tequila, a hot tub, and Colin’s brilliant idea to throw my briefs and shorts over a fence—Dax, Colin, and about eight other people—are well acquainted with the precise size of my package.
“So, I take it that’s a yes on this offer?” Clive asks Colin.
To my surprise, Colin doesn’t shout “Yes!” Instead, he addresses Dax and me, his dark eyes looking earnest. “I’m only going to do this if you’re both one hundred percent cool with it.”
“Of course, we are!” Dax shouts.
I add, “Are you kidding? We insist you take this gig, if only to prove we’re warlocks.”
Dax pats Colin’s stomach. “Show off these washboard abs in Times Square, son! Get yourself paid!”
Colin exhales with relief. “I just don’t want you guys thinking I’m selling out or tarnishing the band’s brand.”
Dax scoffs. “We don’t have a brand. We just have the truth.” He nudges my arm. “The same goes for you, Fish Kebab. Don’t let your washboard abs go to waste because you’re worried about our ‘brand.’ If you want to make some ducats on the side, then do it.”
I roll my eyes. First off, my brain is literally incapable of worrying about our brand. That’s way above my pay-grade, dude. Also, nobody’s going to be hiring me in this lifetime to model underwear. I’m a fit dude, thanks to all the skateboarding I did with Dax in my formative years—and, these days, thanks to our grueling touring schedule and daily surfing sessions whenever I’m home. But I’m no dark and smoldering Casanova, like Colin—a guy everyone says looks like a tattooed version of that cartoon smolderfest from Tangled. And I’m certainly not a perfectly symmetrical golden god, like Dax, either. I’m just a normal-looking dude. The one who provides the everyman comic relief in our music videos and interviews, while Dax and Colin turn up the heat.
“Why are you rolling your eyes?” Dax says. “Who knows what offers you’d get, if Clive puts feelers out for you. Seriously, Clive. See what you can get for Fish Head, would you? Ever since Colin put him on protein shakes a while back, he’s turned into quite the heartthrob.”
“It’s true,” Colin says, pinching my cheek. “Thanks to me, you’re a babe magnet now, Matty-boy. You’re welcome.”
I scoff. “Nobody needs to see me smoldering at a camera in my underwear.” I look at Clive. “Unless, of course, Calvin Klein suddenly comes to their senses and realizes they made their offer to the wrong Goat.” I flash Clive my best male-model smolder. “When CK comes calling, tell them my answer is yes.”
Everyone chuckles. Which, of course, was my desired result. But still, I can’t help feeling a tiny bit salty at the laughter I’ve provoked. It was a funny joke, yes, but not that funny.
“So, are we done?” I ask. “We need to get Daxy to his beautiful wife—and I need a fucking drink.”
“All done for now.”
We say our goodbyes to Clive and make our way through his expansive lobby.
“Oh, I told Kiera we’d swing by to pick her up on our way to Reed’s,” Colin says. “She’s only five minutes out of the way from here.”
“Not a problem,” I say as I push the call button for the elevator. But in truth, Colin’s comment kind of annoys me. Not because picking up his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Kiera, will be an inconvenience. As he rightly said, she’s hardly out of our way. But because . . . frankly, I’m sick of being a third wheel. Sick of going stag to every party. Every school dance when we were teens. Sick of always feeling like the “sidekick” in the movie of our lives, whereas Dax and Colin are so obviously the “leading men.”
I’m not begrudging my two best friends their success with women over the years. And I’m certainly not begrudging Dax his blissful happiness with his wife and young kid these days, or Colin’s ability to get literally any woman he wants, whether it’s Kiera when they’re “on,” or some other hot woman when they’re “off.” Honestly, I’m not wishing Dax and Colin didn’t have everything they do . . . I guess I’m just wishing I had it, too.
The doors to the elevator open, and we step inside.
“You okay?” Dax asks, scrutinizing me.
“I’m great.”
“You look upset.”
I shrug. “Fuck it, shit happens.” It’s what I always say at times like this—when stupid shit gets me down. It’s the catchphrase I coined in middle school that cleverly turned my lifelong nickname—Fish—into an acronym.
“You’re sure?” Dax says.