“Are you awake?”

That’s one of those questions I never wanted to get purred in my ear. Not unless it’s coming from a statuesque blond who happens to be shorter than me. I make exceptions, but for Johnny “Vatos” Hernedez, I’m afraid there’s no special clause that accounts for him being on the other side of my bed murmuring in my ear.

Hey, I’ve known him since I was five. It’d be like the worst kind of incest. A guy’s gotta have some standards, here.

Okay. So I didn’t have sex with him, and I didn’t fall asleep with him there, and I didn’t hear him come in. Therefore, he must not be here at all. That resolved, I can go back to sleep, and ignore the hand tugging at my hair. This is why I didn’t have kids…

“Hmm. Guess not.” The bed creaks a little under dream-Vatos’ not insubstantial weight as he leans over and whispers something I have to concentrate on to hear. “You will audition for us… you will audition for us… you will audition for us, and wash my car…”

There’s no way even my disturbed subconscious would inflict that on me. Grumbling under my breath, I reach out, grasp a handful of pillow and wait until I can feel the weight behind me shift just a little bit closer…

Vatos yelps as the pillow hits him square in the face with a satisfying thwack, almost knocking him to the floor. He sits back and glowers at me, pillow still in hand. His arms, built thick with drummer’s muscle, suddenly look very intimidating. I huddle down in my blankets and do my best to look small and half-awake and non-threatening until he lets the pillow drop with a sigh of disgust. He always was a pushover for the puppy eyes.

“Jesus, man.” Giving me his very best martyred look, he shakes his head. “Here I am after three months of absence, to say good morning and bring you coffee, and you hit me in the face. I’m wounded, John, really wounded.”

I reach out and tap his forehead, pretending I’m not holding back a grin. “Like there’s anything up here to wound.”

“You know, I can drink this coffee real easily…”

“And then I’ll have to hurt you. Gimme coffee.”

For a moment, he seems to consider withholding it. Then he seems to remember that he likes his arm where it is, and gives the coffee over without a fight.

I inhale half of the cup, so fast that I almost don’t feel the scalding, then cough and put the mug back down on the bedstand. “So. Hi. What do you want?”

He blinks at me, all innocence, and I upgrade the situation from ass deep to shoulder deep in trouble. “Hey, aren’t I allowed to come visit my childhood friend? My Gilligan? My favorite little bassist in the whole wide world?”

Deigning to ignore the Gilligan comment until I get that pillow back into my hands, I inform him sweetly, “Not after a few months of ‘can’t talk, busy touring, Mom sends her love’.”

“Don’t be bitchy. You know how it is.”

And yeah, I do. Two musicians in different bands trying to meet more than three times a year are just kinda sad. Which makes it all the more likely that he showed up because he wanted something; he can’t afford to make trips for the hell of it. So I nod and rub his head as I climb out of bed, just to make it clear that everything’s cool.

We don’t say anything for a few minutes as I wander from bed to closet to tiny little bathroom, but it’s that comfortable kind of thinking silence. We don’t usually have to say much to get our points across, so why waste the energy?

Once I’m shaved, dressed and halfway coherent, I sit on the edge of the bed and look at him for a long moment. When he just blinks back, waiting, I give in and finally ask, “What audition were you mumbling about?”

His earnest look melts into a grin. “The subliminal messaging didn’t work, huh?”

“Not so much, no. And I’m so not touching your car.”

“You’re going to have to, unless you want to walk to breakfast.”

I give him one horrified look. “I’m auditioning to be a virgin sacrifice for a Satanic cult?”

He opens his mouth to protest that, blinks, and closes his mouth as he considers something. “Well… maybe the Satanic cult part… but you are sure as hell not a twenty-seven year old virgin.”

“No thanks to you.” Bending to get my shoes, I look up at him through my hair. “Why not breakfast here?”

“Because the roaches in your kitchen have started forming a unique culture, and I don’t want to disrupt it because that would violate the Prime Directive.”

“Dork,” I inform him, and dodge the shoe thrown at my head. Pulling on the other shoe, I stand and still have to look up at him. Being short really sucks. “Seriously, man-“

With another toothy grin, Vatos tugs fondly at my hair. “All will be revealed. Patience is a virtue. You will receive a great fortune… cookie.”

I swat at his hand and roll my eyes to let him know what I think of that one. Then it occurs to me that when he says breakfast… “You’re buying?”

“I’m buying. How about greasy Chinese food?”

“This early?” My sense of nutrition, instilled by my mother, twitches momentarily from its comatose state.

Vatos rolls his eyes. “Oh, yeah. God forbid you eat at the crack of 2 in the afternoon.”

“Hey, I had a gig from five to eight.”

That time he looks properly horrified. “In the morning?”

“Mmm. Some frat’s tailgate party or something. Most of them were still awake from last night. Our drummer got hurled on.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I yawn and give the bed one last wistful look. “I can pay my electric bill now, though.”

“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” he sighs, then claps me on the back and steers me through the door. “That is exactly why I came to talk to you.”

Unfortunately, the actual talking doesn’t come until after the drive, three cups of coffee and the food finally arriving at our table. By the time Vatos finally lifts his head from his orange chicken to give me that gauging look that means he’s about to say something important, I’m practically vibrating, food forgotten.

“Okay,” he sighs, and wipes his mouth on the cheap paper napkins that came with the food. “You remember Kerry?”

A brief memory of managing to catch one of their concerts. I never actually met any of them; after concerts I try to leave the band to the fans. I could pull musician’s rank and get behind stage easily, but I’m not that bitchy and prima-donnaish. Yet.

“Somewhat,” I hedge, and stir another spoonful of sugar into the tea I have no intention of drinking. Healthy or not, there isn’t enough caffeine in green tea to make it worth my while.

“He was our bassist,” Vatos clarifies helpfully, then sighs. “Emphasis on the ‘was’. We decided to take our customary break between albums, have a little time off from each other and the band to do our solo thing. We’d hoped that by the time we went back, Kerry would have changed his mind.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No, he didn’t. So now we’ve got an album and a tour coming up, with no bassist.”

“Uh-huh.” I switch to Sweet and Low for the next stirring distraction; I might as well not waste the good stuff. “Well. I hope you find someone.”

“John…”

“I don’t do replacement, man. The fans’ll compare me to the last guy, the band’ll tolerate me as a means to an end, and the music’ll suffer. It’d just be a bad scene all around.”

“Hey, Kerry left on good terms. It’s not like he died. We’ll miss him, but we aren’t going to punish you for accepting a job we offered. And as for our fans, they’re pretty adaptable. If they can handle us going from hallucinogenic musical theatre to happy little songs about pedophilia, they can sure as hell handle a new guy playing bass guitar.” Leaning forward on his elbows, he gives me his best puppy eyes. “Look, I know you want to do this.”

“Give up being a frontman so I can be the bass playing monkey?”

Vatos rolls his eyes. “Midget, not monkey. And let’s consider here. Getting to play at our Halloween show with no distractions, nothing keeping you at the mic… or tearing your throat up on a nightly basis playing tailgates and bar mitzvahs where people are there to drink, not see you. Doesn’t sound like a tough call to me.”

Ouch. Sitting back, I cross my arms over my chest. I probably sound defensive as hell when I say, “Everybody’s got to start somewhere. I've been on the top; I'll be there again. You know that's how this works.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to stay there for eternity. John, kiddo, I’ve heard you play. You deserve your shot, and like it or not, this could be it. And we need you.”

“No, you just need a bassist. There’s a difference.”

“Of course not!” Putting one hand to his chest and one hand on top of mine, prompting the waitress to give us another “aww, aren’t the gay boys cute” look, he declares melodramatically, “Obi-John Kenobi, you’re our only hope!”

“Geek,” I sigh at him, then tug my hand back. “Can I go sleep if I agree to go to this audition thing?”

Vatos grins his triumph. I wonder if it would be mature to spoon-launch a snow pea at his face. “Yeah, I suppose I can give you five minutes of peace.”

“Many thanks.” I poke at the shanghai noodles, presumably to unearth the rest of the chicken but really because I’m not hungry anymore. I know how this’ll go. I’ll start to believe him, go to the audition and get informed, very gently, that I got nudged out by someone already. I really don’t need this. But that’s not something you mention to Vatos. So I settle on, “You can find better.”

Tossing a fortune cookie at me as he cracks his own in one huge hand, he says only, cryptically, “We’ll see.”
***
End.