James Pt 01 2

James - Part 1

Why does the world seem so unnaturally bright?

This new year seems to be announcing the arrival of its first day with startling sunshine - or at least that's my optimistic interpretation at this point - of the glow coating the inside of my closed eyelids. It could really do with being a little less vibrant; last night was a late one, obviously given the celebrations, and who knew the midwinter sun in this country could be quite so vicious?

As I prise my sleepy eyes open, I stare at the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass opposite the end of my bed and it registers that I hadn't managed to close the blinds the night before. The east-facing windows are currently letting the low morning sun spill across the tousled bed sheets, until its rays could just caress the headboard in the moments before it rose too high in the sky to reach so fully into my apartment. Scrunching my face up at the bright cloudless sky outside, I prop myself up on my elbows and yawn heavily, surveying my bare legs and the corner of the bed sheet that barely covers my naked centre. Messy sheets... I grin to myself, remembering exactly why my bedroom is in such disarray. And that reason is laying with her back to me on the other side of my bed, equally naked and absolutely, gloriously, devoid of any sheets covering any part of her exquisiteness.

Damn, she's sexy. Really sexy.

The beauty, so divine to me, currently sleeping contentedly and unbothered by the crisp winter light radiating into the room, is a feast of curves that strips any sleep haze from my eyes and fills my body with a familiar hunger. Black silken hair fans out behind her, across the pillow, with strands that glint with a purple hue in sunlight that is drawn to the contours of her skin. I let my eyes trail over the hint of her breast illuminated by the rays shining across her form, across the dip of her waist and along the swell of her hip; you can just see how soft her skin is and my mind marvels at the surreal knowledge that I can actually verify the softness as I have been lucky enough to touch it. I don't think I will ever tire of letting my hands caress down her sides. As my eyes follow the pathway of one of my new favourite sensory experiences, my breath catches as I take in the golden glow haloing across the arc of her raised ass cheek: the morning sun, catching the curve with perfect light, echoing the glistening peaks it was highlighting in the gentle crests of the water in the river below my apartment.

I just stare and try to commit the view to memory before the sun shifts and it's lost forever.

As the low winter light rises and the halo slinks down her thigh, I loosen my breath, slowly clicking my head from side to side and feel the dull throb of last night's excesses. Not too bad though, nope. I definitely hadn't gotten obscenely drunk because there was some outstandingly good sex when we got back here; hence, I didn't manage to shut the blinds.

Though to be fair, there hadn't been any bad sex with Ana; she really was something else. Since the first night we met, there had just been a natural radiance about her that drew me in; that drew everyone in, in fact. She possesses some sort of innate intuition about me that just heightens every experience I have with her. I mean, I wasn't exactly an angel back home; there had been a string of women I guess you could say, and I like to think that I was a good lover to them all. However, Ana showed me new depths, and every moment I spent with her raised the bar to another level of consciousness about how a connection should be. She is the first person to get me to put aside ideals I have around proving my sexual prowess. She shows me truly mutual gratification and knowledge of your partner, and the otherworldly places those climatic heights can reach in those empowered moments.

And there was also that perfect fucking ass.

I have no idea why this incredible specimen of a human being has been hanging around with me the last few weeks, but damn, we have fun. She is part of my trifecta of things that make this whole trip more bearable.

I sigh, and indulge in trailing my eyes over her sleeping form again, mentally agreeing with the thought echoing through my mind: she is definitely near goddess-like and with a wicked sense of humour to boot. I smile at the English phrases I have already picked up since being here, whilst willing the swelling at my centre to subside so I can use the bathroom.

***

The Kings Head. Though quite what had happened to this particular King's head I wasn't too sure; I didn't even know which King it was referring to, but the history nerd in me mentally noted that a google search would be in order when this gig was done.

Damn it James, surely you have way cooler things to do?

