Jinxes and the Drummer

Chapter One • Portent • Lillith

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All the same, I look down at my concert ticket and tell myself that the long wait and the awkward stares are all going to be worth it. I read the stamped text on the ticket for probably the eighty-seventh time.

I thought more people would be here waiting.

I’m surprised there aren’t, really. It’s not so much that Portent is a hugely famous band.

Progressive metal isn’t exactly a casual listening experience.

But almost no one comes to play at our random goth club, in our tiny coastal town.

Hells, most people don’t even know we exist. Usually, whenever an act or a band comes to town, locals are clamoring for a crumb of entertainment.

“Damn, I didn’t even know they still made those things,” someone says, pulling me out of my reverent focus on my ticket.

I look up to see the most devastatingly gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on in my life.

My eyes lock on his, transfixed. Hard not to be when they’re two different colors.

One is a clear, near transluscent blue and the other is the most stunning verdant shade, like sunlight shining through ocean water.

His hair is wild with waves and split-dyed.

One half is a dark silver; the other is black as pitch.

He’s wearing a muscle tee with the logo of the band on it: a three-eyed raven mid-flight, with the leathery wings of a bat.

His arms would be bare if it weren’t for the tapestry of tattoos on every inch of bare skin, and his worn Converse are patched up with safety pins and good intentions.

He tucks his hands into the pockets of his distressed black jeans.

When he smiles, the piercings in his cheeks create heartbreaking dimples, and he has...has...

“You have fangs,” I blurt out.

Both his laterals and his canine teeth are subtly sharper than they should be. Not so sharp that they look cartoonish, but enough to be noticeable.

He blinks and then laughs. “Shit, I always forget about those. My dentist is the best. He basically added composite and shaped them for me so they’re not too obstructive. Sick, right?”

“So sick,” I agree.

“I like your chest piece,” he says, pointing to his own chest.

I brush my hand over my collarbone, where I had a death’s-head hawkmoth and the moon phases tattooed a few years ago. My face warms. “Thanks,” I say, having a hard time suppressing a smile.

“Hey, can I see that?” he asks, pointing to my concert ticket.

I look down at it and frown, feeling protective of it. As if reading my expression, he lifts his hands in a surrendering gesture. “I swear I’ll give it right back. And I don’t even have, like... barbecue sauce on my hands or anything. See? Super clean.”

“Barbecue sauce?”

“It was the stickiest and most stain-causing thing I could think of,” he says.

“Not blood?” I say without thinking better of it.

His brows shoot up. “Do you... have blood on your hands often, sweetheart?”

Nice going, Lillith. Very fucking cool. Creep out the hot goth boy as soon as you meet him.

“I—well—no. Not exactly. I mean, not at all. Never. I don’t do things with blood or like, have a blood kink or something.”

Why. Can’t. I. Stop. Talking.

He smiles again, and it’s then that I realize he also has a labret piercing—a simple silver ring that emphasizes the fullness of his lower lip. “You’re fucking adorable, you know that?”

My face gets so hot, so quickly, that I finally offer him the perforated cardstock in my hand, if only to get a break from his gaze as I sink into a deep well of embarrassment.

If he focuses solely on me while I turn pink in front of him, I’m certain I will spontaneously combust. Just a bit of casual witch burning. As a treat. You know?

He pauses for a moment, dual-colored eyes flicking around my face, as if he is intent on torturing me. I have to close my eyes to keep from bolting away like a nervous squirrel.

When he takes the ticket from my hand, he first takes a detour to brush his callused fingers against my down-turned palm. I’m grateful when he finally slips it from my grasp, because a warm chill works through me from head to toe.

“It’s fucking dope,” I hear him say.

I open my eyes and finally sneak a sidelong glance at him, relieved to have his gaze off me.

It’s not that I’m creeped out by him. Quite the opposite.

I’m worried that if he keeps looking at me and smiling at me, I’ll confess my love for him before the hour is through.

It’s like this guy stepped right out of my teenage, Myspace music-fueled dreams.

He’s handling the ticket with the same sort of reverent care I used handing it to him, which warms my heart.

There isn’t much better than connecting with someone over a shared love of music.

I wonder if this is the start of some kind of Wattpad romance.

Then my eyes catch on the knuckles of his left hand.

They each have a single letter tattooed on them in a font so familiar that my heart immediately sinks.

D-E-V-A-S. That’s what I see on his hand.

