Unstitched Page 2

  I grinned wider, her drunken lisp was outrageously cute. ‘Thanks.’

  She was silent for a while, rubbed the toe of her shoe across the bitumen ground and swayed a little too far to the left.

  I caught her by the waist and swallowed a gasp as her warmth swamped my hands.

  Anthea giggled, reinstating her balance. ‘Woh. Sorry. I’ve had a few drinks and I’m…’ She looked down at my hands on her hips with parted lips.

  I breathed her in, sweet as honey, and dizzied. With all my energy, I dragged my palms from her hips and swallowed a sigh.

  She stood taller. ‘I…ah…work in public relations, and we need bands all the time for functions. I think you’d be perfect for me. I mean…um.’ Anthea gently pressed her teeth into her bottom lip, her cheeks colouring. ‘I mean, you and your band would be perfect for me…my…the company I work for.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Do you have a business card or something so I can give you a call maybe?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘Only if you want to. It’s totally up to you,’ she said quickly, turning her body slightly away and shoving her hands in her jean pockets.

  ‘No. I do. It’s just that, you see — I don’t have a business card.’

  Anthea frowned. ‘Oh.’ She reached into her clutch bag, rummaged through it until she found a card, pulled it out and handed it to me. ‘Take this. It has my work details. You can drop in, or call your info through.’

  I smiled, took the card from her fingertips and pushed it into my pocket. ‘Thank you.’

  She grinned. ‘I really look forward to hearing from you.’

  I nodded, smiled, but deep inside my cells were jittering, ignited.

  Anthea turned to walk away, stopped and spun to face me again. ‘By the way, what’s the name of your band?’

  ‘Perennial.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Perennial? What? Like plants and flowers?’

  I grinned. ‘No.’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know of any other definitions.’

  ‘It’s more of a message than a name,’ I said.

  ‘A message? For who?’

  ‘A girl.’

  She released a breathy sigh through those sumptuous lips. ‘It’s always about a girl.’

  She was spot on and I laughed. ‘For me, yes. It’s always been and always will be about this girl.’

  ‘Why can’t you just tell this girl the message?’

  ‘If I told her now, she wouldn’t be able to see it. She’ll only understand it when she’s ready to understand it.’

  ‘And what will happen when she understands it?’ Anthea asked.

  ‘She’ll know that I know more than she assumes I do.’

  She stared at me for a moment, half her mouth curled with a grin. ‘Well, good luck with that.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And, enjoy the rest of your evening.’

  ‘You, too. It really was a pleasure to meet you.’

  She smiled and lowered her head. ‘Good night, Lucas.’

  ***

  Anthea

  I flopped back against the seat and closed my eyes to the darkened city sliding past the window. My head spun, my stomach a churning cocktail of acid, disillusionment and white liquor. Rachel placed a hand on my thigh.

  ‘You okay, sweetie?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Pretty boy must be insane to turn down a night of revenge sex with you,’ said Brendt.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Rachel. ‘Although, you didn’t have to phrase it quite so indelicately, Brendt.’

  ‘He didn’t turn me down.’ I opened my eyes and stared across at them, Rachel in the middle, Brendt beside her. My head was spinning and I had to really focus. ‘I chickened out. And I’m okay about it.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Rachel, squeezing my knee.

  ‘I just couldn’t say the words to him. Even though he looked like a fucking sex god. Seriously, who looks like that?’

  Rachel giggled. ‘He was way too attractive. That can only be a bad thing.’

  I shrugged. ‘Bad, shmad. Who am I to know? My judge of character is obviously waaayyyy off.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Anthy. Leith had us all fooled,’ said Brendt.

  Then the tears began — drunken end-of-night, woe-is-me tears creeping down my cheeks. I sniffed and wiped them away with my palms. ‘Who sleeps with someone for a freakin’ bet? Who tapes someone while you’re having sex with them and passes it on to his mates as though it were a cheap porno?’ I groaned and scrubbed my hands over my face. ‘I can only imagine how many people have seen that footage.’

