Franco (Bright Side, #3)

by Kim Holden

"Let's go, twizzle tits!" I swear Jamie and Robbie are the slowest creatures to walk upright on two legs. Okay, that's a lie, Gus is the slowest. But considering Jamie and Robbie do everything together like they're conjoined, it doubles their slow quotient and puts them slightly ahead of Gus.

Gus's past year has been the things nightmares are made of. Losing people you love is a bitch. But losing your best friend, especially someone as fucking outstanding as Kate Sedgwick, rocked him to his core. He was a hollowed-out shell going through the motions for months and months. Looking at life through lifeless eyes and seeing absolutely nothing but the void she left behind. It was devastating to watch, because a) I couldn't help him, b) I missed her too, and c) I knew the pain and loss I felt must be amplified by one thousand percent in his heart—and that kind of grief was unimaginable to even consider.

L.A. is a pretentious bitch; everything in this city is based on looks, appearances, stature, success...or a damn good fabrication of those. It's an illusion that houses nuggets of authenticity. And I feel like those nuggets are so few and far between that I gloss over them because it's too hard to distinguish the real from the fake. L.A. is not my scene, so the atmosphere in here makes me smile and forget about the people not so far away trying to be someone they're not.

The kid can't hide an emotion to save his life. He sucks at poker because, you know, no poker face. The only person he can beat is Gus, and I half think that's because Gus lets him win.

He's like a mini-Gus, except they're nothing alike. They share a lot of the same personality traits, but they project them differently. They're both insanely nice and generous, but while Gus does it with an easy, it's-who-I-am attitude, Jamie is more naïve, like a baby animal that you want to protect from the fierce, vicious world outside for fear he'll get eaten alive.

I'm shit at pool. I know it's a game of geometry and angles, but my mind doesn't work that way, which means I always lose. And we always play for money, so not only do I lose my dignity, but I lose cashola, too. Technically, it should be the last thing I enjoy doing, but I love it. I have a pool table at home, and I can play whenever I want, but I'm still shit even with the practice. I guess that's proof you don't have to be good at something to enjoy it.

The guy is average in the looks department, but he looks cynical and jaded. I'd wager his day gig has him confined to a cube farm doing mundane work that has already stolen his soul and left him a cookie cutter soldier of boredom and mediocrity with no hopes or dreams. I know you think I'm exaggerating but I'm good at reading people and this dude looks like he would be torture to spend five minutes with, as if he could suck the life and creativity out of you like a dementor in the Harry Potter films and you'd be left only a zombie like him. He's frowning, sulking like he's Captain in charge of the S.S. Asshole. I'm not a fighter, but I kind of want to kick his ass, because he's so blatantly treating her like an irritation.

Gus's eyebrows lift in an admission of irreproachable guilt. The guy never hides anything, I love that about him. He's the real deal and doesn't hide from what's going on in his mind. It reflects in his expressions because he doesn't filter. He doesn't mask.

there stands Gemma. In leopard print shorts and a black tank top with a union jack flag on the front. It only reinforces everything else about her that screams subtle sophistication. I'm one who defines sophistication as setting oneself apart from the rest of the crowd. And not in a douchey, I'm-too-good-for-you manner—but worldly, unique, classy. Classy is all about the way a woman carries herself. And Gemma can rock the hell out of classy in a pair of animal print shorts and a tank top.

my heart is racing again, spurred on by her joy. Happiness in another person always finds its way inside me. I subconsciously welcome it into my soul. I feed on it. It's not a complicated process. It just happens. When I was young, I watched my grandmother, who lived with us for a short time, battle Alzheimer's. It stole not only her memories; it stole her ability to function. But it never stole her happiness and kind heart. And I remember at eleven years old thinking how admirable that was. Because she fought to hold onto it. My friend Kate only reinforced my feelings when she got sick. She was positive and happy up to the very end.

"Death fucks people up."

The passage of time has healing powers, though. It can turn grief into gratitude. Giving thanks for knowing and loving a friend like Kate. The tattoo on my wrist is a reminder of her legacy and will be with me for the rest of my life. I look at it often, Do epic. Two little words that make me feel powerful.

