Chapter 11 - Shag

                                    

                                          
A/N: Wrote some of this while high. Lol. Also 600 reads is insane, thank you very much. Another tw for body image issues today. 
Song of the day: In Liverpool by Suzanne Vega

Sylvie laid herself down on the shag carpet, throwing her arms over her head. The room around her was vaguely cloudy. Wisps of smoke curled around Brian, who held a half-finished joint in his hands, like a feather boa. He sat listening to Rowan, who was babbling about the time he found a creative use for a can of whipped cream and some marbles in the bedroom. Ew. 
Sometime after dinner, Rowan had decided to generously roll a doobie for each of his bandmates. Even Meg partook, to everyone's shock. Vera had already taken off, claiming to have work in the morning. The lie was obvious. Not that anybody could blame the poor girl; she'd been on the receiving end of weird stares all night.  
"Ugh, I'm starving..." groaned Meg, interrupting Rowan's tale, "but the snack tray is all the way over there." A party platter of vegetables, crackers, and dips was approximately five feet away from her. 
"Sylvie, please, I'm dying here," Meg whined, gesturing towards the platter. Reluctantly, Sylvie crawled to where the tray was. Her limbs were heavy as lead. She deposited the tray on Meg's lap, taking a couple crackers for herself. 
"You know what would be funny?" Sylvie smiled at her own thoughts.
"What?" asked Brian from across the room. He was slowly sliding down the couch, but couldn't summon the strength to sit back up. 
"What if I called him?"
"Called who?" 
Sylvie giggled. "Julian." 
The thing about weed was that it made all feelings - both good and bad - more intense. Before getting high, Sylvie was only mildly concerned about Jules, wondering how exactly to proceed with him. Now, she was simultaneously panicked and giddy. It was a strange feeling, to be both nervous and relaxed at the same time, like a very wobbly hunk of jello. Mmm, jello.
"Why?" asked Meg. "What do you wanna say to him?"
"Hmm... I dunno. Just feel like talking to him. God, I wanna tear his clothes off and ride him like a stallion at the Kentucky Derby."
"So why don't you?"
"Cus, I mean, what if..." she sighed, "what if it looks weird?"
Meg cast her gaze downward. "It?"
"My pussy."
The whole room erupted into laughter. Rowan tossed his head between his knees, shoulders shaking. Brian nearly dropped his joint, which by this point was little more than a nubbin. Meg giggled through a mouthful of pita chip, spitting tiny crumbs on her lap. "Don't laugh at me, you assholes," mumbled Sylvie, rolling onto her stomach. "I'm serious."
"Hey, in my expert opinion, all penis fly-traps are beautiful," said Rowan. "See what I did there?" 
Meg groaned loudly. "Did you genuinely just call it a penis fly-trap?" Rowan nodded, shamelessly laughing at his own joke. 
"What makes you a fucking expert?" demanded Brian. 
"I've got a lot of experience in my field - or rather, my bush. Just ask your mother."
Sylvie made a fake vomiting noise. Gesturing towards the door to his patio, she announced, "I'm gonna step out for a smoke."
She took her phone from her pocket, almost forgetting her purpose in the time it took to dial in Jules' number. 
The phone rang and rang. Jules was probably busy, if not singing or partying then definitely in bed with some pretty young thing. Hell, maybe he was getting his usual bathroom blowie. "Come on, pick up," she mumbled, but just as she went to hang up, the line clicked. Jules answered with a husky, "Hello?"
"Hey, Jules," said Sylvie into the phone.
"Sylvie," Jules breathed. "Where are you?"
"My drummer's balcony," she said, wishing she was at an all-you-can-eat buffet instead. Patting down each of her pockets, she realized her cigarettes were already in her hand. Oops. "You?"
"Las Vegas. We played at Cox Pavilion earlier, and now we're checking out the Vegas party scene." Jules was proud of himself, she could tell, and with good reason. 
Sylvie whistled. "Damn. Who opened for you?"
"Regina Spektor. And the Kings of Leon." He let out a nervous laugh, almost in disbelief. 
"See any strippers yet?" Her tone was light, hiding a tinge of bitter jealousy. Not like Jules needed strippers, he had girls falling all over him as it was. 
"No, but the night's still young. Fab's probably gambled away every cent the gig earned him." Julian's tone became abruptly melancholy. "I'm glad you called. I'm so fucking bored... do all the bars and parties and shit ever get old to you?" 
"Yeah, but it beats sitting in a hotel room alone. Or worse, sitting in a hotel room with my bandmates. Besides, I've rarely got anything better to do." That wasn't exactly true. Sylvie never had anything better to do, besides kissing the execs' asses.
"Same. That's the nice thing about alcohol - it makes passing the time a little easier. Maybe that's why I can't put down the bottle." He laughed sardonically. "Sorry. I'm not usually so fucking depressing." 
"No need to apologize."
Swimming through the fog of her mind, Sylvie remembered her cigarette, still unlit. The desire for it felt less pressing than before. For the first time since she was sixteen, she put the cigarette back into its carton. 
"I was gonna invite you to a bar with me after my next show, but screw that. Let's just do something, Jules. I don't care what it is. I'm sick of just talking on the phone."
Jules exhaled. He felt the same way. She deserved better than what he had given her so far. His last failed relationship nearly crushed him. His heart was like a cyst, an inconvenient thing he had to keep from bursting and killing him. Sylvie tempted him like a drink did an alcoholic - he was too stupid to turn her away.
"Sure," he said. "I wanna see you play. We can meet up afterwards, if you want. I'll take you to this burger joint me and the guys like."
Burgers made her nervous. They tempted her more than they should have. She was a celebrity, and more importantly a young woman - people acted like she owed them thinness. Her wrists were too wide, her hips too dimply, her ribs buried too far beneath layers of flesh.
She paused a moment before answering, "It's a date." 
"That it is, Miss Fowler. I gotta go. Drugs to do, hookers to fuck, you know. Not to mention, it's almost time to feed Fabrizio."
"Tell Fab I said hi," she murmured, before gently hanging up.