  Rachel winced, opened her mouth to speak, but sighed instead.

  I closed my eyes again to stifle the spinning, to stem the stream of tears.

  Who was I kidding? I didn’t chicken out with Lucas. Not exactly. He was simply too decent a guy to use for revenge sex. He seemed to glow so brightly with goodness, I felt but a shadow leaning towards him and wanting to drown my face in his light.

  Chapter 2

  Anthea

  Oh, my freakin’ God. What foul beast suggested I drown my sorrows on a Sunday night when I had to get up early for work the next day?

  Oh, right. I did. When I stupidly, regretfully thought a bottle of tequila and table-top dancing would bury Leith’s betrayal. Note to self: don’t ever be so bloody stupid again. I ran to the toilet and retched up every last modicum of yellow acid from the pit of my stomach and then some. I rested my throbbing head on the toilet seat and flopped my arse onto the cold tiles. My head was splitting in two, my nerve endings wrought with dull, aching pain. So this is what it must feel like when you’re dying.

  There was no way I was going in to work today.

  ***

  I strolled down the long grey hall flanked by countless square offices. With each breath inwards I smelled dust, carpet cleaning products and time.

  ‘Get your butt in here, missy.’

  Sabine.

  I stopped mid-step, smiled and stuck my head into her office. She was behind her enormous mahogany desk, her auburn hair pulled up into a high ponytail. Her lips were half scowling, half grinning.

  ‘Good morning, boss.’ Sabine was technically my boss, but also one of my best friends.

  ‘Good morning, indeed. And where was my good morning yesterday?’ Even with the light-heartedness of the conversation the pain was still too raw. My throat tightened. It must have shown on my face.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Shut the door and tell me all about it.’

  So I did. Every sordid detail.

  Sabine leant back against her seat, clasped her hands behind her head. ‘Arsehole!’ she hissed.

  I sighed. ‘Don’t I know it.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? What about the footage?’

  I shrugged. ‘What can I do? There’s no way to stop it.’

  Sabine lowered her palms to the desk and shook her head. ‘What a cluster fuck.’

  ‘It’s the constant thinking that’s making me crazy. I was kinda hoping I could take some time off work and get away for a couple of weeks until it all blows over.’

  Sabine nodded. ‘That might be a good idea. I’m happy to give you time off next week, but I really, really, really need you this week.’

  My shoulders drooped. ‘The fundraiser. I almost forgot.’

  She grinned. ‘How could you forget the dreaded fundraiser? But, we’re so close now. Saturday’s the big night and then it will be nothing but a wretched memory.’

  ‘So next week?’

  Sabine pushed her mouse and clacked her fingers over the keyboard. ‘I’m locking it in now. Two weeks starting Monday. But you need to give me your full attention until Saturday. I can’t have you getting distracted.’

  ‘My mind’s on the task. I promise.’

  She leant back against her chair, crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Good, because I’ve got some bad news.’

  I held my breath. I had no other methods left for dealing wit
h more bad news, not unless I called in a complete mental breakdown.

  ‘That band you booked for Saturday night pulled out.’

  I dizzied as her words drilled into my head. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘The lead singer overdosed.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. The singer overdosed?’ I pulled on my ear, my jaw tight. ‘How bloody…selfish!’

  Sabine’s lips curled and I had to giggle, because if I didn’t I’d cry.

  ‘But seriously, how the hell am I supposed to get someone at this late notice?’

  Sabine breathed in deeply and shook her head as she blew out her breath. ‘That’s what I need you to figure out. And fast.’

  ***

  My desk was covered with paperwork and post-it notes. I couldn’t think straight with all this mess. Was it seriously only one day I had off? And this was what I had to come back to. I roughly ordered files, threw away the useless rubbish — morning tea notices, after-work social club news. I lifted a pile of business directories and a white square of paper flittered out and fell onto the carpet.

  I picked it up: a simple-looking advertisement, on plain white paper for a new band, Perennial.

  I held it up to Katie, another event planner who sat in the cubicle next to me. ‘Do you know anything about these guys?’

