Running with scissors, p.1
Running With Scissors, page 1
Running with Scissors
L.A. Witt
Contents
About Running With Scissors
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
About the Author
Also by L.A. Witt
Also by L.A. Witt
Copyright Information
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Running With Scissors
Second edition
Copyright © 2015, 2019, 2022 L.A. Witt
First edition published by Riptide Publishing
Cover Art by Lori Witt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact L.A. Witt at gallagherwitt@gmail.com
ISBN: 978-1-64230-908-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-09222-317-1
Created with Vellum
About Running With Scissors
Eighteen months ago, drummer Jude Colburn made the biggest mistake of his life when he walked away from his band just as they were on the brink of success. Now, he’s got a second chance. The band’s bassist just quit, and Jude plays bass almost as well as he plays drums. The other band members aren’t thrilled, but they are desperate.
Running with Scissors needs him, but there’s one condition: no hooking up with bandmates. That’s what ruined things eighteen months ago, after all. Jude’s on board, but no one warned him about the drummer who replaced him. A.J. Palmer is shy and unassuming . . . until he hits the stage. He gets Jude’s attention from the first beat, and suddenly that “no hookups” rule isn’t so easy to follow.
Keeping secrets on a tour bus isn’t easy either, and it’s only a matter of time before the band catches on. When everything hits the fan, Jude has to choose: a second chance at the career he’s always regretted leaving, or a shot at the man of his dreams?
* * *
This book was previously published.
Chapter 1
“Hey, Jude?”
Jude looked up from a stack of invoices and turned to Steve, his cubicle mate. “Hmm?”
“You’re doing it again.”
Jude’s foot stopped moving, and he realized he’d been tapping it against the leg of his desk. Again. Tucking his feet beneath his chair, he muttered, “Sorry.”
No reply. At least Steve was more or less polite about it. Their other cubicle mate, Grant, was constantly on Jude’s case, and never even tried to hide his irritation.
Jude knew it annoyed them, and he tried his best not to do it, but telling a drummer not to tap his foot was like telling an eye not to see.
You’re not a drummer anymore.
He gritted his teeth. He’d always be a drummer. Always. Just because he wasn’t in a band at the moment didn’t mean—
Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude.
Cursing under his breath, he scrubbed a hand over his face. His leg itched with the need to mark time to the rhythm he had stuck in his head.
He couldn’t listen to the radio.
Couldn’t wear headphones.
Couldn’t tap his foot.
Couldn’t fucking concentrate.
“Jude?” Steve sounded concerned this time. “You okay?”
Grant muttered something. Jude didn’t catch it, but he recognized the tone and glanced at his own fingers.
Which were tapping beside his keyboard.
Fuck.
“I’ll be right back.” He snatched his phone off the desk and left. Head down, heart thumping, he hurried through the maze of cubicles. His cigarettes and lighter were already in his hand. He didn’t even remember pulling them out of his pocket, but whatever.
As the door to the communal patio came into view, he put a cigarette between his lips. He sensed one of the receptionists glaring at him—it’s not even lit, for God’s sake—but kept his gaze fixed on the door in front of him.
And finally, he was there.
He pushed it open with his hip, and before he’d even stepped all the way out into the SoCal heat, he’d cupped a hand around the end of his cigarette and flicked the lighter.
One drag brought his pulse back down. The second stilled his hands. Sort of. His fingers might as well have had a mind of their own, and were tapping out the bass line of a song he’d heard this morning on the radio. That tapping, much like the nicotine easing its way into his system, settled him. Centered him.
And naturally, drove his coworkers insane.
Holding his cigarette between two fingers, he rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. He’d long ago given up telling himself he was just having a bad day. If that were the case, he wouldn’t be out here every fucking afternoon, smoking two or three cigarettes in a row just to keep himself sane until five o’clock. And there wouldn’t be two more in the car. Three if traffic was exceptionally bad, even by Los Angeles standards.
At least in the car, he’d have music. The radio worked, and he had his iPod as backup. He’d be able to get the beat out of his system on the steering wheel because there’d be no one around to get on his case about it.
He lowered his hand and glared at the cigarette. His mom kept telling him these things would kill him sooner or later. After a year and a half behind a desk in a cramped cubicle, he was pretty sure the job would do him in well before the smokes did.
It’s your own fault you’re here.
Jude swore under his breath. Then he took another long drag and held it for a moment as he gazed out at the hazy LA skyline.
