The Now or Never Kind

William insisted that Beth and I stay at the hotel where he was staying. He said it was convenient for everyone to go to one place rather than several, but I think he just wanted to keep an eye on us. I wished I had the reassurance that he wouldn’t tell Ryan or my boys or our parents where we’d disappeared to—I was pretty sure Gabe knew an eternal of Hell with the whole fire-and-brimstone shebang would be a picnic compared to ten minutes alone with me if he said a word—but I made myself trust him.

Fuckbunnies, I hated that word.

Beth and I decided that we needed some time away from famous boys—after all, we were in New York to escape some—and declined Alex’s and Jack’s and Bill’s and Gabe’s offers to hang out. They didn’t enjoy our company at all, did they?

Unfortunately, neither of us could think of anything to do as we chewed our hotel-provided breakfast. We didn’t want to go down to the hotel pool, we didn’t know of anywhere to go and just hang out, and we didn’t want to stay in one of our rooms—we rented two singles— and be bored. The eggs were runny, the toast was dry, and they didn't have any soy anything; I may have picked up a thing or two from touring with vegan musicians.

So I flipped open my phone.

"Hello, operator?" I greeted politely once the line clicked open. "Could you find me an instrument shop near..." I looked to Beth, who held up one of the napkins. "...West 11th street. Between Union Square and Washington Square Park." I sat back in my chair, trying to ignore the bad hold music. Beth arched an eyebrow at me as she sipped her coffee.

I grabbed a pen from my pocket and scribbled a name and address onto the napkin that I plucked from my companion's hand. I thanked the bored, monotonous voice and replaced my cell in my pocket. I grinned across at my counterpart. "And inspiration strikes."

We started walking from the hotel with the directions we looked up. Neither of us felt entirely safe walking alone, but it was broad daylight and we had pepper spray. And the knowledge of how to incapacitate anyone—not to mention the practice.

“So what are we looking for?” Beth asked when we were about halfway gone. “You already have four guitars, which you love probably more than me.”

I shrugged. “Probably just a harmonica or penny whistle or something,” I replied, watching the store windows as we passed them. “Something small I can carry around; I don’t need another guitar. And as much as I treasure them, you’re not inanimate.”

She let out a chuckle, rolling her eyes. “Good to know. So I’m guessing you love them more when I’m asleep.” Beth spun a piece of bright red hair between her fingers. “I would say a xylophone. It’s like a piano, kind of, but miniature. And damn, it’s weird to think that my hair’s not amazingly blonde any—Ange?”

I’d stopped a dozen feet back, not hearing what she was saying as all my attention was focused on the front window of the pawnshop in front of which I stood. Inside the display sat an obviously very loved—most would say ‘beaten-up’— white hollow-body guitar. I pressed a hand to the glass and swallowed to keep from drooling.

“What was that about not needing another guitar?” My head snapped around to Beth and the ironic smile on her face. She shook her head. “You know, most girls look at shoes the way you look at instruments.”

I cracked a grin and headed inside. “I like shoes,” I protested flippantly. “…Just not as much as music. I’d play an entire tour barefoot for a good enough guitar.” I wove my way through the aisles, distractedly browsing the shelves. “But see, if you look too eager, the vender will jack the price up higher.”

I could do nonchalance like a champ.

“Hello,” I greeted to proprietor, rapping my nails on the counter. The man’s eyes flashed up from and back to his magazine before widening and he jerked to his feet, a wide smile crossing his face. “I was wondering if I could get a look at that guitar in the window.”

He nodded eagerly and crossed the room, leaving Beth and I at the back of the shop. I wiggled my eyebrows at her, and she returned my look sceptically. The man returned with the guitar, holding it not at all like the treasure it was, and handed it to me.

I took it gingerly, closely examining the details; my eyes widened in awe. “It’s a White Falcon,” I breathed to myself, noting the scratches and dents. “DynaSonic pickups and Syncro-Sonic bridge.” I strummed and sighed at the gorgeous noise it produced. I smiled at the owner. “It’s so pretty.”

“It’s a beaut,” he agreed, nodding. “Guy came in, said he joining the Peace Corps and going to Africa. It’s in pretty good condition, so I’d say… 700 for it.” He smiled creepily, and my stomach lurched. “But for you? 650.”

It was impossible—trust me, I tried—to keep the shock off my face. Beth snorted, and I could hear her thinking, So much for not looking eager. “Six-fifty?” I repeated incredulously.

