2 - Sage
Sage
The bass thudded through the floor and up my legs as Ramona stepped into the mic and dragged the first note out of her throat like she meant to strip paint with it.
I was planted at my usual spot to the right of the stage, close enough to the speaker that the guitar vibrated through my ribs.
Beer bottle in hand. Elbow tucked in tight so no one knocked it loose.
The crowd pressed forward when the drums kicked in, bodies moving as one restless organism, and I stayed where I was, letting them surge around me.
On any other night, I would’ve been screaming the lyrics back at her, hair in my mouth, boots planted on the sticky floor while I shoved old high school friends out of my space.
Tonight I watched Ramona’s fingers fly over the strings and counted the beats instead.
A guy barreled into my shoulder, sloshing his drink across my forearm. “Sorry,” he shouted, already turning back to the girl grinding against him.
I wiped my skin on the side of my jeans and took a swallow of beer. It was still too full. That alone should’ve concerned someone.
Ramona caught my eye mid-chorus, eyebrow lifting in question. I lifted my bottle in salute and mouthed the words on cue. She gave me a grin that said she’d interrogate me later and swung back into the next verse.
The Static Dive pulsed around us. Tables near the back were packed with people yelling over each other, pitchers raised, laughter bursting between riffs. Up front, a knot of regulars moved in tight circles, hands in the air, boots stomping in time.
I stood close enough to the monitor that the distortion swallowed the loop in my head for half a measure at a time.
International tattoo convention in three weeks. Booth deposit already paid, but I had to come up with the rest soon. And a portfolio to speak of.
My mother’s voicemail from earlier sat unanswered in my pocket.
Someone tapped my arm. A girl with glitter smeared across her collarbone held up a vinyl sleeve. “Are you with the band?”
I glanced down at my Icy Veins band t-shirt—an OG from their first year on the gig circuit. “Do I look employed?”
She decided I was exactly who she was looking for, and stepped closer. “Can you get me their signed EP?”
“Stacks of ‘em at the merch table.” I hiked a thumb in the direction of stage left.
She wrinkled her nose. “Five bucks though?”
“Less than whatever you’re spilling out of that thing,” I said, nodding toward the solo cup tilting in her hand.
She rolled her eyes and melted back into the crowd. As they always do.
The guitar climbed into a solo, high and unrelenting, and I tipped my head back toward the speaker, letting it pour over me. My ears would ring tomorrow. Good. I wanted the noise.
Ramona moved across the stage with sweat darkening the neckline of her tank, voice pushing harder with every line. She lived for this part, the press of bodies, the lights, the way a room bent around her. Toward her.
I usually did too.
My phone vibrated against my thigh. I ignored it. If it was my mother again, she could leave another message. If it was the convention coordinator, they could email.
A second vibration followed.
I pulled it out, thumb hovering before I flipped the screen over without reading it. The band crashed into the final chorus, crowd shouting along, and I opened my mouth to join them.
The words came out thin.
Another body knocked into me, harder this time, and I stumbled a step toward the stage. A hand caught my elbow to steady me.
“Watch it down there,” Ramona said into the mic between lines, eyes locked on mine.
I lifted my middle finger in response, because that was easier than answering.
She laughed into the next lyric, feeding off the crowd again.
I took another swallow of beer and finally felt it burn down my throat. It didn’t touch the coil sitting under my sternum, the one that tightened every time I pictured my booth sitting empty in a convention hall full of actual artists.
A couple squeezed in beside me, the girl shouting over the music. “This band is insane.”
“Yeah,” I said, watching Ramona throw her head back and rip through the bridge. “They are.”
The drums cut out on cue, and the bar went manic.
I clapped with everyone else, bottle knocking against my palm, and told myself I’d stay for one more song before I decided whether my loyalty was worth losing a good night’s sleep.
Ramona launched into the next song without warning, the opening riff rough enough to rattle the glasses behind the bar. The crowd shifted with it, a fresh wave pushing forward, and I adjusted my stance so my shoulder caught the edge of the monitor instead of someone’s elbow.
That was when the door opened, letting in a draft of cold night air and six feet plus of problem.
Aiden didn’t hesitate in the doorway. Just stepped inside with his head angled down as if he already regretted it.
Broad shoulders under a plain black jacket, dark jeans, Surge cap pulled low.
He moved through the press of bodies with the kind of economy you only got from years of disappearing on command.
People parted without realizing they had.
I hadn’t thought about him since he’d launched out of my chair last night, but now there was an inexplicable pull in his direction.
He made it to the bar, waited his turn, and gave his brief order.
No smile or lame joke for the bartender.
No scanning the room to see what he might be dealing with.
He took his beer, nodded once, and claimed the last stretch of counter near the jukebox where the light was bad and the mirrors behind the liquor shelves fractured his reflection into pieces.
The band hit the chorus, and Ramona’s voice climbed over the crowd. I listened with half my attention pulled across the room.
Aiden lifted the bottle and drank without looking up.
