Chapter Three • Predicament • Lillith #2
After a handful of songs, there’s a bit of a lull in the show, and I realize I’m feeling really warm and even a little bit dizzy.
I’m not well known for my cardiac prowess, and I have just spent the last thirty or forty minutes jumping and screaming metal songs while sandwiched between a bunch of sweating bodies.
I don’t really want to lose my spot up front, but I also don’t want to seize in the middle of the show.
I have to make some sacrifices. I tap the shoulder of a really tall girl next to me and point toward the side of the room to signal that I want to get out.
She nods and passes on the message, and the next person passes it on too, and so on until I encounter a massive bear of a guy with a kind, albeit scraggly, face.
“You want to surf out?” he asks over the din of people and the banter on stage.
“Uh... I don’t know? I’ve never crowd surfed.”
“Come on, it’s a blast,” he says. “You gotta do it at least once!”
You know what? Fuck it.
“Alright!”
He kneels before me, his fingers woven together for me to step onto. I place my boot in his hands and he hefts my weight without even a grunt. Before I have a chance to regret my decision I’m being passed over the crowd.
It’s a bizarre and surreal experience to be carefully passed over the heads of so many people.
There are moments I worry about the hem of my denim skirt or the fishnets I’m wearing catching on someone’s jewelry, but I’m pleased to say that no one tries to cop a feel.
Before I know it, I’m standing back near the bar, which is blissfully empty now that the show is in full swing.
I heft myself up onto one of the few barstools, panting.
The person from the start of the show, Roxie, I think Damien called them, sidles up to me.
“Hey, doll,” they say. “What can I get you?”
“Water?” I call over that music.
“Yep, on it,” they say before turning away.
Roxie returns with that glass of ice water. I down half of it while I watch Damien. When the lights spill over the writhing crowd, I watch as his expression falls for a moment before he finds me and brightens again.
Roxie heaves a sigh. “Girl,” they call over the din of the crowd. “I hope you know what you’re in for! He’s going to be following you around like a stray!”
I laugh, certain they’re joking. Just wing-manning for Damien, I figure. But sure enough, no matter where I go in the venue, Damien’s eyes find me in the crowd.
The show ends so much sooner than I’d like, even with what’s almost a two-hour set.
When it’s over they all slink back into what I figure must be the greenroom and crowd either descends on their merch tables or starts flooding out of the venue doors.
For my part, I hover around the edge of the room, not exactly sure what the protocol is for hanging out with the drummer of my favorite band.
Do I just go through the door I saw them go through?
Is there a bouncer or something that has to give me a subtle nod and allow me through?
I rock back and forth on my boots as I try to scan the crowd for any indication of what I’m supposed to do, almost ready to give up on the whole endeavor when there’s a sudden hot gust of laughter next to my ear.
I yelp, almost jumping out of my skin and losing my balance.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you!” Damien says, reaching out with strong hands to steady me as I press my palm to my heart. He’s wearing a beanie, to cover his distinctive hair, and an oversized sweatshirt that somehow looks amazing on him even though it’s relatively plain.
“Hells,” I whimper. “Where did you come from?”
“I didn’t want to get swamped, so I ran to the back to grab some disguise gear. There are a bunch of sneaky passages back here, come on,” he says.
He smooths one hand down the length of my arm and grasps my own, pulling me after him.
He steps behind a black curtain and opens a door, secreting me inside a fluorescent hallway and closing the heavy metal doorway behind us.
He looks one way down the concrete walkway, then the other way, then at me.
My heart somersaults in my chest when those sharpened teeth make a reappearance in one of the most charming and mischievous smiles I’ve ever seen.
They give him an air of someone dangerous, yet something about the way he beams down at me is heartrendingly sincere.
There’s cognitive dissonance inside me—an awareness that he probably finds a new girl in each new city he visits, yet I feel like I’m the only woman he’s ever met and therefore the most beautiful thing he’s seen in his life
“I’m going to kiss you again, is that alright?” he asks, his voice so low and resonant that I feel it rumble like a purr in my chest.
“Here?” I say.
“Unless you have any objections,” he says, already slipping his free hand into the hair at the nape of my neck and tilting my head back.
My insides immediately melt, and so do all of my inhibitions. “Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
He backs me against the cold wall, the cradle of his hand keeping me from hitting my head against it too hard as he brackets me in. He even lifts the hand he’s still holding to trap it against the drywall beside my head.