I chastise myself as I squat down to fix the height of the high-hat. Sadly, I didn't have many options of cooler activities, in complete contrast to the whirlwind of work and socialising that surrounded me when I was at home; stuck here, half a world away, my calendar is suddenly a lot more vacant. Perhaps that was the company's intention in sending me on this assignment; or maybe more like my father's intention. I grimace to myself as I finish setting up.

The history of this old pub seemed to be of little consequence to the patrons already settling into the shabby seats as I wrestle my drum kit into the corner of the bar on a grey, cold night in October. Finding this band, in need of a drummer, had been an absolute fluke; a drizzly Saturday night spent by myself at an indoor climbing wall in east London had meant that I had plenty of time, as I finished my solo exertions, to study the notice board in the absence of anyone to talk to.

I really missed my climbing companions from back home, with their endless banter and crazy antics.

It was on the busy noticeboard that I found the crude note pitching for a drummer to join a group on the London leg of a small-scale tour they were supporting. I reasoned with myself that any musicians who posted old school notices with tear off strips neatly cut along the bottom at an indoor climbing centre have to be my kind of cool, so I pocketed a strip. I forgot all about it until 4 days later.

I was right though, when I eventually fished the crumpled strip out of my pocket and called the number. From the moment that Harvey, the band's leader, answered, he was my kind of cool, it's refreshing to just vibe with someone unpretentious.

As I sit on the 16th floor of the nondescript European head office building of the company, I tug my silk tie away from the top of my collar and undo the button as I crook the phone under my neck and spin around in my overpriced, ergonomically designed chair, to gaze out the window. Through the gaps in the buildings I can just make out the grey waters of the Thames, the same waters that flow past the (also overpriced) apartment the company had rented for me on its banks, a short walk from this office. Got to get their money's worth out of me; can't waste any time with that commuting nonsense. I mentally skip over the fact that I had explicitly instructed my secretary back home to find me somewhere close to the centre of the city, preferably with a view. As usual she had delivered. Irene was dependably efficient in her execution. I wonder what she might be doing now that she doesn't have to run errands for me, whilst I listen to Harvey explain about the band's music and the tour they are supporting. The woman desperately needs to relax; those pinched features could be quite pleasant on the occasions when she did, which wasn't often around me. Their constriction seemed to correlate with proximity to her boss. She was no doubt pleased to reduce her duties to the 'poor little rich boy' while I was away. I know she calls me that; I overheard her complaining about me in the coffee room once. Not that I care; I've heard it a thousand times before.

People like her never saw this side of me, this enthusiasm that naturally pours out when I speak to someone like Harvey, or climb. It wasn't expected, though, was it? I am a ruthless corporate machine, dedicated to the company's cause, or perhaps to my father's cause.

Is there any difference?

By the conclusion of my first call with Harvey, we'd arranged to meet for an audition that weekend; it was easy enough with all my free time to make my way to the studios, and like a kid at Christmas, I indulge in a complete new set of sticks at one of the many music shops in the West End. I haven't brought mine from home; it wasn't supposed to be that kind of trip, or to last this long, and the mood I left my home in had been far from conducive to thinking that I may be doing something as pleasurable as drumming while here. After a few practice sessions inflicted on an assortment of cushions around my apartment, I met with the band at a studio not far from Abbey Road. I mean, it wasn't THE studio, but I chalk that up as a kind of cool proximity.

The band plays a mix of easy rock covers in a set that also encompasses a scattering of originals that lean towards a Ska beat. It's fairly new territory for me, but in all the years I've been playing there isn't much I haven't come across. I slot into their groove pretty easily and find good ways to introduce some of my own quirks to the music. The band have been together since they were at university, their easy chatter reminds me of some of my friends back home. They have been plugging away at making the band a success ever since, with a variety of fill-in jobs to fund their ambitions. The medium scale band they are supporting on their tour is a huge deal for them, though unfortunately their original drummer is going through some sort of cancer treatment that they didn't elaborate on and I didn't pry. My interim status works for them in that sense; I was not destined to be a permanent replacement. It also suits me; as envious as I am of their close-knit friendship and pursuit of childish dreams, this was just an outlet to occupy some downtime while I am here, not a commitment. Those sorts of dreams and pursuits will never amount to anything. They certainly didn't have the security and trappings of a career like mine.