  Katie shook her head, red hair bouncing. ‘No, not at all. Some guy brought that in yesterday for you.’

  People drop in flyers and promo all the time; it was part and parcel of the industry. I looked at the name again, trying to materialise the nebulous memory it stoked. This could either be a stroke of fate or a massive fail.

  ‘My band for Saturday night pulled out,’ I said.

  Katie wrinkled her freckled nose. ‘Oh, no. I’m doubly glad they gave that baby to you now. What a headache.’

  ‘Should I risk asking these guys?’ I said, holding up the flyer again.

  Katie nodded emphatically. ‘God, yes. You’ve got four days to secure a band for the biggest fundraiser of the year. Even if they’re mediocre, it’s better than having no one.’

  The muscles between my shoulder blades tightened and my stomach squirmed. ‘You’re right. It would be career suicide to screw this fundraiser up.’

  ‘Totally. Let me know if you need my help.’

  ‘Thanks, Katie.’

  Shit, shit, shit, shit. This was not what I needed to come back to after a full day spent with my head shoved down a toilet bowl retching for all of China to hear. I flopped back against my chair and sighed, then grabbed my phone and dialled the number on the flyer. I choose to see this situation as fate.

  ‘Lucas speaking.’ A deep male voice with a hint of an accent.

  ‘Hi, Lucas. My name’s Anthea Lewis. I’m calling from Martin & Marshal P.R. You dropped in a flyer —’

  ‘Anthea. Good to hear from you. I didn’t expect you to call so soon.’

  Expected a call? Confident assumption, considering most of the promo that comes through here is thrown in the bin before given a second glance.

  ‘I know this is really, really late notice and all, but I need a band for this Saturday night. We’re looking for music that appeals to 25 to 40 year olds. So maybe covers of contemporary rock and so on. Does that sound like Perennial?’

  ‘Yeah. We play acoustic covers and we also have a lot of our own material,’ he said.

  Tingles fanned up my arms hearing his honeyed voice. My heart sped up a fraction. If this guy looked as good as he sounded… ‘That’s a good fit. The event is for the Angela Barnes Cancer Foundation. You’ll need to put together a playlist that’ll have you basically playing for three hours in between an auction and other scheduled events. Do you think you could handle that?’

  ‘That won’t be a problem.’

  I grinned. My tightened muscles slowly relaxed. ‘Fantastic. Would you be interested in doing such a gig?’

  ‘We’d be happy to.’

  I negotiated a reasonable fee and found a pen under a pile of contracts to scribble down some notes:

  Perennial

  $5 000

  Supply all own equipment

  Contemporary rock

  ‘Are you able to send through a sample of your music, pictures of the band and perhaps a playlist?’ I wasn’t willing to run completely blind on this.

  ‘I’ve some visual footage and sound streams from gigs we’ve done on a USB?’

  ‘Could you email the files?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve also still got the playlist from the Cloud Bar Sunday. I think that’d work, although I’ll change it up a bit for Saturday night. You know, different audience and setting and…’

  I looked down at my notepad, at the next series of scribble.

  USB

  Playlist — Cloud Bar

  My heart hammered as I squinted at my scribble. ‘Sorry, did you say you did a gig at the Cloud Bar on Sunday?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Excuse me, what’s your name again?’

  ‘Lucas Ryan.’

  It rang a vague bell, but I could barely remember a single thing after leaving my apartment on Sunday afternoon.

  Lucas, Lucas, Lucas? A cloudy image flickered of a man with longish hair standing on a stage, strumming a guitar and singing with the most delectable voice I had ever heard. Did I talk to him on Sunday? Surely not.

  ‘Come on. I’m not that forgettable, am I?’

  I could hear the smile behind his taunts. ‘I remember you now.’ Kind of. ‘You’re a wonderful singer.’

  He laughed. ‘So you told me.’ I squirmed in my chair. My God, I wanted to make love to this man’s voice.

