Vegas Boys

Grudgingly, Brendon stepped to the side to allow a tall, stocky boy who was easily twice my size entrance. He looked up and saw me standing there at the foot of the stairs, and his broad, friendly features relaxed into a small smile.

"Shit, Brent," complained Brendon, halfway joking, as he shut the door. "You would be on time for once."

Brent, I assumed, wasn't paying any attention to Brendon's grumbling--he was looking at me dead-on, with such unabashed intensity that I got embarrassed (big surprise--how out of character for me) and looked down at my feet.

Brendon noticed and said, "Oh yeah--Brent, this is Kelsey. Kelsey, this is Brent, our loyal bassist."

Brent stuck out a wide hand, which, I noticed as I shook it, was warm and oddly mushy. He smiled at me again, shyly, as he released my hand and shoved his own in his pockets somewhat bashfully.

Meanwhile, Brendon, being the ADD Ritalin junkie he was, had forgotten all about our interruption, and was already radiating excitement for the upcoming practice session. He grabbed the bass guitar Brent was carrying in his free hand and hoisted it into the air like a victory flag, narrowling missing my head and declaring, "To the practice space!"

"AKA, the garage," muttered Brent dryly.

Brendon ignored him, shoving the bass off on Brent again and grabbing my hand. He pulled me behind him through a room to the right of the living room--it looked to be some kind of fancy parlor--and then into the dining room, where a weathered green door to the right opened up into the garage. Here, several shelves and workbenches and a montsrous freezer clung to the walls of the garage, and light filtered in through the dusty, dead insect-incrusted windows. A drum kit was set up in the corner, and a few feet away were some amps and other random music-related objects clustered haphazardly together.

"Sorry about the mess," Brendon apologized sheepishly, untangling some wires leading into what looked to be a microphone. "We don't really practice here much anymore--Mom hates it. They're at church right now, or else we wouldn't be able to practice now, either."

I frowned as I settled into a lawn chair Brent had been so kind as to set up for me. I hadn't been to church in...forever. There was a period of a few years, back in middle school, when Mom had gottten into this religious phase and had made me go with her every Sunday and Wednesday night, but then she had met Chris and had better things to do. And Dad never went to church, so of course I never went, either. It was kind of sad that I'd never even thought about it before.

I looked up at Brendon, who was now plugging the ends of the aforementioned wires into some kind of very technical-looking black box. (Yep, it was definitely a microphone.) "You didn't go with them?"

Brendon paused, looking up at me with a bemused expression, and I already knew what was coming next. "No. I'm actually at church right now--this is just a hologram." He pretended to examine his right hand with wonder. "Pretty lifelike, huh?"

Brent snorted.

I rolled my eyes at him. "No," I said irritably, "I mean, why didn't you go with them?"

Brendon's smile vanished and he quickly turned back to setting up the microphone. He shrugged casually, but I got the distinct impression that he was uncomfortable. "Because Mom's tired of fighting with me over it."

I felt the frown line between my eyebrows deepen. "Over what? Church?"

"Yeah," replied Brendon curtly. "I don't believe any of their shit, basically. It's all just so fucking absurd."

Then an awkward silence fell. I wished I hadn't brought it up, because it was clearly just upsetting him--and the look Brent gave me when I met his gaze just confirmed my regrets.

"Shit," cussed Brendon, under his breath, as he straightened up and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. "I left my guitar in my room. Could you go get it, Brent?"

Brent nodded obediently, reminding me starkly of a well-trained English setter, and disappeared back inside the house.

Brendon sighed and crossed the garage to take both of my hands in his and pull me up out of the lawn chair. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, dropping one of my hands so he could push a strand of my hair behind my ear. "I shouldn't talk to you like that."

I could feel myself blushing, and that was almost worse than any of the rest of it. I shook my head. "No, it's okay--"

"It's not." He gave me a watery smile. "I feel bad already."

"I've said a lot worse to you," I pointed out, and we both laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it.

"Well..." Brendon paused and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, avoiding my gaze. "I think I should take the opportunity to apologize in advance anyway, because I'm probably gonna screw up a lot. I just...I'm trying to figure this out as I go, and I'm not too good at it."

I laughed, just because he was so adorable in his boyish insecurities. "I'm not either," I reassured him.

"We can both screw up together," he suggested, laughing quietly.

I smiled back in response and he leaned down to peck me sweetly on the lips. We passed a few more moments like that, and then I said sincerely, "I really am sorry about your parents, though."

"Yeah, well..." Brendon gave me a strained smile that he couldn't quite force into his eyes. "You know how it is. You get stuck with whoever you get stuck with, and you just have to deal."

I did know. All too well.

But I couldn't allow myself to tell him that, and risk being vulnerable, as he leaned in and kissed me again.

