Band On The Run

Love Interruption

I didn't dare open my eyes, hoping that the people surrounding me would put it down to trying to focus. And I should've been, focusing that is. I'd fucked up this song more times than I could count already. Yet my mind couldn't put everything else aside to allow me to sink into the song that was so familiar I should've been able to sing it in my sleep.

It wasn't the song that had my heart pulsing against the sensitive skin of my throat. There was no excitement in the rapid beating, just plain nerves.

Not the type I would get before a show, but the type where your body feels as if it's getting ready to go into survival mode. It was like my body knew I was putting it into a dire situation, and honestly it wasn't far off.

Because I couldn't look at him during this song, I could barely look at him anyways.

With a throat so harshly coiled I thought it was difficult to breathe through, I leaned fractionally forwards into the mic to sing, "We got married in a fever –"

Instantly I knew it was no good. The first note had only just left my lips and I'd given up, my voice so tight that it came out brittle where it should've been bold. The dejected pull of my shoulders let everyone know I was aware, but I'd known that wouldn't be enough. It had to be broadcasted through the room.

"Jesus Christ," Seth snapped before I'd finished singing, abruptly stopping his acoustic and the rest of the band stuttered to a stop behind us. "Are we boring or something, Staub?"

I was finding it almost impossible to look at him these days, even when we weren't supposed to be sharing vocals on the June Carter and Johnny Cash classis. I'd thought it would get easier the more frustrated he got with me, but it only helped fractionally. However I knew things would only get worse if I refused to open my eyes.

So with a deep breath, I let them fall open to look at Seth. I felt like the look must've been exhausted through my hooded eyes, because it gave him a pause on the other side of the microphone stand. He'd been on a tear today, convinced that I didn't know how to carry a note anywhere, and it seemed like the nastier he became, the worse I began to perform. He hadn't even bothered to harmonize with me the last time.

However the pause didn't last long before his expression hardened. "What do we have to do? You're either so pitchy we can't bare to listen to you or you can barely choke the words out, like you're waiting for someone to tell you that it's okay for you to sing."

Gathering a breath, I just stared at him for a beat. I could've said a lot to that. I could've told him that his voice sounded two cigarettes away from rotting off the face of the earth. I could've said that his finger work was sloppy. I could've told him that maybe if someone wasn't snapping at me every two seconds about how terrible I was at my job, I might be able to get into the music without the constant stops.

However I just looked at him, and said in a tired voice, "I don't what's going on with me today."

"It's not just today," he retorted nastily.

That was true, as much as I wished it wasn't. Not sure how I could answer that, I just shoved a hand through my hair, pushing it away from my forehead. I felt too hot.

"Give her a break, Seth," Will piped up from behind us. I closed my eyes at the sound of his voice, but didn't feel any relief at his defensive tone. "You need to breathe instead of jumping down her throat for a second. She's still getting back into things."

"Then what's your excuse?" Seth spun around to face Will, gripping onto the neck of his guitar so tightly I thought he might break it.

As Will went to stand up from behind his drum kit, I realized just how familiar it all was.