Night Shifts Black(21)

"What about you?" I ask after a long silence.

"What about me?"

I smile over at him to prove I'm changing the tone of the conversation. "What's your story?"

He laughs. "You're not some undercover investigative reporter or something, are you?"

I shrug. "Would that change your answer?" I tease, and I love his return grin.

"I guess not." He leans his head against the bed again and studies the opposite wall. We can see our reflections in the mirror there. I would have thought it'd be awkward, but I actually like watching Casey's thoughts flash across his face. He's not nearly as guarded as Luke.

"I was one of ten," he announces, and I stare at him in shock.

"Ten? As in ten siblings?"

He grins and nods. "Yes. Lucky number seven actually."

I let out my breath and rest back against the headboard, trying to imagine life with nine other siblings.

"Wow. I'm surprised you ended up with Luke and Night Shifts Black, then. Shouldn't you be committed to some cheesy family band? Geez, with ten of you, you could have the whole road crew, too."

He laughs. "Oh, believe me, my parents tried. Three of my siblings actually still play together."

"Really?" I ask.

He nods. "Yep. They've even put some albums out. I could never get into the country thing, though. The black sheep, I guess," he jokes, and I grin.

"Seriously. When you made a left, you made a hard left, huh. Well, it seemed to work out for you anyway."

He shrugs. "What about you?"

I give him a quick smile. "No bands. Not even country ones."

He rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean. Luke said you're a writer."

It's my turn to shrug. "I guess."

"You guess?" he asks with a smirk. "What does that mean?"

I smile over at him. "It means that saying 'I'm a writer' implies I'm actually making a living at it."

He seems skeptical. "Really? I thought it meant you spend lots of time writing things."

I like his response and find myself shy for some reason. "I guess it can mean that, too. Would you still consider yourself a musician if no one paid you to play?"

"Of course." He smiles. "Let's hope that doesn't happen for a long time, though."

I laugh. "How much do you make for a show anyway?" I can feel his surprise, and immediately stiffen. "I'm sorry! I don't know where that came from! Don't answer that." But he only seems amused.

"Not as much as you'd think. Well not anymore, anyway. We used to get three to four hundred in guarantees. Now, it's more like one or two. Less when we're not headlining."

My eyes widen. "Two hundred? Like two hundred dollars? That's it?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "Oh my god, I love you! Ha! No. Two hundred thousand, hon."

I stare at him in disbelief. "Wait, per show? And that's not much?"

He studies me again, and I can see his expression change, but I can't read it. "I mean, it's fine, I guess, but it's not where the real money is. We make most of it through writing and performance royalties." He glances over at our sleeping friend. "This guy here hasn't touched a guitar in a year and is still making a fortune passed out on his ass, believe it or not."

"Ok, Luke I get, but I thought you didn't write. You said at breakfast Luke was the writer. You weren't good with adjectives."

He shakes his head in exasperation. "Seriously? Do you remember everything?"



       
         
       
        

I shrug with a grin. "Am I wrong?"

He laughs again. "I guess not. I did say that. But to answer your question, I was just messing around. My name's in the credits, too. It's true, Luke tends to bring the magic to the lyrics, but I'm the music guy. That hook in 'Better Get Back' that they use for all those hockey ads? All me."

"The hockey song is from one of your songs?" I ask in surprise.

He nods. "Yeah. It's not one of our bigger ones. Well, it wasn't when they negotiated the rights to it."

"I'd say it is now," I mumble. I instinctively start humming the line, and Casey rolls his eyes.

"Yep, that's it."

"Wow, I had no idea. I actually really like that song."

He shakes his head with a smile. "You sound so shocked."

I grin. "Sorry. I guess … I don't know. I try not to think too much about Luke the Superstar, so I haven't made much of a connection between him and his music. You know, staying out of the whole pop culture bubble thing so I can see him for who he really is. I guess I did the same for you by association."

