I finish the protein bar and toss the wrapper into a trash can, making my way up the few blocks from Stéphanie’s apartment to Sherbrooke Station. Our rehearsal space is in the basement of a building just across from the metro stop, which is how the band ended up getting its name. My uncle’s realty firm owns the building, and when we were first looking for somewhere to rehearse all those years ago, he said we could use the basement whenever the firm wasn’t open.
As a platinum selling band who used to be signed to one of the biggest record labels in Canada, we’ve kind of outgrown the place, but it feels like home for our music. I don’t know if any of us will ever be ready to give it up.
I take the outside staircase two steps at a time and find Matt already down in the basement, tuning up his drum kit. The room smells like sweat, second-hand furniture, and delivery food left sitting out for way too long. If I could bottle that smell, I would. It represents everything we’ve worked for, and everything we’ve done to get it. To me, that’s what music is: hard work, good times, and great people coming together to make something the world won’t ever forget.
And cheese. You can’t make good music without eating a lot of melted cheese, preferably on a pizza that also has ham.
“?a va?” I greet Matt.
“?a va,” he answers, making a face as he twists one of the lugs on his snare. “Snare’s being a little bitch today, but other than that,?a va. You?”
I flop down on one of our old, beaten up couches while we wait for Ace and Cole to arrive. That’s one of the benefits of playing the electric keyboard and the harmonica: you never have to tune them.
“Just came from Stéphanie’s place. I met the Rabbit Girl,” I tell Matt.
“That’s her roommate, right? The one who’s obsessed with Ace?”
He taps the drum with his stick and stares at the tuning app on his phone, then swears and goes back to twisting the lug.
“Yeah. She’s pretty cute,” I admit.
“You think anything with an ass is cute. Did you even look at her face?”
Yes, my friends, I am an ass man, and I am not ashamed. I would shout my love forles fessesfrom the rooftops of Montreal without hesitation. I have actually done that twice already.
“Ididlook at her face,” I insist, “after I looked at her ass. She didn’t have pants on.”
Matt looks up from his drum.
“I thought her room was the bathroom,” I explain. “I had to piss.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t even want to know.”
Ace stomps down the staircase a few minutes later with Cole, our bassist, trailing along behind him.
“Fucking hell,” Ace mutters, falling into the armchair across from me.
“Stéphanie really went to town on you, huh?” I ask.
He glares at me. “No. There was a paparazzi ambush waiting outside Sherbrooke Station for me. Cole saw and had to come drag me out before I fucking punched one of those assholes. They ask the most insulting questions.” He slides his hands down his face. “They wanted to know if I’d gone back to drinking. Honestly, if I have to deal with their shit any longer, I just might.”
The rest of us all freeze.
“Jesus Christ, guys. I’m kidding.”
I hear Matt blow out a sigh of relief. Ace’s previous issues with alcohol and generally fucked up behaviour are the reason we got dropped by Atlas Records, the mega-label who signed us and took our career to the next level. Truth be told, the people at Atlas were all sneaky corporate bastards and I know we’re better off without them, but having their huge bank accounts to back us up didn’t hurt.
We’re with a much smaller label now. Metro Records is run by our old manager, Shayla, and we’re the first band she signed. Now all of our expenses come out of our own pockets, which means that even though our latest album crushed pretty much every chart there is, it will still be awhile before the whole ‘rich as fuck rock stars’ thing actually happens.
I’m okay with it, though. My mansion can wait. I’d rather we’re all happy and enjoying our lives.
“This paparazzi shit is getting crazy,” Cole grumbles.
Grumbling is Cole’s default setting. So is lurking in corners and intimidating people.
“They know where I live now,” he continues. “I don’t like it.”
“Yeah, neither does my uncle,” I admit. “He told me they’re bothering the firm.”
