Perfecting Patience

“Don’t you have class or something?” I asked.

I couldn’t look at her. I was never good enough for her and now I was in even worse condition. She deserved better than some out-of-work musician, a has-been, a nobody. If my hand never healed, I wouldn’t be able to take care of her. I wanted nothing more than to do just that.

“Be an asshole all you want. You don’t think I know this is my fault?” She jumped up from the bed and started to straighten up my bedroom.

I couldn’t do anything but just sit there and watch.

“Say and do whatever you want to me. I’m not leaving you. You wouldn’t leave me if the situation were different.”

And with that, she walked out of my room and slammed the door behind her.

Three days later, she was still there. I didn’t say anything to her and she didn’t say anything to me. The only time there was any need for communication was when she was trying to help me do something. I fucking hated her helping me do simple things.

“Just lift this arm and I’ll pull it off,” she said as she tried to undress me.

The stupid piece of shit cast kept catching on my shirt and I was three seconds away from ripping the damn thing off.

“I can do it myself!” I yelled.

She flinched, and instantly I hated myself more. She held up her hands in aggravation and left my room. I ended up ripping the shirt off and taking a shower. I didn’t bother putting another on afterwards. Fuck shirts and fuck their tight-ass sleeves, too.

The bedroom door opened again after I was settled in bed. I looked up to see her standing in the doorway. Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying, and I felt like I’d been punched in my stomach. I did that. I made her cry. No matter how pissed off I was at the world, I needed to keep my shit in check. I started to apologize, but before I got the words out of my mouth, she spoke.

“The replacement guitarist is here. The guys want you to listen in. They want this to be your decision.”

The tour had to continue and while I hated the idea of someone else playing my part, I understood the guys had to do what they had to do.

I limped behind her into the living room. With my head down, I could feel the eyes in the room penetrate me and I felt like a fucking invalid. It was embarrassing as hell limping around like some little punk bitch, but it hurt like hell to put too much pressure on my right knee.

When I looked up, all eyes turned away as if they weren’t just staring. The guys didn’t even look at me as I sat on the couch and ignored them. I knew they felt guilty for moving on without me, but it had to be done and I understood. It was decent of them to allow me the decision of who would take my spot until or if my hand healed.

Everyone was lined up around the huge leather sectional. My eyes settled on a girl sitting on the end of the couch directly across from me. She looked at me with angry black-lined eyes as she chewed roughly on a piece of gum. The only sound in the room was when she occasionally popped her gum.

She had hot-pink hair and her fair share of tattoos. A peek of fishnet stockings could be seen between her knee-high boots and short black schoolgirl skirt. Her top, which was also made of fishnet, covered a bright-pink bra. She was the typical rock chick, lip, nose, and eyebrow rings to match. I assumed she was a bang for one of the boys.

“So where’s this replacement guitarist?” I asked, aggravated.

The guys started to laugh loudly. The punk girl across from me stood and cut her eyes at them.

“That would be me.” She crossed her arms as if she were begging for a fight.

I couldn’t help but laugh a little as well. She looked about ready to kick some major ass.

“Is that so?” I asked in cocky tone.

Her eyes took in my naked chest before clashing with mine. “Yep. Want me to play or what?”

She put her hands on her hips, her black nails digging into her revealed skin.

“Is this some kind of joke?” I asked the guys.

They looked at me and then burst into loud laughter again.

“It’s not a fucking joke. Quit being a chauvinistic asshole. Either you want me to fucking play or not. Say something and quit wasting my goddamn time,” she said angrily.

She was pissed and she stood her ground. She wasn’t all batting her lashes at the boys. She was quick and to the point, and in some fucked up way, I respected the hell out of that.

“Then play,” I said calmly.

I’d be sure to call the record label and give them my two cents as soon as this bitch was out the door.

She stepped over to her guitar case that was sitting on the kitchen counter. She flipped it open and pulled out a beautiful red Les Paul. She had decent taste in guitars, which was another plus for her.