“Hey, I gotta make a profit somehow, pretty lady.” He considered us both. “Alright. Six hundred.” I turned to Beth with wide eyes; she didn’t seem to get what I was so shocked about. Biting my lower lip I gazed at the guitar yearningly. “Five-seventy-five,” the man bargained shortly. “But that’s as low as I’m going.”

“Done,” I replied smartly, taking aback both Beth and the owner. I gently laid the guitar on the glass counter and pulled out my wallet. “D’you take credit cards?” He tapped the sign on the back of the register: CASH ONLY. ALL SALES FINALS. I snapped my fingers.

“There was a Wells Fargo at the end of the street,” Beth pointed out.

I kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back in two minutes!” I flashed the man a serious look. “Do not sell that guitar.” I sprinted out of the store, followed by a shout of ‘No running in the store!’, and down the street, narrowly dodging between people and screeching to a halt in the line for the ATM.

A man stopped behind me. “What? You just get paid?” he asked, eying me.

I looked at him blankly over my shoulder. “No,” I replied, turning back around and stepping up to the machine. “I’m buying myself a birthday present.” I put in my card, input my pin, and withdrew six hundred dollars; it slipped the money into my wallet, which I placed in the inside pocket of my coat.

It was hard not to skip back down the street.

The man at the pawnshop gave me my change and clicked the guitar case shut. “Thanks,” I said, picking up my new darling. “Oh, and for the record, White Falcons usually sell for three thousand dollars. This one’s used, so it’d probably sell around twenty-three, twenty-four hundred.” The smile dropped off the man’s face, and both Beth and I grinned brightly as we left.

“Oh man, oh man, oh man,” I chorused as we walked. “I cannot believe that just happened. This is fucking amazing.”

Beth shook her head, laughing. “You really need a hobby, Irish.”

I stuck my tongue out at her. “Hush, I love my obsession. Now come on, the music store’s down that way and this baby needs new strings.”

We spent the next fifteen minutes wandering around the store and avoiding “helpful” sales people. You would think they’d make strings easier to find, such a necessity in such a large store. Most of our time wasted was because I finally gave up and asked someone to find me a set.

“How hard is it to find a Skinny Top Heavy Bottom nickel wound in a bright red pack?” I muttered, leaning on my case and running my fingers over the velvet paisley strap I picked out. Beth raised an eyebrow at me. “What? I’m very specific!”

Beth and I walked to Washington Square Park and found a bench just off the running path. “Why are we doing this here?” Beth asked, watching me unstring the guitar.

“Because,” I replied matter-of-factly, “I would rather not play a lovely instrument like this in a hotel room where I can’t show it off.” I tore open the package with my teeth, shooting her a toothy grin. “And I’ve always wanting to be a street performer.”

“Except that this isn’t a street.” Her phone went off in her pocket, and Beth pulled it out to look at the text. “It’s Harris. He wants to know where we are.”

I shrugged, tightening the tuning pegs. “So tell him.” I rolled my eyes as I got a text as well. “As does Saporta.” I shoved my phone back into my pocket. “But that’s need to know only.” After I finished anally perfecting the tone, I strummed a chord. “Any requests?”

Beth pursed her lips thoughtfully and watched a few people jog by before brightening. “Mayday!” she chirruped.

I laughed and slid my pick back into my pocket. “~The words are coming, I feel terrible,~” I sang, secretly thanking Jesse for the few lessons and numerous tips on Spanish guitar, “~Is it typical for us to act like this?~”

“Am I just another scene from a movie that you've seen 100 times?~” Beth joined in, grinning.

We continued singing together, rocking out and annoying some of the people around. The general theme of all the songs I played were spurned or lost love, mostly surrounding angry break-ups. I couldn’t help but play some classic busker tunes, mainly Bob Dylan and Tom Waits, because the idea made me laugh and my Bob Dylan impression made Beth laugh.

A few people stopped to listen and watch before returning to their business; some tried to offer us money, which we politely refused. We were just here to entertain, we said. A group of younger people walking by recognised me, and asked me to play one of my own songs.

“I dunno,” I said, musingly. “Most street musicians just do covers.”

Beth poked my shoulder and gave me an insinuating look. I blinked, confused, and she rolled her eyes. “The source of the drama,” she translated.

I tilted my head at her for a moment before her meaning struck me. I shook my head. “I am not playing that song,” I said, chuckling slightly.

“Why not?” All of us—Beth, the group of kids, and I—turned around to find Didi leaning the back of the bench, grinning down at me. “I’m curious to hear this ‘secret’ song of yours.”