We eat them while scrolling through the photos on our phones and sharing old pics of Kate. It's funny how many we have between the two of us. And in every single one, she's smiling like it's the best day of her fucking life. That's how she looked all the damn time. All smiles. And after trading shots for a few minutes, we're both smiling too. It's impossible not to. Her spirit is infectious.

Kate, despite being tired as hell from a long day in the studio, is bouncing on the balls of her socked feet. She was always that way, like there was so much happy energy buzzing inside just waiting to be unleashed on the world.

"It's hard to believe she's gone, isn't it?" Jamie says, bringing me back to the here and now. "How could someone that full of life, have it taken, robbed," he corrects, "from her? It's not fair." I shake my head as my smile fades. "It's sure as hell not fair."

Take care of my boy. Don't let the tattoos fool you, he's a delicate little blossom." I shake my head. "Night, shithead." He laughs. "Night night, you sexy beast."

Her face squishes up in disgust. "God no, guacamole is vile." I'm wounded, truly wounded. "Avocados are sacred. What do you mean guacamole is vile? I'm pretty sure repentance is required for speaking such blasphemy in a holy place like this." "Chubby's Burritos is holy?" she asks. "Yes, heathen, it is. Wait until you taste your burrito. It'll be miraculous, life changing. You'll likely weep from sheer happiness." "I had no idea. Suddenly this dinner date feels like a baptism. I feel underdressed. I should've worn my fascinator."

I didn't peg her for a sloth girl. "Sloths? Really?" "Mmm." She hums reassurance. "I think it's their dead, soulless eyes and dim wit that I find so alluring." "Captivating qualities," I tease. "I'm a complicated woman."

She sounds determined. I love determined. Determined makes dreams happen.

The tequila's kicking in for both of us, I can see it in her eyes. They're hazed with honesty. She's an open book ready to relate her tales. And I want to hear them all.

"Shit. I hate that word. I fucking hate it. Cancer is an evil that shouldn't exist. I'm so sorry, Gem." She nods and blinks repeatedly to clear the tears from her eyes. When one breaks free she swipes it away quickly. "I'm sorry." Sucking in her lips, she pinches them between her teeth until the surge passes. "I'm sorry. I'm usually not this emotional about it. My mum's been gone for twenty years. Apparently, I shouldn't drink and discuss this subject." I rub her arm to give her all the comfort I can. "Those tears are love. Don't ever apologize for that."

"Hiya," she lilts. The rise and fall of her voice within two syllables is almost childlike, innocent and sweet, denoting kindness. She isn't fake. She doesn't go out of her way to be nice. She just is.

I also smile so I don't look threatening because Gus always tells me I look like I'm about to annihilate someone when I'm not smiling.

He's dressed in clothes that are supposed to say, I don't give a fuck and that makes me cooler than Jesus. But it's obvious he's trying too hard, because all I'm hearing is, I do give a fuck, lots and lots of fucks. In fact, I want everyone to notice how many fucks I give, and that makes me a douche canoe.

Mr. Knott, the thundercunt, is looking me over and it's obvious he doesn't like what he sees. I guess my tattoos aren't worthy. Fuck him. Tattoos are always worthy.

There's a bubble of calm that surrounds Gemma and I love being on the inside of it. Helena is feeling it too. Gemma has a gift for putting people at ease. Her charisma is rare, not many people I've come across can draw people in like she can, even complete strangers. Just being around her makes me unbelievably happy. She's sunshine in a human.

People love you, Gem. I hope you realize that. You put out this light that people can't resist being drawn to. That's a gift."

It's the big man's birthday today. Gus is twenty-three. Here's a little fact about Gus. He's a t-shirt whore. He loves them. So a few years back Jamie, Robbie, and I started gifting Gus the most horrendous t-shirt we could find on his birthday. Here's another thing about Gus—if he receives something as a gift, he'll wear it no matter what because he's sentimental as hell and he honestly doesn't give a shit if people laugh at him. I think he looks forward to seeing what kind of abomination we can come up with to celebrate his big day now that it's become tradition. Last year was downplayed because it was the month from hell, so this year the boys and I have been searching high and low for just the right tee to make up for it.

