Page 1 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

Igive another passerby a tight-lipped smile as they look me from head to chunky shit-kicker boots and back again. I am certainly out of place in the business district of Del Lune, California. In the middle of the day. Standing next to what looks like a bank that’s been boarded up since the 60s.

All the same, I look down at my concert ticket and tell myself that the long wait and the awkward stares are all going to be worth it. I read the stamped text on the ticket for probably the eighty-seventh time.

I thought more people would be here waiting. I’m surprised there aren’t, really. It’s not so much that Portent is a hugely famous band. Progressive metal isn’t exactly a casual listening experience. But almost no one comes to play at our random goth club, in our tiny coastal town. Hells, most people don’t even know we exist. Usually, whenever an act or a band comes to town, locals are clamoring for a crumb of entertainment.

“Damn, I didn’t even know they still made those things,” someone says, pulling me out of my reverent focus on my ticket.

I look up to see the most devastatingly gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on in my life. My eyes lock on his, transfixed. Hard not to be when they’re two different colors. One is a clear, near transluscent blue and the other is the most stunning verdant shade, like sunlight shining through ocean water. His hair is wild with waves and split-dyed. One half is a dark silver; the other is black as pitch.

He’s wearing a muscle tee with the logo of the band on it: a three-eyed raven mid-flight, with the leathery wings of a bat. His arms would be bare if it weren’t for the tapestry of tattoos on every inch of bare skin, and his worn Converse are patched up with safety pins and good intentions. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his distressed black jeans.

When he smiles, the piercings in his cheeks create heartbreaking dimples, and he has...has...

“You have fangs,” I blurt out.

Both his laterals and his canine teeth are subtly sharper than they should be. Not so sharp that they look cartoonish, but enough to be noticeable.

He blinks and then laughs. “Shit, I always forget about those. My dentist is the best. He basically added composite and shaped them for me so they’re not too obstructive. Sick, right?”

“So sick,” I agree.

“I like your chest piece,” he says, pointing to his own chest.

I brush my hand over my collarbone, where I had a death’s-head hawkmoth and the moon phases tattooed a few years ago. My face warms. “Thanks,” I say, having a hard time suppressing a smile.

“Hey, can I see that?” he asks, pointing to my concert ticket.

I look down at it and frown, feeling protective of it. As if reading my expression, he lifts his hands in a surrendering gesture. “I swear I’ll give it right back. And I don’t even have, like... barbecue sauce on my hands or anything. See? Super clean.”

“Barbecue sauce?”

“It was the stickiest and most stain-causing thing I could think of,” he says.

“Not blood?” I say without thinking better of it.

His brows shoot up. “Do you... have blood on your hands often, sweetheart?”

Nice going, Lillith. Very fucking cool. Creep out the hot goth boy as soon as you meet him.

“I—well—no. Not exactly. I mean, not at all. Never. I don’t do things with blood or like, have a blood kink or something.”

Why. Can’t. I. Stop. Talking.

He smiles again, and it’s then that I realize he also has a labret piercing—a simple silver ring that emphasizes the fullness of his lower lip. “You’re fucking adorable, you know that?”

My face gets so hot, so quickly, that I finally offer him the perforated cardstock in my hand, if only to get a break from his gaze as I sink into a deep well of embarrassment. If he focuses solely on me while I turn pink in front of him, I’m certain I will spontaneously combust. Just a bit of casual witch burning. As a treat. You know?

He pauses for a moment, dual-colored eyes flicking around my face, as if he is intent on torturing me. I have to close my eyes to keep from bolting away like a nervous squirrel.

When he takes the ticket from my hand, he first takes a detour to brush his callused fingers against my down-turned palm. I’m grateful when he finally slips it from my grasp, because a warm chill works through me from head to toe.

“It’s fucking dope,” I hear him say.

I open my eyes and finally sneak a sidelong glance at him, relieved to have his gaze off me. It’s not that I’m creeped out by him. Quite the opposite. I’m worried that if he keeps looking at me and smiling at me, I’ll confess my love for him before the hour is through. It’s like this guy stepped right out of my teenage, Myspace music-fueled dreams.

He’s handling the ticket with the same sort of reverent care I used handing it to him, which warms my heart. There isn’t much better than connecting with someone over a shared love of music. I wonder if this is the start of some kind of Wattpad romance. Then my eyes catch on the knuckles of his left hand.

They each have a single letter tattooed on them in a font so familiar that my heart immediately sinks.