“Do you really want me to get Ever Ready Ash out?” Ginny punched him on the arm. “And, actually I didn’t come up here with the intention of getting laid. If I had, you’d already be on your back. We talked the other day about you working harder to fix yourself. Well, I’ve created an action plan. A G-plan.”
She unrolled a huge sheet of curled up paper, that he’d only just noticed she was holding.
“What is this?” It didn’t look much like fun, although he noticed the word ‘licking’ appeared in a couple of places, and one column was titled ‘Love Slave Duties.’ Actually, it looked suspiciously like the rehabilitation exercise grid the physiotherapist had provided him with. The one he’d binned at least twice along with the information sheets and helpline numbers they’d tried to fob him off with.
“I can fix myself. I don’t need this. Not interested.” He reached for the laptop again.
Ginny slammed her hand down on top of the lid, almost jamming his fingers.