I eyed my little audience, who looked excited at the prospect of hearing something no one else had. “Only because you know who wrote it with me and want to know the product of hours along together.”

"Of course!” she declared with a grin. “And since he's nowhere to be found—” She looked around exaggeratedly and joined us on the bench, “Looks like it's down to you."

“…You, madame, suck.” The group laughed, and I played a little interlude. “Fine, fine. It’s called Philadelphia. I have no idea why.”

“Philadelphia’s nice,” Didi commented, lounging beside me. “Not as bad as most people think.”

“Stand up,” Beth prodded, poking me in the side. I squirmed and glared as I climbed to my feet, then using her shoulder as leverage to hoist myself up onto the bench.

“Like I said,” I reiterated to the circle around me. “Philadelphia.” I cleared my throat and began the almost-frantic guitar part.

“~Emancipation or sublimation
Discrimination breeds and swells like maggots
Within the minds of all
Though the best and worst of us don’t admit
For we couldn’t take the hit
The world’s just in a snit
Hetero or homo, socks or sex
Anything and everything’s up for argument
We claim Brotherly Love, but Christ above
We talk one damn fine game…~”

I couldn’t help but dancing a bit along with my audience, which was growing in number, I noticed. I had to admit I loved this song, and people seemed to enjoy it.

“~Whether our funds are mental or the demos are cracked
Sides are forced and the middlemen are mocked
Misunderstandings lead to fear and fear’s all hate will ever hear
For our jobs and families and listless luxuries
We can’t stand to live without
No one will stand up and shout
Every split lip spits a foul curse out
When we should be singing for dear life…~”

It was one of those songs that I always got completely absorbed into playing and forgot about everything around me. Luckily that excepted the fact that I was standing on a bench, and I caught myself from falling on my face.

“~Whether an epic aria or a woebegone whisper
Declaring our selves, long since put back on the shelves
Of our dark storeroom minds
For no one to see or hear or fear
Everything is fine, nothing is broken
Because all that’s “wrong” remains unspoken.~”

I bit my lip, focused on getting the ending progression right, and knocked my head forward on the last note, hair falling in my face. Applause and cheers swirl into my brain behind my shut eyes. I flipped my hair out of my face, grin slowly sliding off my face.

Jon Devoto, Justin San Souci, and Shawn Harris were standing at the back of the little crowd, all clapping and grinning at me. I smiled sheepishly and rolled my ankle around. A girl in the front had a camera out and focused on me. “First time I’ve played that in front of people,” I informed them all. I glanced back at the guys again and brushed my hair back nervously. “Back to covers!”

Then I played “The Restless” and laughed when I saw Shawn slouch a little more.

I continued playing songs by other musicians, which no one seemed to mind, though I was a bit sad when Beth stopped singing along with me; both she and Didi decided to join Shawn, Jon, and Justin at the back, which kept moving farther away. I started taking requests, and if I knew how to play the song, I did; some included Green Day’s “Basket Case”, Jason Mraz’s “You and I Both”, Old Crow Medicine Show’s “Wagon Wheel”—one reason I loved Didi: her ability to musically confuse people—and “Love Will Tear Us Apart.”

“For the record,” I said after playing the last one, “That was covering Joy Division, not Fall Out Boy.”

“What’s the difference?” I heard a call from the back. I chuckled and noticed that it was Gabe who’d yelled; beside him were Alex and Zack, the latter talking to Didi and Beth and the former smirking at me.

I shrugged. “None at all.” A grin quirked my lips; looking at Alex gave me an idea. “Okay, so I think this is the last song I’m playing.” People pouted and aww’d. “I think those cops over there are kind of pissed at me for standing on this bench.” I held up a finger at them, and they nodded begrudgingly.

“Hey!” I called to the back. My friends perked up, and I pointed at them. “This one’s for you.” They smiled and waved awkwardly to the fans who suddenly realised there were other famous about. “Forgive me if I fuck this up, Zack. I’m not as good at it as you are.”

“~Tonight, we lie awake
Remember how the coffee made us shake on those long drives?
One more long night~”

I grinned, seeing Zack and Alex shake their heads in laughter. I loved that people immediately began singing along.

