Disclaimer: The musical preferences expressed by the characters in this story are not necessarily those of the author. Make of that what you will. ;)
Also, there's some light bondage, emo makeup, and ridiculous dancing.
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"Come on, Evie," my best friend pleads as we sit in my car in the parking lot of Jolly Roger's. "You've been bumming me out all week with your emo moping and that depressing music you've been playing."
"The Smiths aren't depressing. They're..."—I pause to think up an adjective that isn't synonymous with "depressing"—"...introspective." Totally failed that mission.
"Right. Depressing." With that, she exits the passenger side of the car. Her knee-high, black leather boots clack on the asphalt as she makes her way to my side and swings my door open. "Out. Out with you. We're having fun tonight, even if I have to pour it down your throat."
"Wow. You should really go into sales, Bridge. You're a natural."
Pushing past my reluctance, I slide out of the seat, careful to keep my legs closed, so I don't expose what little my denim mini skirt manages to cover. We're well into fall, so the temperatures are consistently low, but I shrug off my leather jacket and throw it over the headrest, anyway. The chill in the air bites at all the skin I'm baring, but I'll deal. This isn't the kind of place that has a coat-check, and I'm not carrying dead weight around all night.
"Woohoo!" Bridge shouts, her voice echoing over the wide expanse of pavement.
"Cool it, nut job," I say affectionately, because I'm not sure what I'd do without that nut job in my life.
She loops her arm through mine and drags me to the entrance. The two bouncers at the door inspect our IDs—and our revealing outfits—then stamp our hands with an outline of a foaming mug of beer. Classy.
The main area of the venue is a massive room with high ceilings, a stage on one side, and a long bar on the other. Everything in between is just lots of floor with lots of people on it. The second we step inside, the loud, pounding rhythm and muted sounds we heard from the parking lot become clearer, and I cringe when I can make out the tune.
"Seriously? 'Hey Ya'? What's next, 'Semi-Charmed Life'?"
It's not that I don't love Outkast; it'd be hard not to. I just can't stand hearing songs that got played to death ten years ago. But I guess that's what you have to expect from a cover band, even if, as Bridge said, "They're the best, like, ever."
As soon as that song fades out, they roll right into the next... and I'm seriously about to bolt.
"Holy shit, Eve!" She squeals, and her eyes go wide with shock. "How the fuck did you know?"
"I have a sixth sense when it comes to the predictable," I tell her, rolling my eyes. "Now, go buy me some fun. I can pour it down my own throat, so long as you're paying."
I watch her bright, blonde pixie cut as she cuts through the layers of bodies waiting to be served at the bar. In her four-inch heels, she stands above even most of the guys, making her hard to miss. One of the cute bartenders spots her right away and ignores all the impatient clubgoers to take her order. She leans over the bar, no doubt pushing up the cleavage that's barely concealed by her white halter top. His eyes drop, as does his jaw.
And this is why Bridge is the designated drink-getter.
I'm not saying I'm a dog, or anything. Hell, I'd hit on me, if I were a guy. But I like to think of my sexiness as more... unconventional. My skin is about as pale as skin can get. That comes from being a natural redhead, though no one here would know that. Six days ago, I made one of those frowned-upon, post-breakup hair changes. Without forewarning anyone, I went to the salon and had my hair stripped and dyed a rich, medium grey. I had to have a little of the damage caused by the bleach cut off my ends, but my hair still falls to just below my shoulder blades. When I got back to our apartment that night, Bridge gasped in shock, and I swear I saw tears in her eyes.
Whatever. My hair, my rules.
The band is still playing Third Eye Blind when she gets back with our drinks and hands me my beloved Smirnoff Ice. Liquid fuckin' candy with a kick. We both stand and watch the guys onstage. I'd heard of them before, of course. I doubt there's any young person in the area who hasn't.
Mr. Yuk... I'd like to call the band's name ridiculous, but as a marketing major, I have to concede its brilliance. All their merch is branded with a slightly modified version of those green-and-black poison control stickers, something everyone recognizes instantly. Well chosen, boys.
Next to me, Bridge starts swaying her hips and bouncing in time to the music, and I can tell she's just itching to get out on the dance floor. I'm not quite up for that yet, but I won't hold her back.
"Go ahead," I say, yelling so she can hear me over the deafening music.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, of course. I'll join you in a bit."
Her face lights up, and she finishes half the beer in the bottle she's holding, hands it to me, and disappears into the packed crowd. I take a swig of my own drink and tap my foot. That is, until the band starts up with Santana's "Maria Maria," and I throw my head back and groan.
"Can I get you a drink?" a male voice asks.
I groan again—internally this time—and turn to the guy standing next to me, whose beer breath I can smell from a foot away. I hold up the two bottles I already have. "I'm all set, thanks."
"It's cool," he says, looking undeterred.
He needs to be deterred, though, because he's far from my type. I'm not a boat shoes and striped polo shirt kinda girl, and I'm definitely not into doughy frat boys sporting brand new beer guts. No, I like my men tall and built, with muscles that threaten to rip their tight t-shirts to shreds. Men so large and imposing, they make me feel small and fragile by comparison. Polo Shirt over here? There's no way he'd know how to handle me or my body. No, thanks.
