I Hear Your Heart Call My Name.

I couldn’t concentrate. It was strange enough playing a song I hardly knew on bass, when I was so used to playing guitar for the band, but how was I supposed to focus on that when I knew that the man I cared so much about was right behind me banging on those drums while some girls looked like they were trying to bang him.

We had to go through it over and over again, practicing until it was perfect. That stupid girl holding the mic for Jonny when he walked in. Her flipping her stupid fucking hair and going back to join the other ugly slut practically throwing herself on top of him. They weren’t hot; their faces made them look angry and conceited and they just looked pathetic, doing that to Mike just because he was the hot drummer.

I tried to remind myself over and over again that they were doing it because that was what the director told them to do, that they weren’t actually trying to fuck him, but I saw that look in their eyes. They wanted him. And he probably wanted them. I was just waiting for him to get a boner or something to prove to myself that I had no chance with him, that he would never want me.

It was torture and I couldn’t even talk about it to anyone. I thought I saw Jonny throw me a sympathetic glance after half an hour practicing the same two minutes over and over again, but that just made me more nervous. Did that mean I made it that obvious? Did everyone know? Did Mike? Who was I kidding; he was too busy eye-fucking the girl on his right. He caught my eye for just a second during one of the last run-throughs before we were supposed to start actual filming, and he looked concerned. It was probably just wishful thinking.

The next hour was torture. We’d finished practicing and started actually shooting, except someone managed to fuck something up in every take. It usually wasn’t us, since there were so many people on set. A few times they started again because the topless girls in another room weren’t making out right, or something ridiculous like that.

Mike kept so cool the whole time. I couldn’t stop myself from sighing every few minutes and moving around impatiently, but he was just so professional. He didn’t even ask the girls to fuck off after a while when they started getting more bold, leaning all over him and trying to wrap their legs around him or something and fucking smothering his beanie-clad head with their hair and arms and pointed girly nails. I could tell it was annoying him. As much as he soaked up their attention I saw the way his eyes rolled every time we finished a take and they looked away for a while.

The only good thing was that since I was supposed to be focusing on playing bass I didn’t have to look at them most of the time, and even though part of me wanted to watch the whole time, to see what those bitches were doing and fucking slap them for acting like easy whores, I could just face the camera and try to focus on the music.

It became easier and easier to keep my attention on the music as we started doing full takes of the video with no mess-ups. The director said that we needed a lot of takes that appeared to be correct because sometimes little things happen in the shot that no one noticed, but you see when you’re editing and it makes it look sloppy. By the time we’d been filming for two hours I was pretty fucking good at ignoring them, though it still made my heart soar every time I saw Mike make one of his little exasperated faces when the camera wasn’t around.

When the crew finally declared that we were done for the day everybody breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone, of course, except the stupid girls that were enjoying being around Mike. Well, them and the chicks who made out on the bed at the start of the video. They didn’t look too happy to be finished. Come to think of it, neither did the guys who’d been watching them. It seemed like it wasn’t going to stop just because the cameras weren’t rolling anymore though, so they didn’t look too upset.

After all the camera equipment had been put safely away the house turned into an actual party, instead of a staged one. Everyone had a plastic cup in their hand and it the house was filled with drunk people talking, laughing and making out. Everyone looked happy. Well, almost everyone.