“~Another seven days
Heartbeat racing
The interstate, my home tonight
For one more long night
I'm sure as hell the happiest I've ever been

We get high, we let go
We've got more than we know
My friends are a different breed
My friends are

There's a ghost in this room
I think I'll name it after all of you
And watch it hang over my bed like decorations celebrated
Memories, they came and went in light of all the time we spent
Listening to everything our parents told us not to take in

Now make a change
I'm counting down
The mile marks to every town
And falling more in love
With the distance put between us

We get high, we let go
We've got more than we know
My friends are a different breed
My friends are everything
Make this last, take it slow
We've got it all figured out for now
So let us live our lives without a doubt

Tonight we lie awake
Remember how the coffee made us shake on those long drives?
One more long night
Another seven days
Heartbeat racing
The interstate, my home tonight
For one more long night~”

I hopped off the bench and danced through the collection of strangers, most of them dancing and singing, in the centre of the circle that form around me. Shawn was laughing to himself, likely about whatever Didi was pointing out to him about me.

“~From coast to coast, I'll make the most
Of every second I've been giving with this crowd
Without a doubt, you're all I dream about
At night we lie awake
With stories taking us back to the nights we felt alive
The nights we felt alive

I would've married you in Vegas
And you've given me the chance to say "I do"
Couldn't make it more obvious, could you
Be anymore obvious~”

I strummed a little harder during the last section, biting off each word with an acidic smile. Yeah, I was definitely still amazingly angry with Ryan, and really, Alex’s words out of my mouth were true. When my eyes skimmed over the group separated from the others, I noticed a thoughtful glaze to Zack’s expression.

“~I would've married you in Vegas
And you've given me the chance to say "I do"
Couldn't make it more obvious, could you
Be anymore obvious, could you?~”

I swept a bow to my makeshift audience and, after a few minutes of talking with people, returned to the bench for my guitar case, only to find it lined with dollar bills and loose change. I glared jokingly after the last of the stragglers. “What don’t people get about a free show?” I wonder aloud. But I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I neatened up the paper money into a stack.

“Nothing’s free,” Gabe commented over my shoulder. “Particularly when it comes to you.”

Beth clapped him over the back of the head and sat on the bench beside where I was kneeling. “Just because you can’t even begin to afford us,” she sniped.

“Busking, Ange?” Justin laughed. “Really?”

“I didn’t want their money!” I protested, returning my new old guitar to its case. “I just wanted to show off my new product of irresponsibly spending well-earned money!”

Jon stopped ogling my new guitar when I snapped the case shut. “I was wondering where the White Falcon came from,” he mused. I grinned at Didi, who shook her head in amusement. Jon looked between us curiously for a moment before his eyes widened. “Wait… holy shit!”

We both snickered. “This is my new lover!” Did declared, hugging me around the neck as I counted my earnings. “We met on her birthday.” She stuck her tongue out at Shawn. “And yes, you smartass, she’s like a female you.” Shawn beamed, and Beth rolled her eyes.

“All not as important.” I straighten my back, Didi darting onto to the bench, when Alex’s face appeared right in front of mine as he knelt beside me. A grin painted his features. “You know, this is far from the first time you’ve sung one of my songs. A simpler man might think you were into him.”

I smiled wryly and knocked my forehead against his. “Actually, I’ve never liked you, Alexander,” I declared, standing when he made to kiss me, “I only put up with you because your band mates are so fantastic and clever.” I looped my arms around Zack’s neck and stood on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

While the other laughed Alex pouted his lower lip at me. “You’re saying those guys are smart?” Gabe laughed. “You’re nuts, because that’s total bullshit.”

“Am I not a madman, and therefore irresponsible?” I quoted, sweeping back to my guitar case full of guitar and money. “Haven’t I the right to talk nonsense?” I winked at the gents of the Matches, who all smirked at me. “Anton Chekhov, for those of you interested. Also, those of you interested in things besides my intellect, I’m hungry and now have cash.”

I linked arms with Beth and Didi and we started down the street, soon joined by the small hoard of males. “You’re not curious as to why Saporta, Gaskarth, and Merrick showed up?” Didi asked.

I shrugged. “I figured from previous experience that if one boy I know knows something about me, the rest will be soon to follow.”

Silence pervaded the conversation, and I suddenly became suspicious. I looked slowly over to Beth, who smiled brightly; I glanced at the boys, to Didi, and back to her. Beth shrugged. “They wouldn’t want to miss the possible beginning of your solo career.”

“Nonexistent solo career,” I corrected, shaking my head. My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I freed my arm to pull it out. Text from… Zack? I refrained from glancing back at him as I read it. If you want to talk, I’ll listen.

I smiled and walked backwards for a few steps. “Don’t tempt me,” I joked. “Shit’s complicated enough.”

Zack chuckled. Everyone else looked confused.