Still Into You

Chapter One

Sloane Donavan, Alternative Press.”

Tugging my press pass from my back pocket, I hold it up for the beefy man in the overtight black shirt that reads SECURITY.

He gives his stickered clipboard a cursory glance before opening the graffitied door for me.

A blast of music ushers me inside, and I return the badge to my pocket while my eyes adjust to the darkness of the venue.

This is my first time here, but all backstages are roughly the same.

Bare-bones, all the effort put into the part the concertgoers will see.

Back here, it’s all metal rigging and scuffed wooden floors covered in leftover tape from past events.

I love it. It’s my second-favorite place in the world.

Once I can see, I follow the flow of bodies, weaving in and out of roadies trying to do their jobs amongst the ever-growing crowd backstage. Amidst the flurry, I find the bespectacled woman I seek.

“Robb!” I call over the crowd.

Head whipping to the side, her eyes meet mine and she gestures me over, making room for me side stage.

Everything sounds terrible in the wings—too much drums and not enough of literally everything else.

I never watch shows from here, but it’s where we always converge beforehand, where all the latest gossip is traded.

Musicians, groupies, photographers, roadies, journalists—we’re all crammed in here and everyone has stories to share.

I’ve never been big on talking, but listening? That I can do.

I wind through the clusters of people toward Robb, one of the senior writers at Alternative Press.

That alone is enough to make me idolize her, but her effortless style—pixie cut, thick black-rimmed glasses, and Monroe piercing—would also do it.

Robb oozes cool, the older sister I always wanted in a house full of brothers.

With her dark blue eyes and (albeit bleached) blond hair, we could be sisters.

As soon as I reach her, I recognize the face next to her, the very person we came to Battle of the Bands to see: Hudson Chase, lead singer of Hollow Graves and the next big thing to come out of Cleveland, if my instincts are correct, and I’m usually right about these things.

I don’t have a musical bone in my body—save for my ear—but I know talent.

Maybe it’s from growing up next door to a boy who’s now the drummer for Post Humorous, whose single has dominated the alt-rock charts all summer.

Or maybe it’s the sheer number of hours I spent in skate parks as a gangly teen, listening to the local Boston bands.

Whatever it was, it got me my internship at The Offbeat, the alt-music offshoot of Rolling Stone, and now, freelancing for Alternative Press.

“Hudson,” he says, introducing himself.

I always find it endearing when the lead act isn’t too proud to introduce themselves.

“Sloane Donavan,” I say for the second time tonight.

I can’t help but full-name myself. It’s a leftover habit from childhood. Growing up with four older brothers in a sports-obsessed Boston suburb, the Donavan name was well-known for gracing the back of a lot of jerseys. That name may not mean the same thing here, but it does get me in the door.

What I don’t expect, however, is the spark of recognition in Hudson’s eyes.

It’s a little too knowing. I’m not vain enough to think it’s because of my prowess as a writer.

I’ve only been out of college for two years, and while I’ve worked for impressive magazines, I’m no one.

I’m not even a full-time staff member—yet.

But even most veteran journalists aren’t on a name-recognition level.

I’m a part of this world, sure, but I’m a fly on the wall, observing, not the spectacle.

I don’t know why he recognizes my name, but my anxiety automatically assumes it’s a bad reason.

“Sloane started at AP last month,” Robb tells him. “You’ll be seeing a lot of her, I’m sure. She’s helping me with the Artists to Watch column.”

Hudson’s brows rise, intrigued. It’s a list any up-and-coming artist would kill to be on, as it’s bolstered many a band from local talent to household name. “We’ll have to get you by the studio sometime.”

“I’d love that.” I realize a moment too late I’m talking too loud, the crowd having finally quieted in anticipation of the opening act taking the stage.

I grimace apologetically. Hudson hangs his head, wavy brown hair falling forward to hide his smile.

Yes, Hollow Graves is absolutely going to blow up.

In part due to their talent, which even from their demos is undeniable, but also because Hudson’s boyish charm is so refreshing amongst the sea of overconfident, cocksure vocalists.

I’m intrigued to see how this translates on stage.

The opening band takes the stage with a scream of “Battle of the Bands 2010, let’s fucking gooo!” and Robb gets dragged into a conversation with someone I don’t know.

I dither awkwardly in place. I hate being new.

Making friends has never come easily to me.

I’ve learned how to make small talk when I’m working—how to get other people talking, that is—but making actual friends on purpose is not a skill in my arsenal.

I blame being grandfathered in by my older brothers, always tagging along behind them, the five of us inseparable after our mom left.

Then Charlie—my neighbor in the band—introduced me to his bandmates, who are my closest (and only) friends a decade later.

I have no idea how to make friends as an adult.

I think Robb and I are becoming friends, despite our eight-year age gap.

I’ve got an old soul and resting bitch face, and I think she kins with that.

Catching Robb’s eye, I jerk my head in the direction of the crowd and she nods, gesturing that she’ll catch up with me.

“You going into the pit?” Hudson asks with a twinkle in his startlingly light eyes.

I laugh. “Absolutely not. I’m headed to the sound booth.” It’s the best place to watch a show. Far enough back that you can see and hear everything, with no one elbowing you to get to the front.

“Can I come with you?” he asks earnestly.

I smile. “Sure.”

We make our way around the side of the room before venturing out into the crowd. No one stops us or recognizes Hudson. I flash my badge and the sound technician lets us into his booth—a rectangle of metal fencing barricading the crowd from thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment.

As we settle into the booth, I exhale deeply.

This is my favorite place in the world. The constant buzz of anxiety inside me quiets when I’m at a show.

I’m fully present in a way I’m normally not.

