Page 7 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

I shift in my seat a little, grateful for my practice pad being on my lap as I picture Lillith’s perfectly shaped eyebrows climbing up her face, think of her manicured fingernails digging into my chest as Oren does that thing where he whispers filthy nothings into her ear.

She would love that—she seems like the kind of girl to love that. And I don’t mean that in a shitty way, either. She just seems like someone who likes to explore, who likes to feel good, who isn’t afraid to openly want something.

“Fine,” I eventually say to Oren, who’s still staring at Fletcher. “But only if she wants to.”

Oren looks at me, as if only just remembering what we were talking about. “Of course,” he says. “Don’t fuck it up for us tonight then, yeah?”

“Pft, sure,” I say.

“You’re all pigs,” Roxie says.

“You’re going to like her too,” I say. “So get off your high horse, because you’re going to be begging to eat her pussy before the show’s even over.”

Satoshi returns to the greenroom, handing his phone over to Roxie. Their eyebrows climb up their face as they look at the screen. “Oh,” they say. “Fuck, she is totally my type.”

“You took a picture of her?!” I ask Satoshi, standing up and rushing over.

Sure enough, it’s a picture not just of her, but of me too. Both of us in profile and smiling. It’s a little grainy, like he snuck a photo from far away and before either of us noticed. Sneaky fucker.

“I’m making a collage of all the women you can bang but can’t actually stay with,” Satoshi says. “It’s going to be your Christmas gift.”

Roxie cackles and I steal the phone from them, sending the photo to myself before he can figure out what I’m doing. If I can make her fall in love with me, then this will be the perfect lock screen.

“What the fuck? Give me my phone back, dickass!”

What kind of insult is Dickass? Luckily, I’ve already accomplished my amateur cybercrime when he snatches it out of my hand. “Fine, fine, take it.”

“That’s what she said,” Roxie says.

“With any luck, anyway,” Oren chimes in.

“Okay, everyone gets your dicks in your waistbands already. We have a show to get ready for.” I head toward the stage to finish balancing the sound and tuning up my kit.

Tonight is going to be a good night.

I can feel it.

ㅤ

The Vault is an old bank that has been turned into a music venue. The place must have last been used for banking in the 60s; regardless, the owners kept some of that spooky charm of its original purpose. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings, covered in a draping of cobwebs. Moth-eaten tufted sofas sit at displaced angles all around, and the teller counters act as hosts to an ever-changing quilt of band stickers and amateur graffiti.

Up ahead, standing near an enormous vault door that’s about a foot and a half thick, stands a huge guy in a compression shirt and jeans. He gestures me forward with a come-hither motion, and I bound up to him, handing him my ticket. He seems surprised by the paper, but scans it before handing it back to me. I slip it into my boot between my fishnets and the pleather so I don’t lose it.

“Don’t run, watch your step down the stairs,” the ticket taker says with practiced boredom. I still speed past him. I try not to run, for what it’s worth. But I’ve been waiting outside of The Vault since noon to see this show, and damn if I’m not going to get as close to the stage as I can. Besides, I promised Damien I’d see him when the doors opened. I want to keep that promise.

When I finally make it into the enormous room lined with security deposit boxes, Damien’s on the stage, crouched over one of the monitors, his brow furrowed.

I hurry over, forgetting about the bar despite the potential need for liquid courage.

Then I collide somewhat gracelessly with the partition.

Damien looks my way. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hi,” I say, my ribcage feeling too small to house my thrumming heart. The six hours I had to myself as the line for the show formed behind me gave me nothing but time to think of Damien and daydream relentlessly. Honestly, what girl hasn’t dreamed of a beloved, hot band member picking them out of a crowd and falling for them?

Not that Damien is falling for me or anything—I mean, I’ll settle for getting railed. I’ve been in the world’s worst dry spell and I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t thinking about what it would feel like to have his muscular arms curled around me in my apartment.

“You miss me?” he asks with a heart crushing smile.