Whatever our motivations, we gel well enough and I soon have gigs and practice sessions to fill some of the holes in my calendar. The band is good company, the similarities in our upbringings on opposite sides of the worlds are plentiful: private boys' schools, universities, interests and age to name a few. There is some kind of parallel universe thing going on; except that, at the end of university they, well, they never really left that state of being. For me, there are expectations, a preordained life plan. Playing with a band definitely wasn't part of my handbook.

The Kings Head gig came about a few weeks into my drumming endeavours with them. It wasn't part of the tour, just a little extra on the side. There have been a couple of extra gigs so far and then the main events take place in three larger venues in the run up to Christmas. My father has already expressed the view that perhaps I should consider some Christmas experiences in Europe as my visit was likely to extend. Perversely, having plans with the band gave me more impetus to consider such options than the work I've been sent here to complete. I don't think too deeply about the message that notion is trying to tell me.

I already have most of the set for the gig committed to memory, and familiarity with the band members is building nicely. Playing drums has always relaxed and focused me. I've been drumming since the age of 7 when I was diagnosed with ADHD. My mum insisted that there was more to learn about myself than just taking a drug to fix it. She researched every damn thing that she could find, and spoke to everyone possible before she set about ensuring that we all learnt about the way my brain is wired. Drumming was one of her initiatives; she came home one day with a drum kit in the back of the family SUV and told my dad it was necessary for my focus and emotional regulation.

'I think it could really be the making of him. I think music could be in his future.'

I can remember her words so clearly that day, and her bright eyes looking at my father as she said them. It's the only time I recall her making a statement about my future that deviated from my father's assumed succession path.

My father's all too familiar dismissive snort followed her words as I remember looking longingly at the smooth, blue shine on the shells of the drums in the car, and then, glancing between my mum and dad, noticing the frown creased in his brows as he studied the new addition to our house. I knew before I touched them that I wanted them in my life, and Dad was the only person who might stand in the way of that.

'Will that help his school grades?'

Was the only thing he asked.

'Absolutely'.

She soothed him with a twinkle in her eyes as she quickly glanced at me.

That was the beginning, and as my mum predicted, I fell fast and hard for drumming. Luckily, my grades did improve. One could debate if it was through fear of my drums being taken away, or perhaps some scientific study can correlate the neural pathways and dopamine that ignites in me through playing that helped my schoolwork. Who knows; but I was focused and had an outlet, so my dad allowed it, even after my mum died. Drumming was part of the cure for the defective part of me as far as he was concerned. Those sticks in my hands allowed me to hammer out my unspoken grief when Mum passed, and then, along with the prescription drugs to sharpen my exam focus that Dad insisted on when the time came, they remained my companion throughout getting the requisite grades for Law School.

That companionship is now serving me well again, here on the other side of the world as I sit my sad and lonely ass down on the stool behind the kit and survey the clientele of the King's Head, our audience for this evening. It strikes me as ironic that this room of strangers, bundled up in their winter finery and nursing their warm pints of beer, would help my mood in more ways than they could imagine. Like so many gigs I have played before, the crowd's enjoyment would serve as a remedy for the dull ache inside me. The ache that has become more pronounced now that I am a world away from my usual distractions of a hectic social life and flighty lifestyle.

As Harvey tilts his head to make the necessary introductions into the mic, whoops and cheers ring out from a small group of dedicated fans, to the amusement of the rest of the crowded bar. Rolling my shoulders, I feel my body relax as I gear up to immerse myself in the music. Three sets stretch out into the evening ahead of me, 135 minutes in which I get to lose myself in the rhythm and surrender my mind to think of nothing but the next beat. It is always a welcome sensation that releases the tension in my jaw and gives me some small reprieve from the ceaseless unease that plagues my thoughts.

