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.
* * * * *
“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 Malatya Escort 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 Malatya Escort Bayan 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 riff. The note that sounds and feels like a heartbeat coming through the massive speakers that flank the stage. Coming from him. And when he starts singing, I die the most satisfying little death.
I am the son
And the heir
Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and heir
Of nothing in particular.
His eyes are closed, thank fuck. It’d be hard to gravitate to the front of the stage if I were a puddle of lust on the floor. My need is focused on one thing as I push away from the pillar—getting as close to him as possible. The rest of the sweaty, undulating bodies on the dance floor don’t exist. I float right past them, not stopping until I’m standing directly in front of him, watching him from four feet below
My body can’t help itself and starts to move to the slow, sensuous beat. All the time, I watch him. How did he know? All night, he’s been playing pop hits I’d like to bury six feet under. Then he looks at me, and, what… sees right into me? Am I that easy to read?
Then I remember the grey hair, black denim skirt, black lace top, thin, black scarf, black booties, and dark, heavy eye makeup. Yeah, ok. I am that easy to read. But still. This song?
It doesn’t matter why or how. All that matters is the music. The heat rushing through me. The wetness between my legs. The painful throbbing of my clit. I’m guessing that even if I didn’t love the Smiths my body would still react this way. Stupid, traitor body.
His eyes open, then, and find mine right away, like he knew exactly where I’d be. I’m trapped by him again as he sings the next line.
There’s a club if you’d like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you.
I narrow my eyes, showing him my displeasure, because the rest of that verse isn’t quite as optimistic, and he’s singing it right at me. Seeing my reaction, the bastard smiles and winks at me. I should be pissed. I should flip him off, turn my back to him, and find some random guy to take home and use to relieve my aching need. But I don’t budge. Instead, I watch as a trickle of sweat runs down his temple, and another down the center of his chest, all the way to where the waistline of his pants sits precariously close to losing purchase on his hips.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not going anywhere.
Closing his eyes again, he sings the last of the words.
I am human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does.
The guitar riff continues for a while after the lyrics end. This time, I’m the one who closes her eyes, letting the pulsing rhythm vibrate over my skin, through my pores, and sink deep into my bones. When the song ends, I don’t get a chance to look at him again before Bridge appears in front of me.
“Yes!” she screams at me, doing a happy dance that looks a lot like running in place at rapid speed. It’s freaking adorable. “I didn’t think I’d get you to come out here.” She sounds like a proud mama, and I don’t have the heart to tell her my practically dry-humping the stage had nothing to do with her.
“Well, you looked like you were having so much fun. How could I resist?”
“Fuckin’ right,” she says with a quick nod.
We stay on the dance floor, ready for the next song to start. When the keyboardist starts in with some staccato chords I recognize immediately as AWOL Nation’s “Sail,” I’m tempted to look back up at the frontman with an accusatory stare. Not that I think the world revolves around me or anything, but two of my favorite songs, back to back? That’s just creepy.
I don’t give him—or myself—the satisfaction of giving him anymore attention, though. He’s had quite enough from me, thankyouverymuch. Much as I would love to stay right here and let my body do whatever it wants with the slow, heavy beat, I take Bridge’s hand and walk her to the bar. I need a drink. Badly.
“Shots?” I shout into her ear. Five-percent alcohol content ain’t Escort Malatya gonna cut it after what I just went through.
“Water for me. Someone’s gotta be able to drive us home.” I give her a sheepish half-smile, and she laughs at me. “Oh, stop. You needed this. It’s good to see you having a good time, Evie. Now, let’s get you that shot!”
Bridge works her magic again, walking straight up to the crowded bar and easily capturing the bartender’s attention. “Kamikaze?” she asks me.
“You know it.” It’d be hard for her not to, since that’s the only shot I ever do. She flirtatiously orders my drink and two bottles of water. When it’s ready she slides the tiny, overflowing glass my way.