  I searched my drunken jumble of memories hard, trying to recall something, anything. Wobbly, unconnected images formed — an incoherent conversation with a girl crying in the bathroom; Brendt, me and the girls slamming back tequila shots at the bar; dancing on a table; last drinks being called, and then bang — his stunning green eyes, his sexy-as-hell grin and those full sleeves of tattoos from the tips of his fingers to his neck.

  I licked my lips, swallowed hard, crossed my legs and squeezed tight. ‘Don’t worry about the USB. You’ll do just fine. I’ll email you through the contract and particulars in the next five minutes. If you could just sign it and shoot it back to me then we’ll be all set.’

  ‘All my details are on the back of that flyer I left you.’

  ‘Great. Thank you so much, Lucas, and I’ll see you Saturday night.’

  I blew out a long breath of air. Holy shit, my body was vibrating simply from talking to this guy.

  I ran my eyes over my notes:

  Lucas

  gorgeous smile

  dreamy voice

  email contract

  details on back of flyer.

  I flipped the flyer over. Below the typed contact details was a hand-written note in perfect script.

  Good morning, Anthea

  A pleasure to meet you last night.

  Did you end up finding the definition for perennial?

  Lucas

  What the fuck? I fired up my computer and googled perennial. The answer.com webpage spat out some definitions:

  1. Lasting an indefinitely long time; enduring

  2. Appearing again and again; recurrent.

  Was that supposed to mean something?

  Note to self: never get that drunk again.

  Ever.

  Chapter 3

  Brendt

  The doors to Radio 219UE parted before me, and I strode into the station. It was Friday morning, nearly a week since I decked my co-host, Leith, in the nose. My boss had ripped it up me first thing Tuesday morning, once he saw the extent of Leith’s injuries — both eyes a deep shade of black and his nose the size of a lemon.

  Under normal circumstances I would’ve been fucked-off by such a severe earbashing, but I had no remorse for doing what I did. I’d quit my job before I’d even consider that my actions were wrong, which is exactly what I told my boss, and which only helped bring forth anothe
r ear-bashing replete with enough expletives to make a criminal blush.

  Mine and Leith’s friendship had, understandably, been tense over the last week. It was noticeable to the public, too, with a pile of emails coming through during yesterday’s show. It wasn’t helped by the on-air argument. We had planned to talk “rationally” about men taking steroids, supplements and spending hours in the gym, but I ended up calling Leith a steroid-munching Neanderthal, which then led to a long silence as we stared each other down. Silence — any length of silence — was a big no-no in the business of radio, as was antagonising your co-host.

  So yesterday’s show resulted in emergency peace talks with the boss and producer, extending well into the evening, and didn’t accomplish anything. No amount of talking was going to end my hatred of Leith, although, I did, reluctantly, agree to pretend.

  By the time I arrived at Rachel’s apartment, my eyes were burning. Every blink was heavy and long. And each muscle was wound so tight, I snapped at any slight criticism. I couldn’t blame Rachel for rolling over and going to sleep without so much as a ‘good night’ or a ‘fuck-off’. I didn’t know which was worse.

  I dived heavily into unconsciousness, but woke during the middle of night, my skin coated with sweat, gasping at the thin air. Why did all this shit with Leith infuriate me so much? It wasn’t like me. Hell, I’d been nominated “most laid-back” in my graduating class and barely ever held a grudge. Yet I couldn’t get rid of this hand-trembling violence towards Leith, nor this instinct to wrap Anthea in my arms and cradle her tightly so nothing could ever hurt her again.

  I rolled over to face Rachel, her white-blonde hair and pale skin looked ghostly under the dim moonlight that was burrowing through the cracks in the curtains. My freakin’ chest was so tight it hurt. I stroked a finger gently down Rachel’s cheek. Her skin was soft and smelt like bubble bath. I squeezed my eyes shut.

  She deserved someone better than me.

  I didn’t sleep much after that.

  ***

  I made my way down the white-walled corridor to the studio. Leith was already inside, the black bruises under his eyes now faded to a deep shade of green. I had to stop myself from smiling smugly when I saw him. I pushed through the doors and took my seat beside Leith at the desk, not even a hello offered.