Every day, it was the same shit. He worked until he couldn’t anymore. Then he made his escape to this patio. And smoked. And kicked himself for being here in the first place.
This job was hell. The monotony and the buzz of fluorescent lights seemed to numb everyone else into some weird state where casual Friday and birthday potlucks were things to legitimately look forward to, but he had never adjusted. Day by day, he grew surer that he never would.
I could be on the road with them right now.
The thought didn’t even make him flinch anymore. Well, not much. Okay, not as bad as it had when he’d first found out the band was going on tour.
Six months. If he could’ve just hung on for six more goddamned months, he’d have been there when the record company offered them a deal. He’d have signed. He’d have been on tour right now. He’d have been onstage under the hot lights instead of dying inside under fluorescents while he crunched numbers he didn’t care about to make people he didn’t know rich. If he were onstage, he’d be whoring out albums to make record company execs rich, but at least he’d enjoy the work.
Well, he couldn’t go back and change the past, but he definitely needed to change his future. Maybe he’d give the job websites another look tonight. And of course, five minutes into that, he’d be all over Craigslist and any other place where someone might post that they were in search of a drummer. Even if it was just a part-time gig where they played twice a month in shithole bars for less than gas money, and he had to come into the office every morning with his ears ringing and his shoulders aching, that would be better than what he was doing now.
But nobody was looking for a drummer these days. Not many were looking for twitchy idiots to work in accounts receivable, either, but that was worth a look too unless he wanted to spend a decade or two trying not to disturb Steve and Grant.
All because he’d quit the band like a fucking idiot. Not that he’d had much choice by that point, especially since the circumstances that had driven him out of Running with Scissors were, at least in part, his own fucking fault.
Well, you made your bed. Now go back in there and lie in it.
He crushed his cigarette beneath his heel, tossed the butt into the ash can, and went back inside.
Two hours and too many cigarettes after five, Jude keyed himself into his second floor apartment. The place was quiet, thank God. None of his roommates were due home anytime soon.
He tossed his keys on the counter and shot the sink a glare—it was Tim’s turn to wash dishes, and there were still plates and cups in there from Gordy’s turn two nights ago. Jude rolled his eyes. Something told him if it didn’t get done tonight, he’d be washing it all tomorrow when it was his turn. Tim would be too tired or too stoned later, and he’d forget like he always did.
Jude
He went to work on the dishes and promised himself an evening of binge-watching Game of Thrones on his laptop. He needed the relaxation and the distraction. From his job. From the band out there on tour without him. From the roommates who couldn’t seem to remember when it was their turn to do chores. At least they managed to pay their portions of the rent on time. Usually.
Mostly he needed a distraction from the miserable, stagnant state he’d been in since he’d left the band. After he relaxed a bit, then he’d start looking at new jobs. And then, of course, he’d depress himself with how few options he had, and he’d be back in the tire-spinning cycle of needing to change something and having no idea where to start.
He’d figure it out. Eventually. All he knew right now was there were only so many times a man could pretend his roommates hadn’t once again dumped a sink full of moldy dishes in his lap after he’d spent a day walking on eggshells for some jackass in a cubicle before something had to give.
Sighing, he put a plate into the drying rack. There were also only so many times he could tell himself he needed to change things before he had to actually, like, change something.
Once he’d finished with the dishes, he smoked another cigarette on the balcony and then went into his bedroom. With his laptop on his knee, he lounged on the bed and pulled up Game of Thrones. He’d fallen almost a season behind, so he clicked on the first unwatched episode and—
His cell phone startled the shit out of him. Especially since it was his generic ringtone, the one that only went off when it was someone who wasn’t in his contact list.
He picked it up and eyed the screen. Though there was no name, something about the sequence of numbers seemed familiar. If memory served, that was—
No, it couldn’t be. Could it?
He accepted the call. “Hello?”
“Jude, thank God. It’s Kristy.”
“Hey. Uh.” He hadn’t heard the band manager’s voice since the day she’d tried to stop him from quitting, and the last thing she’d said to him had involved the words “fucking” and “idiot.” He cleared his throat. “Long time no talk.”
“Too long, honey.” She paused. “Listen, I’m gonna keep this short. The band needs you.”
A cough of laughter burst out of him. “What?”
“We’re . . .” She sighed. “Wyatt quit tonight. Just walked out.”
Jude’s lips parted. “What? What happened?”