I watched him longer than necessary, cataloging the tension in his shoulders and the tense line of his mouth as he stared down at the scarred wood under his palm.
Fine.
I wouldn’t be calling it a night just yet.
Clutching my tepid beer, I threaded through the crowd. By the time I reached the bar, Aiden had rotated his bottle a quarter turn and taken another drink. Up close, he looked exactly like he had in my chair last night. Maybe a little tired around the eyes.
“Does your tendency to skip out on things include bar tabs, or is that exclusive to tattoos? The bartender’s a good friend of mine. I’d hate to see him cash up short tonight.”
His gaze lifted, and recognition flickered there before he smoothed it out. “I was told the team settled all payments.”
“I’m fucking with you,” I said, taking the stool next to him. “Figured you probably didn’t rack up enough grief over what happened, and could use some more.”
He studied me for a beat, then the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”
“You wish.” My beer tasted like lukewarm piss. I grimaced through one last swallow before abandoning it, and calling for another. “My best friend’s lead vocal and guitar.”
He glanced at the stage, head bobbing up and down as if he’d only just realized there was any kind of music at all. “They’re good.”
“If you’re into that kinda thing.” I took a sip of my fresh beer. “So what’s your kind of thing? Apart from Icy Veins’s super cool embodiment of what I believe is alt, indie, garage… rock.”
“Depends.”
“On?”
He turned the bottle between his fingers. “What I’m trying not to think about.”
“Oh, boy. Sounds a little bit Country to me.”
He huffed something that might have been a laugh. The song shifted into a tighter groove, drums snapping in a pattern that pulled people away from the stage and closer to a fast-forming mosh pit on the dancefloor.
“So you follow your friend to all her gigs, or what?”
Ramona’s guitar swung on her hip as she let go for long enough to bring her hands together in a heart aimed right at me.
A room full of adoring fans, and yet she tracked me like a homing missile.
I knew this little tete-a-tete at the end of the bar was gonna come back to bite me in the ass after they closed the set.
“It’s always a great show.” I gave a short laugh. “The kind of support that gives back.”
We clinked our half-empty bottles together, solidifying the truce. I was done ragging him, and he was done trying to become one with the shadow at his back.
I tilted my head, thinking I was probably going to regret this but at the same time, unable to stop it. “So, Purple Rose got tagged in the team’s posts on Instagram. The guys all showing off their new Stanley Cup ink.”
That barely there smile of his dropped clean away. His only response was to take another sip of his beer.
“You weren’t in any of the photos, though,” I went on. “Not even the ones with the pre-game shenanigans or whatever. I was prepping at the time, but it sounded like you guys were having a good ole time of it before the machines started up.”
“Well, if that’s what it sounded like then it must be true.”
“Hey, I’m not calling you out or anything.” I raised my hands to further prove my good intentions. “You’re not the first person to have a change of heart in my chair.”
He swiveled on his stool so he was now looking right at me. First time all night he’d given anything besides a beer his full attention.
And I was done.
Even from under the brim of his snapback, with his eyes half in shadow, I could tell by the specific shade of save-me-the-bullshit blue that he wasn’t doing the small-talk thing anymore.
I didn’t really know if that realization put me off or—
“Then what are you doing if it’s not that?” he asked.
I sat up straighter, and squeezed my thighs together. This was some left-field crap that I was in no way ready for. Thank God Ramona wasn’t looking over here.
“Just trying to make conversation,” I said with a shrug. He was a stranger, and that meant only I recognized the weird thing my voice did at the end of that sentence.
Which was fine, because my voice and whatever the hell was going on with me was none of his goddamn business.
“I came here tonight for the opposite of that.”
I nodded, absently peeling back the label on my beer. “I just thought it was kinda strange. The posts went viral, the whole team celebrating, but also not exactly the whole team.”
He let out a long, drawn out sigh, and emptied his beer, slowly placing the bottle back on the bar. “To be honest, I think you’re the only one who noticed.”
“Which is how you prefer it.”
“Excuse me?”
A slight tip of my finger brought two more beers our way. I waited for the bartender to flip the caps off and walk away before going on.
“You put yourself on the sidelines, just like you took yourself out of the lineup for that tattoo.” I watched a shadow bristle behind his eyes. “You think being a bench player means you don’t get to fully be a part of the team, even though nobody on that team told you that much.”
“And that coming from someone who’s known me all of ten seconds, you’ll have to forgive me for not giving a shit.” But he didn’t refuse the beer. The first sip was an extended one, his throat bobbing with each swallow until he came up for air with a satisfied, and maybe a little agitated, breath.
“Ten seconds on you, but decades on guys who were always one good season away from becoming somebody,” I said, palm flush against the cool bottle. “Turns out waiting for it to happen is a full time job.”
This time he slid off his stool as he took another wild swig of beer. “Good thing it’s not yours then.”
If there was a comeback somewhere behind the reeling wheels of my brain, it didn’t find a chance to break free.
“Have a nice night.” He tossed a couple of bills onto the bar, and walked out without even looking at me.