14. Charlie
Charlie
“Sorry, I can’t let you in.” The bouncer scans my driver’s license, even putting a UV light underneath it to make sure it’s real. “You’ve gotta be twenty-one to enter.” He hands it back wedged between two fingers.
I smack my gum and stare at the line of bodies reaching the far end of the sidewalk.
It’s safe to say I missed the memo that there’s a dress code to attend one of these bar concerts.
Most girls are wearing black fishnet stockings and red plaid skirts.
The gothic girl behind me taps her combat boots.
I’m tempted to ask if her date brought her a leash because that spiky dog choker has to be from the pet shop.
Let’s not mention her friend caked in black eyeliner.
She could be mistaken for a raccoon, but I’m sure they have nice thoughts about the preppy bitch holding up the line.
I’m out of place. Out of all the girls I see, I’m sticking out like a sore thumb wearing a cream-white mini pencil skirt and a dark-blue crop top infested with flowers.
At least the guys here look normal with jeans and plain shirts.
“Please! Pretty please.” I lace my fingers together. “I know Noah. He invited me...” I point toward the doorway with the flickering green neon sign spelling out Bar.
“Nice try. I hear that all the time.” He crosses muscled, tattooed arms. There are even faded stars along the side of his shaved head and some sort of number on his neck. Is that his prison number or something? “Ex-Convict” is written all over the permanent frown ingrained on his face.
I reach into my purse, digging around for my cell phone. When I pull it out, I swipe real quickly to the text messages from Noah and put the bright screen in front of his face. “Look! See!” I point a finger at it.
“Pretty girls like you get catfished by guys saying they’re him all the time, sweetie.”
“Catfished!” I plant a hand on a hip, with my mouth dropping. “Excuse me! I’ve met him!”
“You and every other groupie.” He shoos me away like a pesky fly, and my heart decides it wants to hammer against my chest with the insult.
“Groupie? Do I look like one of them to you?” Stupid me, points a thumb to the line behind me. Whoops.
“What the hell did that girl just say?” The girl behind me tosses out the remark.
I side-eye them and aggressively chew my gum, making sure to put on the best mean-mugging face I possess.
If only I had my body spray to tone down that yeasty stench coming off them, or maybe it’s that pungent aroma of owning too many cats.
“Lady, if you don’t get out of this line, we are going to have to escort you off the property.” The bouncer’s jaw twitches, and his neck muscles tighten. Yep, he’s ticked. It’s the same look Ryder gives me when I piss him off.
“I drove an hour to get here!” I argue, but he points a finger at the parking lot.
I tilt my head back with an exaggerated groan and stomp off. I watch all the Marilyn Manson worshipers show their IDs getting through with ease, while I stand next to a No Parking sign with my arms crossed and kicking rocks.
It starts to sprinkle. Great, just my luck.
The light droplets are cold against my skin and I didn’t even bring a sweater.
The tires of cars move slowly along the wet road, splashing through the puddles gathered in the uneven grooves of the pavement.
A white Camaro with two black stripes running over the hood drives extra slowly.
It’s the same type of Camaro Brody drives.
The driver turns on their brights, and the flesh on my legs constricts against the cold.
My head follows trying to catch a peek of who is driving, but the tinted windows leave them in shadow.
I hug myself tighter. There’s no way that’s Brody.
How would he even know I’m all the way out here?
I shake off the irrational thought and stare long and hard at the entrance, wondering if flashing my tits will convince the bouncer to let me through.
My nails dig into my leather purse strap.
I grab my cellphone, typing hard enough to crack my screen.
Charlie: The ex-felon guarding the front door won’t let me in. You have groupies?
Noah: New phone. Who dis?
Charlie: I will find your truck and run it over.
Noah: Is this Trouble?
Charlie: Screw you!
Noah: JK. Go back to the entrance.
I throw the phone into the pile of receipts stuffed in my purse and strut back over.
My wedged sandal heels scuffle against the pavement.
The bouncer catches my gaze, and cracks his knuckles like he’s getting ready to throw me into the bushes.
The second his mouth opens, the group of girls huddled together starts cupping their hands together, bringing them to their lips with a sudden gasp.
“Oh my God!” they yell and start leaping up and down, squealing.
“Noah, we love your music!”
“I watch all of your live streams!”
Noah emerges, wrapped up in a black hoodie with the same logo on the beanie he’d given me the other night.
A crown of thorns with three roses and nails.
The hood is up, but his long hair spills out.
