shake hands or anything.
There’s a verbal explosion from the stage down below. The guys all grin and lean over the railing to see what’s going on, so I do too.
It’s Nightrage’s drummer and guitarist. The crowd is too noisy to hear exactly what’s being said. Something to do with where Fucking Tony needs to Move His Amp, Dipshit.
“I put ten on Tony!” Brook says, laughing, rubbing a hand across his bleached hair.
“Naw way, man, twenty on Rod!” Eddie says gleefully.
“How about fifty on BDS?” I say.
Brook and Eddie laugh; score! Hobbit, though, says nothing, watching Nightrage intently, eyes narrowed. The members of BDS stand aside, looking impatient; they’re up first tonight, and Nightrage is probably eating into their set time.
The two guys are getting super heated now. When Rodslams both hands into Tony’s chest, the crowd roars and the two begin wrestling center stage. Some people cheer them on; most shout for them to quit it and let BDS start their show.
“Here’s a thought,” I say. “If you don’t like each other, don’t start a band.”
Brook and Eddie laugh again, while Hobbit snorts like a bull and nods. The match ends when the other two members of Nightrage show up and pull the combatants apart, dragging them backstage.
Eddie and Brook groan and retake their seats. Hobbit shakes his head.
“That’s the dumbest shit I ever seen,” he says.
“Maybe it’s all part of the show,” Brook says. “Get everyone riled up.”
“Whatever it is, it’s stupid,” Hobbit says. “Just play your damn music.” He glances over at me. “You saw the Graveyard show last weekend,” he says. “How was it?”
“Awesome,” I say. “It was the first time I’d seen you guys. It was great.”
“Yeah? Listen, what’d you think of the chorus on—”
“Hob!” Brook says. “She’s not here to pump your ego, man. She’s here to see …” Brook pinwheels his arms and throws two pointy fingers toward the stairs.
“That guy!”
I turn just as Mike approaches the table. He’s in jeans and a distressed T-shirt with a Ghost of Banquo logo pasted across the chest. The shirt fits him nicely. Just sayin’.
“What’s up?” he asks the table, but as he crosses behind me to sit down next to me, his hand touches my shoulder. Just for a second.
I’m a Dalí watch, melting under his hand. Was it by accident? On purpose?
“I don’t suppose anyone offered you something to drink?” Mike asks me.
“Not as of yet, no.” But I’ll need something, stat, because desert dust has mysteriously appeared in my mouth. I need a freaking IV line around this guy.
Mike stands back up. “Gentlemen, I am ashamed of you.” Brook playfully smacks Eddie’s shoulder, like it’s all his fault. To me, Mike asks, “Soda?”
Right then, BDS plays their first chord for their sound check. It underscores the way I feel as Mike looks down at me. Ultra-cinematic. Maybe he timed it somehow.
I can only nod.
“Diet, regular, cola, clear?”
I nod again.
“All four in one,” Mike says. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He grazes my shoulder again as he passes by on his way to the bar. Okay, that
had
to be on purpose, right? I twist my head to watch him until my neck cramps.
When Mike comes back and sits down, he’s carrying four sodas. Two dark, two clear.
“Couldn’t find one that satisfied all four requirements,” he shouts over the music.
“Thanks!” I say, and take one of the colas. Mike takes the other. Eddie and Brook elbow each other to get to the remaining two glasses.
It’s too loud to talk easily, so the five of us watch the show. Well, four of us do. One of us watches Mike. That’s all I’m sayin’.
After BDS’s set wraps up, when we can hear each other again, I ask Mike, “Where’d you get that shirt?” The man’s got taste, no doubt about it.
Mike looks surprised. “My dad. Why?”
“It’s really cool. I’d love to find one like it.” Or, you know, share yours.
There’s a verbal explosion from the stage down below. The guys all grin and lean over the railing to see what’s going on, so I do too.
It’s Nightrage’s drummer and guitarist. The crowd is too noisy to hear exactly what’s being said. Something to do with where Fucking Tony needs to Move His Amp, Dipshit.
“I put ten on Tony!” Brook says, laughing, rubbing a hand across his bleached hair.
“Naw way, man, twenty on Rod!” Eddie says gleefully.
“How about fifty on BDS?” I say.
Brook and Eddie laugh; score! Hobbit, though, says nothing, watching Nightrage intently, eyes narrowed. The members of BDS stand aside, looking impatient; they’re up first tonight, and Nightrage is probably eating into their set time.
The two guys are getting super heated now. When Rodslams both hands into Tony’s chest, the crowd roars and the two begin wrestling center stage. Some people cheer them on; most shout for them to quit it and let BDS start their show.
“Here’s a thought,” I say. “If you don’t like each other, don’t start a band.”
Brook and Eddie laugh again, while Hobbit snorts like a bull and nods. The match ends when the other two members of Nightrage show up and pull the combatants apart, dragging them backstage.
Eddie and Brook groan and retake their seats. Hobbit shakes his head.
“That’s the dumbest shit I ever seen,” he says.
“Maybe it’s all part of the show,” Brook says. “Get everyone riled up.”
“Whatever it is, it’s stupid,” Hobbit says. “Just play your damn music.” He glances over at me. “You saw the Graveyard show last weekend,” he says. “How was it?”
“Awesome,” I say. “It was the first time I’d seen you guys. It was great.”
“Yeah? Listen, what’d you think of the chorus on—”
“Hob!” Brook says. “She’s not here to pump your ego, man. She’s here to see …” Brook pinwheels his arms and throws two pointy fingers toward the stairs.
“That guy!”
I turn just as Mike approaches the table. He’s in jeans and a distressed T-shirt with a Ghost of Banquo logo pasted across the chest. The shirt fits him nicely. Just sayin’.
“What’s up?” he asks the table, but as he crosses behind me to sit down next to me, his hand touches my shoulder. Just for a second.
I’m a Dalí watch, melting under his hand. Was it by accident? On purpose?
“I don’t suppose anyone offered you something to drink?” Mike asks me.
“Not as of yet, no.” But I’ll need something, stat, because desert dust has mysteriously appeared in my mouth. I need a freaking IV line around this guy.
Mike stands back up. “Gentlemen, I am ashamed of you.” Brook playfully smacks Eddie’s shoulder, like it’s all his fault. To me, Mike asks, “Soda?”
Right then, BDS plays their first chord for their sound check. It underscores the way I feel as Mike looks down at me. Ultra-cinematic. Maybe he timed it somehow.
I can only nod.
“Diet, regular, cola, clear?”
I nod again.
“All four in one,” Mike says. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He grazes my shoulder again as he passes by on his way to the bar. Okay, that
had
to be on purpose, right? I twist my head to watch him until my neck cramps.
When Mike comes back and sits down, he’s carrying four sodas. Two dark, two clear.
“Couldn’t find one that satisfied all four requirements,” he shouts over the music.
“Thanks!” I say, and take one of the colas. Mike takes the other. Eddie and Brook elbow each other to get to the remaining two glasses.
It’s too loud to talk easily, so the five of us watch the show. Well, four of us do. One of us watches Mike. That’s all I’m sayin’.
After BDS’s set wraps up, when we can hear each other again, I ask Mike, “Where’d you get that shirt?” The man’s got taste, no doubt about it.
Mike looks surprised. “My dad. Why?”
“It’s really cool. I’d love to find one like it.” Or, you know, share yours.
Similar Books
