Page 22 of Washed Up
“That man was a fucking butcher. I don’t care if he’s an industry darling, what he did to our sound was a crock of shit.” Clearly agitated, Max withdraws his arm from around my shoulder, a space Reid immediately fills.
As my gaze ping-pongs between them, it’s obvious there’s a consensus of agreement and inevitability about their demise.
They’ve helped me. Maybe it’s time I helped them. “What can I do?”
“Not a damn thing, Iris.” The way Wynter says it puts a crack right through my heart. We might not see eye to eye, but he’s tragic in this moment, and I want nothing more than to offer him comfort in any way that I can.
Reid shakes his head.
But Max peers at me hopefully. “You don’t happen to be a songwriting genius or an award-winning poet, do you?”
“’fraid not. I did once win a slam poetry contest in primary school, but I’m thinking that doesn’t count.”
“Snap,” he claims. “Mine was about my pet dog, what was yours about?”
“Flesh-eating zombies.”
“Producer friend?” Reid asks, nibbling on a chipped, black-painted fingernail. I let him down with a rueful head shake. His shoulders sag only for him to plaster on a grin, and say, “So, shag, then, Iris? While I’m still a hot commodity.”
“Stop it.” Wynter chucks a cushion at him, which hits him in the face. “She doesn’t want to shag you.”
Not actually true, but I’m not about to risk turning the conversation back in that direction. There’s still a knot of tension in my stomach, and butterflies in my brain keen on reminding me that shagging three friends is not reasonable behaviour. At best, it makes me a groupie, at worst, something far less pleasant.
“We should try to work something out,” Max says.
“Yeah.” Wynter droops from the shoulders. It’s like he’s determinedly folding himself up small, so the universe doesn’t notice him, and the bad things romp off to elsewhere and juicier pickings.
Reid tears at his hair, leaving the curling strands standing on end. “Guys? Please. We really gonna spend another night staring at the studio walls? ’Cause I have to say, I’d rather spendit shagging Iris. I feel that’d be more productive, and possibly inspirational. Definitely aspirational.”
Wynter raises his head to shake it at the fool. “Iris, who has yet to even hint at the possibility that she wants to shag you? Might want to consult her on that before making any plans.”
Reid nudges my cheek with his nose. “You want to, don’t you, hun? Besides, aren’t those the unwritten rules? If you shag one of us, you have to shag us all.”
“They’re not unwritten rules, they’re your imagination getting the better of you.”
“At least mine’s working.”
That was low. I wince on Wynter’s behalf.
Wynter’s mouth has tightened into a lemon pucker. Max, the eternal mediator, pushes onto his feet, and sticks a hand out to help Wynter rise. “Let’s just go jam for a while, guys. Iris, come with. Maybe having an audience will inspire us.”
I’m not about to say no to a private Lucidity show. Max gives me a hand onto my feet too.
“Am I okay to take some pictures? Ric loaned me a camera.”
“Sure, just don’t get in the way,” Wynter replies.
Reid mutters under his breath about how much nicer the evening could be. Meanwhile, I jog up the stairs to fetch the camera. When I come back down, Reid and Wynter have already left, but Max is waiting for me. “Don’t let Reid pressure you, even if you want it. And don’t take this as me trying to stop you. I’m just saying, do things on your terms, not his.”
Wise words, and certainly ones I’m going to endeavour to live by. Although, I’m still having trouble wrapping my head around the idea that it’s okay to have all three flavours of ice-cream at once, and not having to choose from strawberry, vanilla, or chocolate.
“Do you really not have anything?” I ask as we cross the plaza. They must have something, if they’ve spent time with a producer.
“Some,” he squeezes my hand. “Actually, plenty, but Wynt’s lost faith in it after what happened with…” He shakes his head. “He’s started believing he’s as shit as that bastard made our stuff sound. He did a real hatchet job on him, made him doubt his ability, which sucks, because the demo versions we did were ace. Raw, certainly, but ace.”
“Wanker,” I say, which provokes a smile. “So, you’re saying you all had faith in them before this producer guy soured shit?”
“I still do now. So does Reid. They’re great songs, it’s just the production that imbecile put on them that fucked them up. Oh, and his insistence on tampering with the lyrics. He didn’t understand nuance.”