He leans into the bouncer’s ear, pointing his chin in my direction.
The bouncer lifts an eyebrow, licking his bottom lip as he uses two fingers, motioning me to come over.
“Guess you do know him.”
I smack my gum and roll my eyes, and he lets me pass.
Noah pulls his hoodie strings down more and shoves his hands in the front pocket. It looks like he’s trying to hide. We stumble into a packed bar swarming with people getting drinks, and the bartenders already look flustered.
He keeps his head down as he leads me down a dull hallway, riddled with graffiti on the walls.
It’s an accumulation of writing with all different colored Sharpies, and spray paint.
Maybe I’m not so out-of-place. Half of the sayings I can’t make out from the dull lighting.
Noah reaches a door, punching in a code. It blinks green and unlocks.
When I step in, there are three guys lounging on a rustic leather couch pouring what I believe might be scotch or whiskey. Another guy sits in a teal chair, tuning a guitar.
“Over on the couch is Tony, he’s our bass guitarist.” Noah points with a finger as the guy holds up his glass.
“That’s Vince...” He’s drumming his sticks in the air, seeming to be stuck in whatever world he belongs to.
“Clearly he’s our drummer... and my man Omen.
” Omen just glares over and lifts up his chin. “He’s over protective.”
“Do you want a drink?” Noah asks, pulling down his hood. I cling to my purse. “Don’t worry, no one is going to ID you. They like to treat us since we bring them a lot of business whenever we play here.”
Noah dips his head in the direction of a wooden bar with three stools and a plethora of alcohol to choose from.
I don’t even hesitate to plop my purse on one of the stools.
I pull one of the small clear cups and scoop some ice from the machine humming next to them.
There’s a mini-fridge underneath the bar with an assortment of juices, and I snag some Sunshine Orange Juice and drown it in vodka.
“Thirsty?” Noah asks as I take several large gulps. I finish the small cup rather quickly, and start to pour myself another one. I’m not even sure what’s come over me, but after Payton crawled up my ass and thinking I saw Brody follow me up here, all I can tolerate is the aftertaste of vodka.
“I like screwdrivers,” I hold out the cup, but he waves off my offer.
“Calm down, I’ll drink after the show.” He winks, “You can get me drunk later.”
“You ain’t fucking drinking!” Omen hollers over from the couch.
“Your neck is still fucking bleeding!” I jolt in his direction and swallow the slimiest knot in my throat.
Nope, wait. That was my gum. My eyes darted to Noah, hoping he didn’t realize I ate it.
Ice rattles, and the drink’s bitterness hits my upper lip as I take another sip – more like another chug fest since I must be thirsty.
“I’m joking!” Noah hollers back, but Omen plants his hands on the armrest, standing up with a huff. The sleeves of his black shirt look like they’ve been poorly cut with scissors and he’s wearing dark holy jeans. His hair is legit the frizziest thing I’ve ever seen.
“So this is the friend you mentioned?” Omen asks. Tattoos infest every square inch of skin exposed, and he's shorter than Noah and not much taller than me.
“Omen, this is Charlie.” Noah introduces us, but my voice trembles so I can’t even break a hello, and merely flash him a toothy smile. My palms break out in a cold sweat. Am I nervous?
“The girl from the church?” Omen asks.
“Yep, guilty as charged,” I press my shoulders to my cheeks and flutter my eyes.
Omen purses his lips and I can’t read him. He slouches his shoulders and huffs. “Noah can’t seem to shut up about you.”
“Really?” I ask, scrunching my brows as I glance up at Noah.
“Yeah... you gotta stop wearing him out.”
“Oh?” I ask, and Noah gives Omen a cocky smile. My heart doesn’t usually beat like this against my rib cage.
“Well, we have ten minutes. I’m gonna take a piss, make sure you two use protection.” Omen pats Noah on the shoulder and strolls out the door we just came through. One of the other guys with an unruly beard gets up as well, heading out the same door.
My skin prickles. The nervous chuckle escapes and lasts longer than it should. “What kind of protection are we talking about?” My chest flutters like a trapped bird.
“I uhh...” He laughs, and I’m too busy memorizing the way his jaw flexes when he flashes a half smile. “He’s uhh... just joking.”
We stand in place. I tap my nails on the plastic cup. Noah rocks on his feet.
“Sooo...” I take a sip of my drink, resisting the temptation to chug the whole thing again. “You have fans?” I change the subject and catch myself smiling a bit too much, and try to wash it off my face by taking another sip, but it’s stuck there.