I Guess I'll Never Get To Call You Mine
DAVID
“Later Dave!” “Have fun on your date bro!” “Call us later, OK, dude?” I slipped on my leather jacket and waved casually at my friends before making a beeline toward the parking lot. It was Friday night, and what better way to kill time than at a bar. Peter and Anthony didn’t take much convincing. All I needed to say is that I’m paying and they’re ready to go. I’ve had five shots of the Vesper Martini (yeah, I’m a James Bond fan) before I decided to call it quits. I just didn’t feel the mood like partying tonight.
It’s not too hard telling my buddies of my leaving. They were so drunk anyway that all I did was said that I had a date to go to and I didn’t want to keep a lady waiting. Never mind that it was nearly midnight. I gave the bartender some cash and told him to call a cab for the guys. All the drinks are on me as usual. I know, I know. I had that much money to spare. You can’t help it if you’re the bass player in a multi-award-winning band with your own charity foundation.
I grinned as some bombshell blond in a tank (that showed way too much cleavage, by the way) walked casually toward me. Feeling a napkin (undoubtedly with her phone number written on it) being slipped through my fingers, I gave her a wink and an encouraging smile. Her boobs look way too big to assure me that a doctor had them put there, but I stuffed the napkin in my pocket anyway. Who knows? Maybe next week I’d feel like having a one-night stand.
I finally reached my destination: my brand-new Royal Enfield, given to me by some rich Indian fan and which arrived a few days ago. Okay, I know rock stars are not supposed to take advantage of fans, but this kid’s dad practically offered me the motorbike at a show if I gave his son a backstage pass. I still feel guilty about it, especially by not telling the other guys, but it was a free bike for Pete’s sake. What was I supposed to do?
I was just about to turn on the engine and ride to freedom when my phone suddenly buzzed in my pocket. Sighing, I switched it open to see a text from Sébastien: Randy n Aline in town. Meet up 2morrow? Everyone else coming.
Oh gosh the last thing I wanted was some happy reunion with a bunch of people whom I admittedly know from childhood, but I just got my new Enfield. I was thinking of a solo trip to Florida for the weekend—just the bike and me. I quickly texted back (No sorry, had other plans) and put on my helmet. My head started to pound a little and I fumbled with my keys. Guess I’m tipsier than I expected. Oh well, should be safe. I’ve done this a million times before.
It’s not too hard telling my buddies of my leaving. They were so drunk anyway that all I did was said that I had a date to go to and I didn’t want to keep a lady waiting. Never mind that it was nearly midnight. I gave the bartender some cash and told him to call a cab for the guys. All the drinks are on me as usual. I know, I know. I had that much money to spare. You can’t help it if you’re the bass player in a multi-award-winning band with your own charity foundation.
I grinned as some bombshell blond in a tank (that showed way too much cleavage, by the way) walked casually toward me. Feeling a napkin (undoubtedly with her phone number written on it) being slipped through my fingers, I gave her a wink and an encouraging smile. Her boobs look way too big to assure me that a doctor had them put there, but I stuffed the napkin in my pocket anyway. Who knows? Maybe next week I’d feel like having a one-night stand.
I finally reached my destination: my brand-new Royal Enfield, given to me by some rich Indian fan and which arrived a few days ago. Okay, I know rock stars are not supposed to take advantage of fans, but this kid’s dad practically offered me the motorbike at a show if I gave his son a backstage pass. I still feel guilty about it, especially by not telling the other guys, but it was a free bike for Pete’s sake. What was I supposed to do?
I was just about to turn on the engine and ride to freedom when my phone suddenly buzzed in my pocket. Sighing, I switched it open to see a text from Sébastien: Randy n Aline in town. Meet up 2morrow? Everyone else coming.
Oh gosh the last thing I wanted was some happy reunion with a bunch of people whom I admittedly know from childhood, but I just got my new Enfield. I was thinking of a solo trip to Florida for the weekend—just the bike and me. I quickly texted back (No sorry, had other plans) and put on my helmet. My head started to pound a little and I fumbled with my keys. Guess I’m tipsier than I expected. Oh well, should be safe. I’ve done this a million times before.