I’m not five years in the past, overanalyzing everything I could have done differently, done better.

I’m not five years in the future, laying bricks to follow, paving the path to my dreams. I’m here, now.

I’m simultaneously anonymous and a crucial part of something bigger than myself.

Leaning over, I bring my mouth close to Hudson’s ear so he can hear me. “You won’t be able to do that much longer.”

“Do what?” he asks with a smirk, already knowing full well what I’m going to say. The humility is incredibly charming.

“Walk through a crowd undisturbed.”

He tries and fails to contain a grin. This is why I still spend so much time at smaller venues, skulking around skate parks I’m starting to feel too old to visit.

I love being the first person to discover a talent.

I know some people find it insufferably snobby—I knew them before they were cool—but watching the crowds at their shows get bigger, the venues growing larger to accommodate them, until the crowds are bursting at the seams there, too…

It fills me with proud papa bear feelings.

It’s my job now, sure, but being a small part of someone else’s journey to actualizing a dream—that’s not work to me.

The band playing isn’t bad. All female, which piques my interest. Even one woman or person of color in a band is a welcome sight on the punk scene.

These girls are young, high school age at most, but they’re talented.

Musically, at least. They haven’t quite figured out their stage presence yet.

They look like they all saw the same photo of Courtney Love and said, “Yeah, that’s the look.

” I can’t help but find it endearing, because I did the same thing—albeit with her other half.

My mom left when I was in kindergarten. Growing up in a household of only men and cargo-short hand-me-downs, I was predestined to be a grungy tomboy.

But by the power of Kurt Cobain and Winona Ryder, I scrapped together some semblance of a personal style—even if it is just the same jeans and band tees over and over, like a cartoon character with a closet full of one outfit and one outfit only.

As the headliners, it’s obvious Hollow Graves will be winning tonight’s Battle of the Bands and thus the prize—a feature in Alternative Press—but I make a mental note to put something together for these girls, too, before the next pitch meeting.

Unlike the writing staff, freelancers aren’t guaranteed assignments, so I’m constantly on the hunt for my next article—and my next paycheck.

At the end of their set, the band leaves the stage to lukewarm applause. Robb joins me in the sound booth and Hudson takes his leave to warm up with his bandmates backstage.

“Get ready,” Robb warns.

“For what?” I ask in alarm, pivoting to the side to scrutinize her and her odd greeting.

She doesn’t clarify, but I already have my answer.

Over her shoulder is Hudson, in one of those half-hug handshakes with the lead singer of Final Revelations—hands down the biggest band to come out of Cleveland in the past decade.

The lights dim as the next band takes the stage to enthusiastic applause, and it’s only that which saves Dax Nakamura from being recognized by a crowd of metalheads.

Over six feet tall, half Black, half Japanese, industry bad boy turned straight edge and every groupie’s white whale, he couldn’t blend in if he tried.

He breaks away from Hudson—who’s due on stage next—and is now heading toward our makeshift sound booth. If he spotted me, recognized me, I don’t know, my attention now trained straight ahead.

Robb leaves my side to open up the barricade for Dax, but because she stepped aside to let him into the tiny booth, the only place for Dax to stand is… directly next to me. My heart knocks around inside my chest like tennis shoes in a dryer.

The last time Robb, Dax, and I were in the same room was on what was supposed to be my first date with Dax.

We made a pit stop at the AP office because Dax had merch to sign for some fundraiser.

Running errands on our date: the height of romance, I tell you.

But I met Robb, and that ended up paying off for me when I decided to leave The Offbeat and needed an in at AP.

The last time I saw Dax was in my hometown of Boston, where I broke up with him.

The East Coast leg of Punkapalooza was over.

I was touring with Post Humorous as their PR manager (aka MySpace blog writer), and since it was their last tour stop, it was my last stop, too.

As one of the headliners, Dax was continuing on.

He invited me to go with him, but I had other plans.

Plans to complete the final year of my journalism major and an internship in California.

And what was the point of delaying the inevitable?

I was in Boston, he was on tour, in lots of cities, none of them mine. That was three years ago.

And now, he’s here. I’m here, in his city, with an apartment I signed a year lease on in the hopes AP will hire me full-time.

Once I’m sure he’s watching the stage, I sneak a peek, drinking him in under the premise of tucking my hair behind my ear.

He must’ve spent time in the sun recently, his normally light brown skin deeper, warmer, like if I were to brush my knuckles along his unfair cheekbones, trace the line of his singular, rarely seen dimple, I could feel the sun’s kiss on his skin.

His hair is the same, the curls atop his otherwise close-cropped hair sticking out in every direction.

A silver septum piercing winks at the bottom of his nose, drawing my attention to his mouth.

I don’t allow my gaze to linger there. I can’t.

Not when the memories of what he can do with that mouth are branded on my skin like an invisible tattoo.

At the base of his throat, the chain that holds his sobriety chip disappears under the frayed collar of his shirt.

I don’t spy any new tattoos, but real estate on his body was already hard to come by three years ago.

I can smell his soap from here, the same piney scent I mourned when it faded from his sweatshirt I stole.

I close my eyes against the flood of memories, but the smell of him wraps around me like the sweatshirt I still wear. I face forward again and stop breathing for a moment in the hopes that it clears my head. I knew seeing him again was an inevitability. I just thought I was prepared for it.

I could not have been more wrong.

He leans down, lessening the difference in our heights, his lips brushing against my hair, the evergreen smell of him surrounding me once more. “Hi, Sloane.”

My eyes snap open, the low timbre of his voice like velvet, my skin tingling like static between silk sheets, something inside me waking up after a three-year nap.

The sound of my name in his mouth sends me back to when he first said it, three years ago.