“To freedom!” she announces with an infectious grin. “Freedom from shitty boyfriends and from, um, all other shitty things!” She holds up her bottle once she’s done giving her blanket toast, and I tap my shot glass to it, then slam it back, letting all three ounces burn their way down my esophagus at once. I follow it up with half of my water, knowing I’ll regret it tomorrow if I don’t. “Another?”
I wave her off. “That’s all the hard liquor I can stand for one night, thanks. I’ll take another Smirnoff Ice, though.”
Bridge gives a little wave to the bartender, and he’s back in a flash, ready to take her next order like an obedient Golden Retriever. He pops the cap and hands me the ice cold bottle, and I put a twenty on the bar to thank him for being such a good dog. Plus, I know I’m not done for the night, and this’ll be incentive to keep up the quick service, even after he realizes he has no shot with my stunning best friend.
Behind me, the music stops, and one of the guys—probably him—says, “Thanks for comin’ out tonight! We are Mr. Yuk!” The crowd goes wild. “We’ll be back in fifteen”—he pauses for a couple beats—”make it twenty minutes, so stick around.” And then Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” blasts out of the speakers.
“Ready to get back out there?” Bridge asks, tugging on my arm, eager to shake her ass again.
“I’m gonna finish this. I’ll be right there.” I give her a reassuring smile, and she shrugs and struts over to the floor, already half-dancing.
Turning back to the bar, I claim a newly abandoned stool and nurse my drink. Body after body sidles up on either side of me to order drink after drink. My head’s bent over my phone as I scroll through Instagram, and I nearly choke on the sip I just took when I see a picture of my ex with his tongue down some skank’s throat.
What the fuck? We’ve been broken up for one freaking week, and already he’s making the most of being single? Well, fuck him. I can make the most of it, too, any time I want. Any one of these Abercrombie rejects would jump at the chance to play around under my skirt—well, any skirt, really, but that’s beside the point.
To my right, some guy orders a bottle of water. I don’t look up. My eyes are glued to the cursed image on my cell, and my anger is rising. No, it’s more like pure, undiluted rage. So when a hot hand slides into the back pocket of my skirt, I’m ready to smash my bottle on the bar and stab the guy’s throat with its sharp, jagged edges. But the hand is gone so fast, I almost think I imagined it. I spin around on my stool and spot the retreating figure of the frontman.
My mouth drops open. Did he just…? Not sure why, but I slide my own hand into that same pocket, wanting to feel his residual heat on my skin. My fingers touch something that feels like the notes I used to pass to my friends in middle school, and I pull out a neatly folded piece of paper and open it up.
Follow me.
That’s all it says. Follow him? Why on Earth would I do that? Then I look back down at my cell and think, “Why the fuck wouldn’t I?” My libido kicks into high gear as soon as I make the snap decision to do exactly what he asked. Actually, what he instructed.
Hopping off the stool, I look for him. When I spot a skinny guy with a mohawk, I head in his direction. He skirts the dance floor and only briefly responds to friends and fans as he passes by them, before he reaches a set of large double doors. He hasn’t looked back. Not once. Is he really that confident I’ll follow?
Yeah. Yeah, he is. And he has every reason to be.
He slips inside whatever room is back there. I wait a full minute, then turn to see if anyone’s watching before opening the heavy door back up to join him. Once I’m inside and the door closes behind me, I lean back into it, using it to support my trembling body.
He’s not in here, or, if he is, I can’t see him. The hip hop song the DJ’s playing in the other room washes over me from speakers in the ceiling, so loud that I can’t hear anything else. It’s strange that there’s no one else in here, but then I remember the big “DO NOT ENTER” sign on the outside of the door.
I move forward a few feet and take in my surroundings. It’s not nearly as spacious as the main room, and a good chunk of the space is taken up by an oval-shaped bar that sits in the middle of the floor. There’s a small dance floor on a slightly raised platform, and the wall at the back of it is just one, big mirror. The gold pole in the middle of the platform is a bit curious. Do they have strip shows in here?