He nods, and I can tell he understands. "I like that. He needs someone in his life who's real, but you should still pick up our stuff sometime. If you truly want to understand your new friend here, you need to listen to his music. I think it might surprise you." He pauses and studies him. "Or maybe it won't."

"'Step back, fast, I'm coming for you. Step back, you can't handle what I've got.'"

I recite the words absently, imagining the hockey players slamming up against the boards in a series of vicious checks.

Casey smiles and nods. "That's it." He quiets, and I can see from his reflection in the mirror that there's a lot more to this. A lot more to him.

"People think it's an aggressive song. A challenge to someone, and the hockey link certainly doesn't help," he muses. I glance over at him in surprise.

"It's not?"

Casey shakes his head. "No. That's not what Luke's saying at all. It's actually saturated with self-loathing."

"Saturated with self-loathing?" I repeat in amusement. "What do you mean you're not good with adjectives?"

He shrugs with a shy grin. "I've been known to string a few together. Anyway, the part you know is just the hook. The chorus is, 'I'm the anchor drowning you. I'm your infection, better get back. I'm the hurricane, angel, shred those wings. Step back, better get back.'"

We're quiet for a moment as the lyrics settle around us. I glance over at Luke who hasn't moved. 

"And that was even before Elena's suicide?" I ask, realizing I've only begun to scratch the surface of this enigma.

Casey seems surprised by my comment at first, then relieved that the topic is finally out.

He sighs. "Yes. Elena was … " He stops, and I can tell this subject is difficult for him as well. "She was a beautiful person, inside and out. Deep down he never thought he deserved her." He quiets again. "I think that's why he did the things he did."

"What things?" I ask, unable to stop the question.

He stares ahead again, but only ends up meeting my eyes in the mirror. "You know, things. There are a lot of temptations out there. On the road. For us."

"He cheated on her?"

"A lot," Casey admits quietly. "He never should have married her and he knew it. For her sake. He couldn't be the person she deserved. Not with the way things were for us. He couldn't forgive himself before, but especially after. God, you want to see a person who hates himself?"

We both stare over at Luke.

"And what am I supposed to do? Huh?" he continues in a haunted voice. "What do you say to a monster you love who's finally figured out what he is?"

I swallow hard. I feel something burning deep inside me again, but I don't know what to do with it. There's so much going on in my head, in my heart, my soul, at that moment, I don't even know where to begin.

I have a lot to think about, and the sudden silence comes at a good time. I can tell Casey's mind is racing as well, and I wonder what he's thinking. I want to ask, but I'm not ready for that yet. I'm starting to care way too much about what's going on in this surprisingly deep and compassionate drummer's head for it to be a safe topic.

"I should go check on the party and see if I can wind it down," he states abruptly. "When I get back we'll try to get some alcohol out and water in."

I give him a grateful smile, which he returns. He squeezes my hand before rising from the bed, and I blush a little. I hadn't even realized we were still holding hands.



∞∞∞



Casey returns shortly, and the purging procedure proves to be unpleasant at best. I know without Casey, I never would have had the strength to complete it. Luke struggles violently against his friend as Casey drags him to the bathroom, forcing him against the toilet until he vomits, repeatedly.

I stand watch at the door, my heart breaking at the sight, but somehow finding peace in Casey's calm strength. He speaks to Luke in a tone mixed with comfort and confrontation, refusing to send the message that what's happening is ok, even as he pours every ounce of himself into nursing his friend. It's a fascinating thing to watch, this strange combination of compassion and criticism, something that I'm sure can only be born from a genuine love of someone who cares deeply.

"Can you grab the towel there?" Casey calls over to me, and I pull a hand towel from the shelf below the sink. "Thanks. Oh, hey, can you wet it? Yeah, thanks."

He takes the towel and uses it to wipe Luke's face. Luke is still only half-conscious, but awake enough to control a string of every curse word he knows. Casey only rolls his eyes at his friend's impotent tirade and drags him back to his feet. I jump in to help, and between the two of us, we manage to get Luke back in bed.