Surfing is critical to wellbeing for all of us, being away from it for too long manifests itself in negative ways. Riding, being one with the ocean, appreciating nature, is religion for me. The guys are much the same. It was an hour well spent. Therapy. And besides the restorative, zen-like aspects, a sea lion popped up in the water two feet from Gus and he screamed like a terrified little girl. It was priceless. A spectacle that everyone within thirty feet of us in the water thoroughly enjoyed. Gus was heckled by friends and strangers alike, with absolutely no mercy. It's a good thing he's such a good sport.

It's a text from Gus, We're on the road headed home and I just realized I forgot my black hoodie at the studio. If you have time before you leave town can you grab it? Followed immediately by another text, If not, no worries. And another, It's only my favorite. And another, I'll probably cry for days if I lose it forever. I reply to stop the whining, If you shut up I'll stop by and grab it. His response is quick. It's a link to the YouTube clip of "Holding Out For a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler. I can't help but laugh because I know the song and video in all its eighties gun fighting glory. Gus and I smoked some weed one night years ago and stumbled upon this little nugget of gold. We watched it over and over. What began as pure cheese was somehow brilliance after an hour of viewing it repeatedly. The weed was good. Obviously.

Every musician I've ever known, no matter the instrument they play, reacts differently to music. Playing and creating is one of the most intimate acts a human can engage in. It's personality and heart projected, that's what art is. But this guy, there's something different about him. There's something about watching him that reminds me of Gus. They're nothing alike in the way they look or play, but there's this feeling that what you're witnessing is special. That there aren't many people in the world who have the gift like they do.

It's different listening to music critically that isn't your own in the studio. Different perspective, when you remove personal attachment and investment.

I'm one of those people who wishes success for everyone, no matter what they do, because life isn't a competition. It doesn't require that one person lose because another one wins. We can all win.

there aren't that many people you meet who are instantaneously woven into the fabric of your life like they were always meant to be there.

That's when I hit my stride. I suppose it's like runner's high, endorphins are released, sweat coats and drips, and I'm reminded why I love doing this. Some people use meditation or prayer to find their center, to bring them peace. I drum. My hearing is shot from years of constant punishment. But there's nothing like the audible fuzz that hangs on after I'm done playing. My body's reluctance to let go of the music. It coats the inside of my skull like cobwebs when I walk to the kitchen to replenish lost liquids. On nights like this, I play to exhaustion...and then I play a little longer. Every part of me used up and worn out. Like I've pushed my mind and body's purpose to the breaking point. Nothing makes me feel more alive than going to bed utterly drained. It's like a big high five from the universe for making the most of the past twenty-four hours.

There's no apprehension. She's one of the only people I've ever known who holds back judgment until they know the whole story. Gus inherited the gift from her. It's the way we should all live, but most people don't.

"Tell me to stop being a fucking pussy, or I'll regret it for the rest of my life." The request is loud but rushed, he probably didn't understand it all because I was talking too fast. "One more time for the kids back home?" He should sound confused. He doesn't. That's why our friendship works. I repeat slowly, "Tell me to stop being a fucking pussy or I'll regret it for the rest of my life." "Franco." That's his serious voice to get my attention. He busts it out only on rare occasion. "Hit me with it." "Stop being a fucking pussy, dude. Regret is a motherfucker that follows you around for life. It haunts you. You don't want that shit. Do you hear me?" He's good. That was convincing. Well done. "I hear you," I answer. "You go do what you gotta do," he commands. "Gracias, homie." I mean it. "Adios." "De nada, homie. Peace out."

"I just got home from PetSmart. Had to buy Spare Ribs a scratching post. The little diva suddenly thinks her Adamantium claws need to be sharpened several times a day on the side of my nightstand. It feels like a vendetta, dude. She needs something else to take out her vengeance on." Gus doesn't even sound pissed. He sounds like he's on the cat's side. God, he cracks me up.