Without thinking, I snatch his wrist and pull him so I can see the other hand.

T-A-T-E-D.

It spells the word devastated, which is exactly how I feel as I look up at him.

“Hah—whoops. Busted,” he says with a beautiful, crooked smile and a wink.

I’m going to throw up. I know those hands. I have fucking Pinterest boards dedicated to those hands. I have fan edit videos saved in a special secret album on my phone of those fucking hands.

“D-Damien?” I stammer.

As in Damien Devastation? As in drummer and part-founding member of Portent? As in the legendary flirt of the band?

AND I JUST SAID THE WORDS “BLOOD KINK” TO HIM?

It’s time to go. It’s time for me to perish—to leave this realm and evaporate into the aether. I could see Nan again. That would be good.

I’d followed Damien on social media shortly after I got into Portent’s music, but he never actually posted his face anywhere.

In fact, he’s notorious for not wanting his face anywhere on social media.

In music videos he always wears some kind of face covering.

In photos he usually wears shades and a surgical mask.

Sure, there are pictures of his face floating around on the internet somewhere.

But out of respect for his privacy, I purposefully never sought them out.

I try to think of something to say, but in my shock all I can do is let out a tragic little half-whimper-half-sigh.

He laughs again, a little harder this time. “Hey, hey, hey, don’t do that. What is it? Do you hate me or something? I’ve got some pretty dedicated haters out there—”

“No,” I warble. “I don’t hate you at all. I’ve been following you on Insta for years. I even watch your videos on Drummeo…”

“Are you a drummer?” he asks, perking up.

Oh, shit... “NO. I just—”

I stop myself before blurting out that I love him. That would definitely not be playing it cool. I take in a deep breath and sigh it out with defeat.

“I just said the words ‘blood kink’ to you,” I moan, smearing my hands down my face.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. For all you know, I have one too,” he teases.

“I don’t have one!” I cry.

He laughs again, offering my ticket back to me between two tattooed fingers. My gaze catches on his black nail polish that always seems to be in perfect condition, despite the toll drumming must take on his hands. “Easy, sweetheart, I’m just teasing you.”

I take the ticket and he slips his hands into his pockets, standing with just as much casual ease as before. Like we’re just two fans waiting to watch the same band. Things quickly become awkward, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or at least, if he does, he doesn’t care.

Think of something to say Lillith. Stop being a dork.

“So...” I finally manage to say as he glances down the street. “Why Del Lune?”

“Why not? It’s a pretty sweet little beach town.”

“There’s like... nothing here,” I point out.

His eyes slide to me and he gives me a lopsided smile as his eyes flick down to my feet and back up again. “I beg to differ.”

I’m going to pass out. “You have to stop that,” I plead.

His expression sobers slightly. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. Am I being a creep?”

“No! You’re just like... I’m going to—I really suck at flirting—and you’re super pretty and I’m going to make a complete idiot of myself if you keep this up and then I’m going to lose out on my favorite band because every time I listen to your music I’m going to remember how stupid I was when I met you and want to die. ”

“Okay, okay, okay. I’ll stop. Even though you’re cute as hell when you’re flustered. I promise to behave myself until after the show,” he says.

“After the show?” I ask. “What happens after the show?”

He gives me an enigmatic smile before rocking back on his heels.

Damien is evil. I’m certain of this. He said he’d stop flirting, and now he’s just being evil.

“Anyway, we’re in Del Lune because our manager had family out here when they were growing up.

They wound up building a recording studio out here after inheriting the place, so we decided to set it up as home base for the SoCal leg of our tour.

We’re going to get some recording done while we’re here. ”

“Recording while on tour seems kind of... well... Isn’t that a lot?”

“I mean, yeah.” He shrugs. “But we only just got into a position where we could quit our day jobs. We’re used to running on fumes.

I think our manager wanted to take advantage of that last bit of work ethic before we become lazy, spoiled rockstars.

And, well, we only have a couple shows in SoCal with some decent breaks in between. ”

“Oh... So you’re in the area for a while, then?”

He nods nonchalantly. “Yep,” he says. His eyes linger on me. How does one turn a parasocial relationship into a social one, anyway?

“I uhm—I run a shop in town?” I state like it’s a question.

But apparently, I’ve piqued his interest. “No shit? What kind of shop? What’s it called?”

“Uhm, it’s called The Odd Bird Apothecary,” I say. “It’s an oddities and metaphysical shop.”