“Let’s just say you and he apparently have the same taste in men,” she growled.
“Jesus.” He rubbed his eyes. Hadn’t Wyatt learned anything from him and Connor? They’d fought more often than not, and spent most of their stupidly volatile relationship on the brink of a catastrophic breakup. As friends, they’d been fine. As boyfriends? An utter disaster. And Wyatt had watched the whole thing.
Jude exhaled and shrugged for no one’s benefit but his own. “Okay, so? Why are you calling me? I don’t know any bass players anymore.”
“You are a bass player.”
“I . . .” He blinked. “I’m a drummer, remember?”
“But you play bass. I’ve heard you, sweetheart.”
He glanced skyward and bit back a groan. “Okay, fine, but I haven’t picked up a bass in forever.”
“You haven’t played the drums in forever either, but I’m pretty sure you could fill in there if we needed you to.”
Touché.
He swallowed. “Do you need me to fill in on the drums?”
“No. The guy who took your place is—” She hesitated. “What we need is a bass player.”
“Why me?”
“Because the band’s got a lot of back-to-back shows coming up.” The desperation in her voice was suddenly palpable, thrumming down the line and into his ear like an off-key chord. “We don’t have time to audition anyone, and even if we did, there’s no way they could learn the music that fast. You know it. You might be rusty, but you know the music.”
“I don’t know any of the new stuff.”
“The band can play all old school for a few sets if they have to. But we need a bassist, or the band is fucked.”
Jude gnawed his lip. The band’s music leaned hard on the rhythm section. The bass line wasn’t as in-your-face as the guitar or the vocalists, but if it was absent? The whole thing fell apart just as it would without the drums.
He swallowed. “I have a job now, Kris. It’s not like I can just drop everything and go on tour.”
“Yeah? How’s that job working out for you?”
He flinched, and before he even realized it, he’d picked up his cigarettes off the nightstand. “It’s—”
“That’s what I thought. Honey, I know you. And I never believed for a second you’d be happy doing the nine-to-five thing.”
Jude gnawed his lip. She was right, wasn’t she? And how many months had he spent agonizing over how to un-fuck his life?
He was out of vacation days, but he could always take a leave of absence. Or, hell, quit. His job was miserable anyway, and it didn’t pay enough to keep him afloat for much longer. It’d be just his luck that his landlord would raise his rent again and he’d have to move back in with his folks or something. Awesome.
He looked around his shithole bedroom. A mattress on the floor. Secondhand IKEA furniture on its last legs. Bare walls with water stains to match the ones on the ceiling.
“So,” she prodded. “Are you in?”
Well. Are you?
What did he have to lose?
Well, for starters . . .
Jude swept his tongue across his dry lips. “What about Connor?” Just saying his ex’s name filled his mouth with a bitter taste and his stomach with guilt.
“He knows how desperate we are. If you can be civil, so can he.”
I’ll believe that when I see it.
“Look.” Kristy’s voice sharpened. “I’m gonna tell you the same thing I’ve been telling him: get along with each other, keep your dicks out of the other band members, and we won’t have drama. It’s that simple.”
The second part of that was simple. The first part? Not so much.
But would restraining himself from choking his ex be worse than dealing with the shithole apartment and miserable job? Hadn’t he been telling himself for months he’d rather put up with Connor’s crap and his own conscience than work another day at that desk-in-a-box?
This was the opportunity he needed. He’d been an idiot to walk away from the band. How big an idiot would he have to be to pass up this chance?
“There’s one problem, though. I can’t just take that much time off from work.” He swallowed. “If I’m going to do this, it can’t be halfway. Either I’m in or I’m not.”
“So, what? You want to rejoin the band permanently?”
“Or at least longer term than a few shows. I can’t afford to lose my job for that.”
Kristy didn’t speak for a moment. “And if I can bring you on board for, say, the rest of this tour, the next album, and the headlining tour?”
Well, that would give him a good year, year and a half before he’d have to start polishing up his résumé again. “Do you think the band would go for that?”
“They’re in a panic like you wouldn’t believe over losing Wyatt. I’m pretty sure they’ll go for having a semipermanent bassist.”
“In theory. But after the way things ended with—”
“Nobody has the luxury of being picky right now. They’ve got a lot riding on this, so if there’s a solution—especially one that could be more than a Band-Aid solution—they’ll roll with it if they know what’s good for them.”