Ten minutes later Gus is climbing in the passenger seat of my truck dressed in an old t-shirt with cut off sleeves that reads I'm just here for the tacos, and frayed out shorts, and we're headed to Home Depot. The paint department is daunting. Too many colors. Gus is like a kid in a candy store with the rainbow of paint sample cards in front of him. His intensity is frightening. "Remind me again what color your tile is?" "White. Everything's white except the walls." He's taking this seriously. I guess I need to too. He rubs the scruff on his chin, thinking. "The possibilities are endless." "Right?" I agree, suddenly into this process. "You're lucky the previous owner went neutral with the palette." His eyes are still roving the color wall. Who the fuck are we and what happened to Gus and Franco? But I roll with it because this needs to happen and we're both into it. "True."

Gus texts Scout, Come to Franco's after work for pizza. Wear clothes you can trash. And bring a power drill, please. She replies, Should I ask questions? He responds, Nope. Trust in the process, sweetheart.

"Thanks for the chow and cerveza. I need to run a few errands in the morning, so I'll stop by and pick you up, and we can grab brunch and then shop." He closes his eyes and shakes his head like he's just heard the words coming out of his mouth for the first time all day. "Jesus Christ, did I just say 'grab brunch and then shop?'" I cringe and nod. "You did. It was pretty fucking awful." He grabs his crotch with his free hand. "I felt my balls shrivel." "You've been talking like that all day, man. You were in a DIY trance. Not yourself." He looks at Scout with a plea. "If I setup a goddamn Pinterest account, I want you to punch me in the fucking face." She nods. "Pinterest. Punch to the face. Got it." And then she turns toward me. "We should get together one night while Gemma's here. I'd like to meet her." "Done." "Later, fudge nugget," Gus says on his way out the door. "Later, nut juggler. Later, Scout. Thanks." "Bye, Franco." As friends go, I couldn't ask for better.

My doorbell rings at eleven o'clock in the morning. Six times it rings. One right after the next. It's Gus. It has to be Gus. No one else is that annoying on purpose.

He's a considerate bastard. His mom's child through and through. They're good people.

Love survived regardless of arguments or disagreements.

I draw such a distinction between my personal life and my career because one is real and the other is fantasy. Some people can't reconcile the two, and fame makes authentic relationships difficult. Not on my end. I treat everyone the same, regardless of who they are. But some people only want to be friends with fame, not with me. I'm not my fame, I just happen to be a drummer in a band that works their asses off and who's had some luck in the success department. It's the reason I keep my circle small: pretty much childhood friends, the band, and my family. Not because I'm a dick who doesn't want to let people in, but because, honestly, there's only so many times I can be used before it starts feeling like a kick to the face. A kick to the face that always leaves me questioning my integrity, even when I wasn't the one pulling the 'I'm-a-shady-human-being' bullshit.

I love humility—it's the equivalent of a neon sign advertising My heart isn't an inconsiderate bastard, I'm nice. For real.

I don't need validation. But her reaction, humor included, put a smile on my face that I'm sure won't go away for days. Sometimes confidence is boosted when you didn't even know you needed it. Consider me boosted. And coming from her, it means even more.

She says, "Cheers," at the same time I say, "Salud," and all is right in the world. I know outside this house there are billions of people doing a billion different things, but I feel a little sorry for them at the moment. Because they're not in my shoes, in Gem's company. She makes everything better. She's like fireworks, and not the boring beginning and middle part, but the fucking finale that lights up the sky in a riot of color and sound.

I'm just going to hold her because sometimes touch is the only way to tell someone that you care unconditionally. It doesn't require complicated, deep explanation—it only requires effort. Effort is who I am, I can give her effort all night long.

Her big blue eyes fix on mine, and I know she's about to be real with me. Soul bearing real. "Do you think sometimes dreams are better left as dreams because they still hold possibility and wonder and there's no room for failure?" I don't hesitate, not even for a split second, because I believe it so fiercely. "No. I believe that dreams fuel life. And it's when you're chasing them that you're most alive. There's no reward in settling for the safety of status quo." She swipes under her eyes. It smears mascara across her cheekbones instead of clearing it away. I don't tell her because I don't want her to get rid of it. Life can get messy when you're fighting like hell. I think it's a sign of the courage she's digging deep for.