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Wind kissed her friend's cheeks and then went off to talk to a tall, dark-haired man. Their signal was a quick purse of the lips with wide eyes, a gesture they had developed over years of moving through dark corners of the music industry.
Rose remained at the bar, the bartender lingering and cleaning a tall pint glass.
“Care for a glass?”
The voice behind her was hoarse and confident. Rose spun around on the stool, leaning her elbows on the bar. The man immediately scanned her body like she was in a machine at airport security.
“Sorry?” Rose said, speaking abruptly.
The man’s gaze shot back to hers, looking as empty as they did from a distance. He stuck out his business card between two long stick-like fingers.
“Would you like a glass of vino while we discuss business?” the man asked.
His words were hard to understand with the way he clicked his tongue, almost like there was too much saliva for him to cope with in his mouth. Rose felt a flash of anxiety as she considered who the man might be. She took the business card and gave it a once over. She smiled at him instinctively.
“It's a school night for me,” she said. “Can’t do the rockstar thing every night of the week.”
The man held onto his large, Pooh-bear-shaped gut as he emitted a grotesque chuckle. It went on for an awkwardly long time, causing Rose to begin bouncing her foot against the stool.
“How can I help you, sir?” Rose asked.
He wiped a tear from beneath his glasses and then returned his glare to Rose. She wasn’t sure what made her more uncomfortable, him assessing her body or his relentless stare into her soul.
“I adored your performance tonight,” the man said. “Very Sid Vicious meets Miley Cyrus.”
Rose frowned, playing with the card between her fingers. It wasn’t the best compliment she had heard, yet not the worst. She had an idea the man liked to think he knew what he was talking about but was actually just a predator on the loose for vulnerable women. The thought clicked in Rose’s brain like a key into a lock. She knew who the guy was, and he was fucking trouble.
“I represent acts such as yours,” the man went on. “I can manage you ladies to the top of the charts if you’d let me.”
He started to chuckle again, a bit more magnetically, and Rose knew the interaction needed to be over. She slipped off the stool and held out the card, grounding her feet against the sticky floor.
“Thank you, but we’re not looking to be managed currently,” Rose said assertively.
The man stared at the card, and when he didn't take it, Rose dropped it onto the bar. She proceeded to turn away when the man wrapped a clammy hand around her wrist. Her eyes blazed toward him, raging but also naturally frightened.
“You’re going to want to let go of me,” Rose hissed.
“Or what?” the man sneered. “You’re going to run back to Dylan?”
Rose’s heart dropped in her chest. She whipped her hand away, holding it in the air defensively. The motion caught the eye of the bartender, who walked over and lingered, ready to defend her fellow female.
“I will fucking claw that useless attempt at an eyebrow piercing out if you don’t back the fuck up,” Rose said.
The man noticed the bartender watching and then took two steps back. He held his hands in the air, teeth exposed with mirth.
“You’re making a mistake cuddling up with that bastard,” he said. “Mark my words. I will be damned to let him one-up me once again.”
Rose’s heart pumped in her chest roughly. She backed up into the crowd, watching Slick closely, like an antelope fading away into a lush forest with her eyes on the cheetah that had been hunting her.
She approached her friends, staying with them as if nothing terrible had happened. They were women, after all, so Rose knew they could sense something off. But they talked positively the entire night, engaged with fans, and her bandmates interacting with potential hook-ups.
Rose felt the impulse to call Dylan, to fall into his hands and weep. The interaction with Slick had shaken her, but she would have to explain everything else if she called him. She decided to stay out and sip water between drinks, always on the lookout for Slick and his creepy glare.
She went home in a cab with her bandmates, trailing up the elevator with a constant sensation of being watched. She locked her doors and windows despite her rational mind telling her to take it easy. She gazed at her phone once she finally settled, a text from Dylan making her heart glow.
“Hope you didn’t work too hard tonight, sweetheart,” it read. “I can’t wait to help you relax.”
“Fuck,” she whispered.