-----

"Your guitar, O Holy One," muttered Brent, handing Brendon said guitar.

I had to fight the urge to crack up. Everything Brent said was unintentionally hilarious, due to what I assumed was just his natural speaking voice: a dull, lethargic, sarcastic grumble. Brendon, however, seemed to be completely used to this and hardly noticed; he took the guitar from Brent and, slipping the strap over his head, promptly set about tuning it.

Both of them were deeply engaged in their instruments when what looked to be (from what I could tellby looking through the dirty windows set into the garage door) a bright blue convertible pulled into Brendon's driveway alongside his car. Brendon glanced up and set his guitar aside; Brent, bent over his bass with his long dark hair hanging in his eyes, didn't seem to notice.

I jumped and let out a little yelp of surprise as the garage door suddenly flew open with a loud bang, sliding upwards into the track set into the ceiling so quickly that I could hardly see it happening.

"Don't worry," said a boy I didn't recognize dramatically, standing right in the middle of the gaping opening with his hands raised, palms-up, over his head, as if a crisis had been averted. "I'm here."

In the corner, Brent looked up from his bass just long enough to snort.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Spencer," snapped Brendon, squinting and shielding his eyes with his hand against the bright sunlight that had suddenly flooded the entire garage. "How many times have I told you not to do that? One day it's just gonna break, and it'll fall on Ryan and smush all his teeny-tiny bones."

"Nah," mused Ryan, emerging from the passenger's side of what was indeed a blue convertible. "I drink lots of milk."

The boy I guessed was Spencer suddenly looked around and spotted me, and put his hands on his hips as he gave me a pleasant, if befuddled, smile. "Who's this lovely lady?"

Brendon suddenly brightened. "Oh, yeah, sorry. Uh--Kelsey, this is Spencer, our drummer. Spencer, this is Kelsey, who probably just pissed her pants because you want to be Superman."

I laughed. "No, it's all good. I peed right before I came over."

"Good, because piss is not hot," Spencer informed me, frowning and shaking his head a little. "You're hot, but--"

"Hey, back off, man!" said Brendon, giving him a playful shove. Spencer grinned and let himself stumble backwards into the hood of the car. "And what the fuck is this?" demanded Brendon, indicating the car.

"Oh." Spencer straightened up, beaming. "It's an '04 Mustang convertible. Brand new. Pretty sweet, huh?"

"It's his grandma's," added Ryan dryly.

"It's still awesome," insisted Spencer, stroking the pristine hood of the car lovingly.

"She only let him take it out for the day as long as he promised to bring back baking soda," Ryan continued.

"Whatever," said Spencer. "You're just jealous, Mr. '91 Camry."

Ryan rolled his eyes and sauntered over to the door leading into the dining room. "I need something to drink, Brendon," he called over his shoulder.

"All I've got's rotten Sunny D," said Brendon, absorbed with admiring Spencer's grandma's car.

"Whatever, I'm fucking thirsty," Ryan replied. Then he looked around and paused long enough to smile at me. "And hey, Kelsey."

"Hi," I managed bashfully. I felt myself blushing--again--but luckily he was already ducking inside. I don't know why I was such an idiot around him: it wasn't that I had a crush on him or anything; he was just so pretty.

"I guess we should get set up now," said Brendon reluctantly, tearing himself away from the car. "My parents will be home in, like, half an hour--so basically, we have no time."

"Okay," sighed Spencer, giving the car one last, wistful look of longing. He crossed the garage, greeting Brent briefly along the way, and sat down on the stool behind the drum kit.

"So..." I frowned, confused, turning to Spencer. "Do you...leave your drums here, and then come over and--"

"No, they're mine," Brendon answered for him. "He has his own set at home."

I raised my eyebrows at him in disbelief. "You play drums too?"

He nodded, smirking cheekily. "And bass. And accordian. And piano. And keyboard. And guitar, obviously."

"And organ," Spencer chimed in.

"Oh yeah, that too." Brendon grinned. "Can't forget the funeral music!"

Suddenly Ryan emerged from the dining room, his delicate features screwed up in a look of pure, unadulterated disgust, opening and closing his mouth again like a dog with peanut butter in its mouth. "When you said it was rotten, I didn't think you meant it was literally rotten." He coughed and gagged a little. "What are you trying to do, grow a new germ in that shit?"

Brendon laughed. "I warned you. That motherfucker's been getting ripe for, like, six years now."

Ryan shuddered and gagged again. "There were...chunks..."

Everyone laughed as Ryan just shook his head, retrieving his guitar from where he'd left it propped up against the opposite wall of the garage. They each took their places, well versed in their own roles by now, and Spencer counted them in to their first song of the day.