The kiss starts soft and slow despite the possessive way he looms over me.
The cold metal of his labret piercing is an interesting counterpoint to the fullness of his warm lips again.
A little detail I think might never get old.
I’m malleable and languid in his hands as I exhale through my nose.
I use my hands on his shoulders to pull myself up onto my toes, trying to find as many points of contact between us as I can.
His tongue sweeps in against mine and tastes like liquor and a hint of tobacco. When did he find the time to have a smoke? What spirit is his favorite to drink?
He catches my lower lip between his teeth and drags—must be one of his favorite tricks. For good reason, because a sound comes out of my throat that’s equal parts involuntary and humiliating.
“Enjoy the show?” he asks between kisses, unbothered.
“Uhm...” The words don’t quite make it through the necessary filters for me to process them as he kisses the corner of my mouth. “What?”
He chuckles against my lips. “Did you enjoy the show?” he asks again, kissing my neck this time as if that will make it any easier to answer.
It’s all I can do to sigh as he draws snaking paths along my pulse point with that split tongue of his. He chuckles again, this time next to my ear before catching the shell of it between his pointed teeth. “Liiil-lith,” he singsongs when he stops. “Are you getting distracted?”
“It’s not my fault that you’re evil,” I say in a breathy whimper as my eyes roll. Damn me and my stupid, sensitive ears.
He laughs warmly. “I love a good predicament, don’t you?”
“The show was incredible,” I sigh, now that he’s giving me a moment to breathe and think. I choose not to answer his other question, or acknowledge that it might be referring to a very specific kind of kink that I will probably implode about if I think on it too much.
He backs up from me just enough to tuck some of my hair behind my ear and beams down at me. “You seemed like you had a lot of fun,” he says. “Can I take you out tonight?”
I blink up at him, not sure if I heard him right. “Wait, what?”
“Can I take you out? On a date?” he asks again. “I barely got to see you, or talk to you outside. I want to talk to you some more. If you’re not too tipsy or whatever.”
“Oh, no. I don’t drink,” I say automatically. Force of habit. “I, uh... I take some meds that make it kind of dangerous.”
“Oh?” he asks. “Anything I should know about?”
“Nah, it’s not important, as long as the meds are doing their thing I’m usually alright,” I say. “Drinking is kind of an at-home-only activity, you know?”
In my experience, telling people about my epilepsy just freaks them out, and sometimes it gets tiresome to have the same old conversation about my seizures over and over again.
I’m feeling well, I haven’t had anything to drink, I’m certainly not experiencing any major stressors, so I don’t need to bore Damien (or myself) with what he should do in the unlikely event that I seize.
“For sure,” he says. “So... date?”
“You really want to take me out on a date?” I ask. “Like, really, really?”
“Hell the fuck yeah, I do,” he says. “I mean, it may not be a very impressive date, since I don’t know shit about this area, but I’ll take you wherever you tell me to go. I love getting a local’s insight on a place, you know?”
Ah. Okay, well, sure. That’s a pretty solid approach to learning about a tour stop.
Find a cute girl to spend the night with and get an insider’s opinion on the best places to eat and hang out.
Have a good night, get a good lay in the process.
I can certainly respect the hustle, and after a year-long dry spell, I’m certainly fine with being that cute girl he spends the night with.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “Sure, let’s go on a date.”
“Hell yeah,” he says, pressing one more lingering kiss to my lips that leaves me trying to go along with him when he pulls away. “Come with me to tell the guys we’re heading out, and I’ll call us a taxi or something.”
“A-alright. I mean, are you sure? I don’t want to intrude,” I say breathlessly.
This time, when he leads me through the hallways, he’s got his arm draped over my shoulders, tucking me in against his side. “You won’t be,” he says. “I mean, Satoshi may be a dick again, but that’s his like... default mode or something. He’s always a dick. To everyone.”
“I’m gathering that,” I say.
“So, don’t let him bother you. Also, Oren might try to flirt with you. Please don’t encourage him. We’ll never get out of here if you do,” he adds.
“Uhm. What? Are you serious? Right in front of you?”
“Unfortunately,” he says.
“Any warnings about Fletcher?” I ask.
“Fletch? Naw. Guy’s nice as fuck. I just have to hope you’re more into piercings and tattoos than you are Irish accents, you know?”