Night shifts black

I study his face, so beautiful, so serene without the fear and grief in his eyes. Without the lines of ancient pain that make him look much older than he is. His body, marked with tattoos, perfectly sculpted for the consumption of the masses, now still against the silk sheets, held captive in its shell by a sickness no one will ever understand. A sickness no one wants to understand, I think, as I recall Casey’s disappointing show of concern for his friend’s state.

He’s Luke Craven. A force. A god. He’s not real. Just a fantasy outside the grasp of our own realities. A face. A body. A cover. A story. A goal for aspiring models.

I swipe at the hot liquid in my eyes and take his hand, tracing his palm with the other, wondering what it would be like to live in parallel with everyone around you. To know that they only see you for what they think you are. To not be able to truly co

A knock at the door startles me, and I glance up to meet Casey’s concerned look peeking through the crack. I’m suddenly flooded with warmth and swallow the odd sensation. He enters and closes the door.

“Is he ok?” he asks, eyeing Luke’s motionless form.

I glance down at the patient as well. “I don’t know. What are the different stages of substance abuse unconsciousness?”

He covers the distance between us and kneels beside his friend. I watch quietly, a new sensation coursing through me as I observe Casey’s gentle evaluation. He’s done this before, many times, and I’m amazed his expression doesn’t hold an ounce of disdain or disgust. Just sadness. I start to regret my harsh critique of him a minute ago.

“He’ll be ok. We need to try to wake him up in a bit and get some water in him. Has he thrown up, yet?”

I shake my head. “Not that I’ve seen.”

Casey nods, concerned. “Ok. We’ll have to do that, too. Let me get some water. Hang on.”

He pushes himself to his feet and disappears into Luke’s bathroom. I wonder why until he returns with a basin.

“It’s for soaking feet, but in case you need this before I get back,” he explains with an apologetic smile. “I’ll be right back with the water as soon as I can.”

He closes the door quietly, and I’m not sure my opinion of someone has ever changed so abruptly.

∞∞∞

Casey returns as promised, and I find a strange sense of relief settle over me as he moves through the door. His arms are full, and I notice he’s brought more than just water for Luke.

“Go

I laugh, grateful for his joke as much as the food. I shift on the bed so Casey can take a seat beside me. He does, and leans against the headboard like I am.

“I’m sorry about how I acted out there,” he begins. “It hurts you know? Seeing him like this. Sometimes I’m not strong enough to deal with it the way I should. I try to pretend he’s the same person now that he was then, but he’s not.”

“Messing around with supermodels?”

He offers a weak smile, and I can see the guilt in his eyes. “That wouldn’t have been a cause for concern a year ago. But you were right to be worried. It doesn’t mean now what it meant then. It’s just…” He quiets and looks away, and something about his sad expression touches me. “I want to help him, I do, I just don’t know how. At some point...” He meets my eyes again, almost pleading. “How can I help him if he won’t even let me? You remember what happened at breakfast. He doesn’t want to be helped. I’d be here every day if he let me.”

I surprise both of us by taking his hand. I don’t know why I do it, it just seems natural at that moment. He accepts the gesture and runs his thumb over mine. It’s the best we can do to share our mutual struggle.

“What about you?” I ask after a long silence.

“What about me?”

I smile over at him to prove I’m changing the tone of the conversation. “What’s your story?”

He laughs. “You’re not some undercover investigative reporter or something, are you?”

I shrug. “Would that change your answer?” I tease, and I love his return grin.

“I guess not.” He leans his head against the bed again and studies the opposite wall. We can see our reflections in the mirror there. I would have thought it’d be awkward, but I actually like watching Casey’s thoughts flash across his face. He’s not nearly as guarded as Luke.

“I was one of ten,” he a

“Ten? As in ten siblings?”

He grins and nods. “Yes. Lucky number seven actually.”

I let out my breath and rest back against the headboard, trying to imagine life with nine other siblings.

“Wow. I’m surprised you ended up with Luke and Night Shifts Black, then. Shouldn’t you be committed to some cheesy family band? Geez, with ten of you, you could have the whole road crew, too.”

He laughs. “Oh, believe me, my parents tried. Three of my siblings actually still play together.”

“Really?” I ask.

He nods. “Yep. They’ve even put some albums out. I could never get into the country thing, though. The black sheep, I guess,” he jokes, and I grin.

“Seriously. When you made a left, you made a hard left, huh. Well, it seemed to work out for you anyway.”

He shrugs. “What about you?”

I give him a quick smile. “No bands. Not even country ones.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. Luke said you’re a writer.”

It’s my turn to shrug. “I guess.”

“You guess?” he asks with a smirk. “What does that mean?”

I smile over at him. “It means that saying ‘I’m a writer’ implies I’m actually making a living at it.”

He seems skeptical. “Really? I thought it meant you spend lots of time writing things.”

I like his response and find myself shy for some reason. “I guess it can mean that, too. Would you still consider yourself a musician if no one paid you to play?”

“Of course.” He smiles. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen for a long time, though.”

I laugh. “How much do you make for a show anyway?” I can feel his surprise, and immediately stiffen. “I’m sorry! I don’t know where that came from! Don’t answer that.” But he only seems amused.

“Not as much as you’d think. Well not anymore, anyway. We used to get three to four hundred in guarantees. Now, it’s more like one or two. Less when we’re not headlining.”

My eyes widen. “Two hundred? Like two hundred dollars? That’s it?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Oh my god, I love you! Ha! No. Two hundred thousand, hon.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Wait, per show? And that’s not much?”

He studies me again, and I can see his expression change, but I can’t read it. “I mean, it’s fine, I guess, but it’s not where the real money is. We make most of it through writing and performance royalties.” He glances over at our sleeping friend. “This guy here hasn’t touched a guitar in a year and is still making a fortune passed out on his ass, believe it or not.”

“Ok, Luke I get, but I thought you didn’t write. You said at breakfast Luke was the writer. You weren’t good with adjectives.”

He shakes his head in exasperation. “Seriously? Do you remember everything?”

I shrug with a grin. “Am I wrong?”

He laughs again. “I guess not. I did say that. But to answer your question, I was just messing around. My name’s in the credits, too. It’s true, Luke tends to bring the magic to the lyrics, but I’m the music guy. That hook in ‘Better Get Back’ that they use for all those hockey ads? All me.”