"

Take me away."

I exhale the words quietly as I cue in to set the beat for the first song.

Playing in a British pub is unique. There is some homely atmosphere to be found among the living room type decorations, the carpeted floor with heavy furniture and tightly enclosed bar service area. It definitely creates an intimate, and usually friendly, feel, almost as if you have invited a hundred or so of your closest friends around to your house to watch you play. If the music is good then the punters remain happy, though it seems to me that as the night goes on, that atmosphere could turn more quickly, likely in correlation to alcohol consumption. Consistency seems to be the name of the game, and from the outset we have the crowd exuberantly engaged. A makeshift dance floor emerges and the venue proves itself to be a popular haunt as I watch more and more people squeeze into the space as the night unfolds.

The first 45-minute set is essentially your standard rock covers, deliberately designed to get the audience on side; popular songs I have been playing since my youth with a couple of British indie anthems thrown in. Set one doesn't just get the venue on side, it works well for me too; memorable beats that infiltrate my very being and easily transition my mind from dependable corporate James to my favourite escape - the one where, sat behind my kit, I feel untouchable and precisely who I want to be in that moment. Raising my eyes to the ceiling, I send out some thanks to the universe yet again for old fashioned adverts with tear-off strips, and people needing drummers all over the world.

I lower my eyes and scan the exuberant room, absorbing the vibe. My vision darts to a small group of girls crammed into the corner of the haphazard dance area closest to me. In particular, I notice a slender brunette who has definitely positioned herself directly in my line of sight, and fixed her eyes on me with her chin lowered to look up through her thick eyelashes. As she catches my attention, she straightens her posture and shimmys her shoulders with a little more intention, her head turning like a ballet dancer as she moves from side to side with the beat.

Ah yes, the second benefit of being in a band; not only do I get to switch off, but some women can't help but swoon over a musician. I flash my broadest smile at her as I lift my right hand and lazily twirl my stick in my fingers. I can almost see her cheeks blush, even in the changing show lights, as she coyly dips her head and tucks one side of her shoulder-length hair behind her ear. I watch as she leans into the friend next to her and says something close to her ear. The friend's head whips around to face me and I take the opportunity to add a quick, but hopefully impressive, fill across the drum kit, turning on my sexiest dimpled smile and giving her a wink.

I freakin' love my work sometimes.

Putty in my hands, or at least she would be by the end of the night. I congratulate myself as I watch her eyes widen and her mouth shift into a cute lip bite.

First set complete, the band and I make our way to the bar. They've never played here before but the manager is already making noises about rebooking in the new year. It seems his clientele have been complimentary about us.

"Looks like you may have to stick around on this side of the world, James." Harvey shouts in my ear as he hands me my drink.

"Not a chance," I grin back at him, leaning in and raising my voice in turn so he can hear me. "Big plans at the company next year. Besides, your original drummer IS going to make a comeback!"

He smiles and I see a hint of sadness darken his eyes, before he nods and resumes the chatter with the rest of the band. Settling back against the bar as I down most of my drink, I watch my brunette admirer talk urgently with her companions, her head glancing in my direction before she gingerly weaves her way through the bodies towards me.

Like candy from a baby,

I muse to myself as I follow her movement. I flash a lazy smile at her as she reaches me, and her hand lifts to tuck that strand of hair behind her ear again.

"I just wanted to tell you how much we're enjoying your music," she offers by way of an introduction, looking up at me through those thick eyelashes.

"Thanks." I shift onto one elbow as I turn to face her more fully, looking down at her cute face with full cheeks and wide eyes that consistently flick between mine. "Though I think Mr Martin, or even perhaps the Gallagher brothers, might argue that it's not

my

music."

The eyes scan mine more rapidly as her eyebrows knit in confusion.

Perhaps a touch too cerebral, James,

I chastise myself and open my mouth to redirect the conversation when she tilts her head with an imperceptible shrug, the frown disappearing as she says: