Chapter Two
And Tommy doesn’t know what day it is . . .
It wasn’t until pinpricks of light started to pierce his eyelids that he registered the morning sunlight. Cracking one open sent a burst of pain shattering through his head and neck. Cracking the other brought a similar burst of pain, but this from around the eye itself in addition to the light.
He sat up slowly, wondering what in the hell kind of party they’d been to that could not only leave him completely amnesiac about the night before, but aching bone-deep even with the solid constitution that had earned him the nickname Ox. He was still in his clothes from last night, but they were dirty and the bottom of his shirt was torn.
Keith was in the next bed—or rather, his hips and legs were in bed, the rest of him flopped over the side. He, too, was in his clothes from the previous night, but that wasn’t unusual for Keith, especially on the road.
Swinging his legs over the edge of his bed, John slowly pulled himself up, surprised that the room wasn’t lurching as it usually did after a long night of drinking. He was aching and groggy, but not hung over, even though his head did feel like it had been generously strung with thick cobwebs. He staggered over to Keith’s side of the room and pulled Keith back up onto the bed. Keith let out a snort and squirmed a little, then was still once more.
Satisfied that the drummer wasn’t in imminent danger of falling onto the floor, John walked into the bathroom, shaking his head even as some part of him registered that he should be feeling gravity pulling him from side to side. He poured himself a glass of water and knocked it back like a shot. Pain shot through his head at the quick motion and he groaned, finally getting a good look at himself in the mirror. “HOLY FUCKIN’ HELL!”
Keith was suddenly awake and into the room like he’d been fired there. “What? What is it?”
John turned, reaching up a hand to touch the red mark marring his face. He flinched before he’d done more than grazed it.
“Shit,” Keith breathed, impressed. “How’d you get THAT?”
“I don’t know. Don’t think it was there last night when I got in . . . come to think of it, I don’t remember getting in last night.”
“Me either.” Keith spread his hands and grinned. “‘Course, I don’t remember a lot of nights getting in.”
John turned, suddenly grabbing Keith and turning him around. “You got one too, mate.”
“I what? Where?”
John touched the back of Keith’s neck, firmly pressing against the darkening bruise there.
“OW! What the FUCK . . . ” He twisted away and went to the mirror. “Shit, I can’t see it.”
John fetched a shard of mirror from what looked like the previous evening’s destruction in the outer room, holding it up so Keith could see the back of his neck.
“Okay, that’s somebody’s big foot.”
“Doesn’t look like a foot did that,” John said. “Too narrow. Besides, as deep as that is, if it was a foot it would have crushed your neck.”
“Yeah. Wonder what happened?” He headed back to the bed, then paused. “Okay, something’s weird here.”
“Besides being beaten up and not remembering it?”
“Yeah. I feel odd.” He shook his head, then clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “What say we order in, eh?”
“You order. I wanna see what Bone and Dip look like. Worse, I’m hoping.”
“Oh, let’s! This should be fun!” He moved to John’s side, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child. John smiled, happy that at least one thing was normal in a morning that was already heading way off kilter.
Keith blew into the other room like a mini-tornado, singing and shouting at the top of his lungs, drumming his hands on top of Roger’s forehead as he perched on the edge of his bed. Roger promptly rolled, knocking Keith to the floor. “Fuck OFF!”
“And why would I do that, and miss your shining loverly face so bright and so perky so early in the fair morning?” Keith chirped from his new vantage point, grinning up at Roger.
Roger looked at John, then back at Keith, then sharply back at John. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I beat him up in my sleep and I’m comin’ for YOOOUUUU NEEEEXT . . . ” Keith intoned, slowly rising to his feet and waving his arms, making spooky sounds.
A pillow thrown by half-asleep Pete soared across the room and smacked him dead-center on the mouth. Keith caught it as it fell, making a show of spitting out invisible feathers. “Good shot.”
John went over to Pete, making sure to move quietly and cautiously lest he meet the same fate. “Pete? You among the living?”
Pete raised his left hand, back facing John, first two fingers upraised. Then they fell limply down beside him with a thud. John sighed, cringing at what was going to come next. He reached out, rolling Pete onto his back.
“AaawwwwwWWWWW bloody HELL!” Pete roared as he was moved. “Leave well enough alone, huh?”
“Keith, he’s banged up too,” John called over his shoulder.
“So’s Goldilocks,” Keith called back, serious again.
John sat on the edge of Roger’s bed as Pete gingerly pushed himself up on his elbows. “Looks like we all got done in last night.”
“Yeah, but why? By who?” Roger asked, spreading his hands.
“Strange that none of us remembers. And there’s this.” John held up his wrists, the red lines clear. “I’m betting you all have them too.”
Strangely wordless, Keith pushed up his sleeves and held up his marked wrists. Roger propped his on his knees. Pete looked down. “Fuckin’ ‘ell.”
“What the hell happened to us?” Roger asked slowly, his eyes large with confusion.
“Does anyone remember anything?” John asked. “I was out havin’ a drink with Keith . . . ”
“I was working out some ideas . . . ” Pete put in.
“I was about to make it with this bird . . . ” Roger said.
Pete flopped down, waving a hand. “No wonder he doesn’t remember.”
“Look . . . we don’t remember, but we’re obviously all right,” John said, trying to settle things.
“All right? You call this all right?” Pete said, pointing to the smaller but no less painful-looking bruise on his face. “How are we gonna explain this to Kit, eh?”
“Why don’t we just tell him the truth? We got nicked and tied and we don’t know who it was.”
“Yeah, right, like that’ll go over with him,” Roger said. “He’ll either get hysterical or we’ll have bloody bodyguards followin’ us everywhere.”
Keith, meanwhile, was on the phone, ordering food rapid-fire. “Thinking of feeding an army?” John said, rubbing his own stomach as it rumbled viciously.
Roger frowned. “Sounds like a good plan to me . . . I’m suddenly STARVIN’.”
“Make it four—no, five!” Keith said. “And brandy!”
“And coffee!” Roger hollered.
“And coffee!” Keith said as he hung the phone. “Kitchen staff’ll be going for hours.” He grabbed a nearby chair, swung it around, and dropped into it. “So what do we tell Kit?”
“Nothing,” Pete growled.
“We have to tell him something,” Roger said. “Kinda hard to hide Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde over here.” He gestured to John, who quickly hid the injured part of his face and hobbled across the room like a shambling Igor.
“All right, so . . . how about we got into a fight? Over . . . ” Pete waved at Keith. “Keith, think of something.”
“What about these?” Roger said, gesturing to the red lines on his wrists.
“We wear long sleeves so he don’t notice. They’ll be gone soon enough.”
“Boy, you have everything figured out, don’t you?” Roger pushed back the covers and got up. “I’m takin’ a piss, boys. Don’t figure anything else out while I’m gone, ey?” He stumbled off, leaving the other three in momentary silence. Several minutes passed before both John and Pete realized that Keith had neither moved nor spoken the whole time.
“What?” Keith said, noticing their strange looks.
“You’re quiet,” John said. “That’s my bit, you know.”
For just a moment Keith’s eyes took on a strange hue, as if they were turning inward without actually moving. With the smallest of jolts he focused, looking at them with a shaky grin. “What, me? I’m wounded ‘ere, remember?”
“Right,” Pete said. “Wounded.”
On to Chapter Three
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