Cops and Robbers
one
Braden.
Sometimes when bad stuff happens to me, like after I lie or something and I run into some girl with her Mom in CVS that I fucked a couple days ago and never called back, or if my shit car breaks down in Nowheresville right before a show I think it’s God’s fault.
Like he’s spiting me or something for my not being able to be truthful all the time. I mean, really, I don’t intend for things to always spiral out of control and snowball from a little white lie. It just happens.
“Shit.”
Dallas throws his drumstick in my direction; it hits the peeling wall and falls to the ground with a clatter.
“Dude,” he runs his hands through his hair, pulling at it. “What the fuck? First you show up late, then you show up high. Really?”
I look around and no one will meet my gaze. Raleigh is tuning his guitar, head bent low. Landon is glaring at his keyboard. Kennedy is facing the wall. And Dallas, he’s seething, he looks like he’s about to knock over his drums.
I swing the mic in my hand around a couple times and turn to face him. “Give me a break, bro. I’ve had a shitty couple of days. You don’t need to be a dick. I don’t see what’s wrong with this.”
He stands up, “This? Please, tell me Braden, what is this?” he spreads his arms open real wide in front of him, “This looks like a half-assed attempt of a band trying to get our shit together with a shit-faced singer. This is not working.”
And with that he exits the building, slamming the door behind him and making all of us jump. Cue Sunny walking in, tugging her hands through her hair and fixing her shirt. One look at her and I’m the next one out the door.
It’s obvious my best friend is fucking my girlfriend. But I’m not about to admit it to the whole world, although they all probably know. Sunny never even looks at me anymore and Dallas blows up every time something doesn’t go the way he wants it too, I’m just so sick of this.
It’s not like I’ve been a great boyfriend or whatever, but seriously. My best friend? Can you get any lower? Fucking bitch.
I storm down the sidewalk, realizing I left my sweatshirt at Raleigh’s as goose bumps appear on my arms. I light a cigarette.
Inhale, exhale, breath.
I close my eyes for a moment before continuing home.
Sometimes when bad stuff happens to me, like after I lie or something and I run into some girl with her Mom in CVS that I fucked a couple days ago and never called back, or if my shit car breaks down in Nowheresville right before a show I think it’s God’s fault.
Like he’s spiting me or something for my not being able to be truthful all the time. I mean, really, I don’t intend for things to always spiral out of control and snowball from a little white lie. It just happens.
“Shit.”
Dallas throws his drumstick in my direction; it hits the peeling wall and falls to the ground with a clatter.
“Dude,” he runs his hands through his hair, pulling at it. “What the fuck? First you show up late, then you show up high. Really?”
I look around and no one will meet my gaze. Raleigh is tuning his guitar, head bent low. Landon is glaring at his keyboard. Kennedy is facing the wall. And Dallas, he’s seething, he looks like he’s about to knock over his drums.
I swing the mic in my hand around a couple times and turn to face him. “Give me a break, bro. I’ve had a shitty couple of days. You don’t need to be a dick. I don’t see what’s wrong with this.”
He stands up, “This? Please, tell me Braden, what is this?” he spreads his arms open real wide in front of him, “This looks like a half-assed attempt of a band trying to get our shit together with a shit-faced singer. This is not working.”
And with that he exits the building, slamming the door behind him and making all of us jump. Cue Sunny walking in, tugging her hands through her hair and fixing her shirt. One look at her and I’m the next one out the door.
It’s obvious my best friend is fucking my girlfriend. But I’m not about to admit it to the whole world, although they all probably know. Sunny never even looks at me anymore and Dallas blows up every time something doesn’t go the way he wants it too, I’m just so sick of this.
It’s not like I’ve been a great boyfriend or whatever, but seriously. My best friend? Can you get any lower? Fucking bitch.
I storm down the sidewalk, realizing I left my sweatshirt at Raleigh’s as goose bumps appear on my arms. I light a cigarette.
Inhale, exhale, breath.
I close my eyes for a moment before continuing home.