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.
"Wanna dance?" he asks, somehow finding my glacial stare encouraging. But this guy had enough guts (or alcohol) to approach me, and I'm not a total bitch, so I politely turn him down and head for the bar.
While waiting for my turn to order, I down the rest of my drink... then finish Bridge's, too. I'm a lightweight, so by the time the bartender gets to me, I've already got a nice buzz going. New drink in hand, I move closer to the mass of people in front of the stage and lean against a large, concrete pillar, taking in the scene. The cold stone feels nice on my now heated back, and I lean my head back, close my eyes, and take a long drink.
The music is crazy loud, and even though I loathe the song playing, the vibrations under my feet and now at my back make my whole body hum. The alcohol coursing happily through my veins only amplifies that yummy feeling, so I drink until the clear bottle is empty, then toss it into the big, grey trash can on the other side of the pillar. I can barely hear the clink of glass hitting glass over the ear-splitting music.
Settling back into my spot, I look for Bridge and find her platinum hair easily. Her arms wave back and forth in the air, and she's got some erratic version of spirit fingers going on. I can practically hear her screams over all the others as she jumps up and down, excited to hear "Mr. Jones"—one of her favorite songs. Well, at least the music's improving, even if only by tiny measures.
I watch her, glad to see her having this much fun. She really drew the short straw when she chose me for a best friend. Even before my very recent heartbreak, I was a bit of a wet blanket. I'm not big on going out unless I absolutely have to. I'd much rather stay home and read or listen to my "depressing" music. This stuff? Getting dolled up and going out amongst the unwashed and over-Axed masses? This, I do for her.
My eyes leave the bouncing blonde and drift up to the guys on the stage. They're good musicians, I'll give them that. I mean, if I'm going to listen to covers of songs I can't stand, at least they're played well. I can't really see the drummer, aside from his flailing hands and sticks, but the lead guitarist is nice to look at, with his adorable mop of curly, dark hair and his strong hands stroking his instrument. (Way to go to dirty places, brain.)
Then there's the keyboardist. He's much shorter than I usually go for, but he's definitely cute and seriously talented. The bassist is to Shorty's right... but my ex is a bassist, so my eyes skip right over him and land on the frontman.
He certainly looks the part. His head is shaved, except for a close-cropped mohawk, which, ok, is pretty badass. His outfit is perfect for the stage: well-fitting camo pants with a long, thick wallet chain hanging from the pocket, a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, red Vans, and a spiked belt that's heavy enough to weigh his pants down dangerously low on his hips. He struts around the stage, occasionally having to hike that belt up, so he doesn't give us more of a show than we paid for. Instinctively, my tongue darts out to wet my lips.
He looks so natural up there. That stage is his home. It's hard to imagine him leaving here tonight and going to an actual house with four walls and a roof. That's way too traditional, too boring, and I just can't wrap my head it. Nope. He sleeps and eats right here. That makes much more sense to my fuzzy brain.
As the song comes to an end, he hops up on one of the monitors and holds the mic out to the crowd while they sing the final line. The action causes his sweat-soaked shirt to ride up, giving me a peek at the lean muscles underneath. When he steps back down, his eyes meet mine, no doubt catching me mid-ravenous-stare.
Whatever. Half the girls in here are giving him that same look. But being caught in his sights is like being entranced by a cobra—dangerous and inescapable.
He smirks, still watching me as he lifts up the hem of his t-shirt and uses it to mop up the sweat dripping from his face. I swallow hard. Why don't I have a drink in my hand? At least then I'd have something to do besides stand here and stare. With nothing in my hands, I feel unnervingly vulnerable.
He's skinnier than I've ever gone for. Not my usual type, physically. But try telling that to the needy spot between my legs. The little slut is salivating for this guy. Then he goes and makes it so much worse by removing his shirt completely. That motherfucker...
When his eyes release me, I can finally blink again. He turns and says something to the drummer, then the guitarist. Then he heads to the back of the stage, grabs his own guitar, and walks up to the mic. His head bows over the instrument, pick poised and ready. There's silence for a moment, and I hold my breath.
And then the riff...
That
