Page 2 of The Cowboy's Cabaret

“If only the evil worms in my brain allowed for that,” I say with a half-hearted snort. The illusion of having it all together is something I take great care to perfect, when in reality, my head’s a mess. I can feel the tightness in my chest, the tension pressing down on me from talking about this.

My unrealistic expectations are self-inflicted, no one gives a shit what I do. The only person who cared whether I lived or died has gone herself. Grandma would tell me it was okay to cry, but I had to keep going. Except, there are a lot of tears and a lot less of the “keep going” part. The fear of failure is suffocating and I’m quite skilled at thinking myself into a panic attack.

Daphne looks at me knowingly, my emotions written all over my face. “Get up. We’re not starting our fun concert weekend with anxiety. I won’t allow it.” She leans over ready to close my laptop, even saving my work before shutting it down and pulling me up. “Come on, we’re gonna go break shit.”

Outside of bartendingat Cunting Season, Daphne also works part-time at the rage room down the street, Purple Rage, meaning we can indeed break shit semi-regularly.

Daphne barrels through the front door, ignoring the lanky guy behind the counter who yells her name in an effort to stop her. “Shut the fuck up, Marcus. No one is renting room three for the next hour. My best friend is stressed, she needs this!” Her shout quiets Marcus’ complaining and I look at him with apologetic eyes before following Daphne into the next room.

Fierce as hell, Daphne takes no shit. She’s five foot two and claims to be eighty-percent anger and twenty-percent tits. I would argue the ratio is off, but I’m not about to tell her that. We balance each other well, using our friendship to nurture the soft parts of ourselves others have battered.

Growing up with the on-and-off presence of a father and a non-existent mother left me vulnerable and alone most of the time. If not for my grandma and Daphne, I would truly be alone in this world. Daphne still maintains a semblance of relationship with her parents because of her younger brother. The rotten limbs of our family tree root us to the past and in a way, to each other.

I try to shake off the anxiety, feeling relieved being in this room of broken dishes and smashed appliances. There’s something to be said about controlled violence, especially since this kind of wrath isn’t something I allow myself to release often.

She grabs the safety goggles and coveralls and hooks her phone up to the speaker system. The beat of “Break Stuff” by Limp Bizkit plays and I grab my weapon of choice—a spiked baseball bat, nails sticking out at every angle. I take a deep breath and start swinging, unleashing my anxiety on the unsuspecting appliances in hopes of a calmer brain.

TWO

wall of death and drunk dudes

Dahlia

Liberty Arena is floodedin a sea of fishnets and combat boots, plus a decent amount of concerned dads in khakis. “I hate to say it, but the parking lot hot dogs might have been a bad idea,” Daphne grumbles.

“Never. We need sustenance for all the screaming we’ll be doing tonight.” She might be right about the food safety of a dirty water dog, but I love them, so I have no regrets. We parade ourselves through the entrance, flashing our tickets at the door.

Once inside, we stop for the obligatory bad bitch photo shoot, striking several sexy poses. Daphne’s in a black velvet tube top and leather mini skirt, looking like a tiny, hot vampire. Even with her platform boots, she’s still short. I move into a slutty squat, almost kneeling on the floor, and smile so big my eyes close. My jean skirt rides up a little, my thick thighs on display as I stick out my tongue. After we harass a fellow metal head to take a photo of the two of us, we move on, satisfied with our pictures.

Making our way through the throngs of concertgoers, we make it to the winding line at the merch booth. “Fuck. This is gonna be a while. I’m gonna run to the bathroom while we’rewaiting,” I say. Daphne nods in agreement without looking up from her phone. She’s been glued to the damn thing since we got here.

One lip gloss reapplication and a pee break later, I return to the slow moving line. She looks confused as she glances between her phone and the crowd.

“Who are you looking for? I’m right here, sugar tits!” I joke.

“No one. Just people watching. Like, I just watched that guy drop his pretzel on the floor then pick it up and eat it. He’s right in front of the garbage cans, man.” She fake gags. The line hardly moves and we pass the time making up life stories for the people walking by like we did when we were younger.

With two tour exclusive T-shirts in tow, we finally head to the pit entrance in time for the opener. The lights start to dim and the heavy bass line fills the arena. We’re dancing, bobbing our heads, and shouting along without a care in the world. Despite my general nervousness, I’ve always loved the feeling of being lost in a concert crowd, the shared experience of hearing your favorite band in a sea of fans.

Daphne keeps checking her phone and I’m curious what has her attention, but she locks it before I can be nosy. As the opener nears their final song, Daphne tells me she’s grabbing us water bottles. I notice the guy in front of us is getting increasingly drunker, arguing with his friends and throwing his hands around.

Wanting to give him space and avoid taking a rogue hand to the face, I back up only to be stopped by a hard surface. I look down at the tattooed fingers steadying my hips, but they retreat quickly. Turning, I meet the owner of the tattooed fingers—a mountain of a man with a beautiful head of chocolate-colored hair and a well-trimmed beard. His dark brown eyes bore into me and I’m momentarily stunned.

“Are you alright?” Damn, that voice is like warm caramel. Even in the loudness of the crowd, his deep baritone tickles down my spine.

I shake my head. “What? Yes. Oh, yes, I’m good. Sorry for bumping you! Are you good?”

“I’m good,” he says, smiling. “I saw him getting pushy, so I was looking out for you and your friend.”

“I appreciate that. Obviously being in the pit, it’s guaranteed I’ll go home with a bruise or two. Hazard of the view and all, but so worth it.”

He nods before running a hand down his beard. “I’m Wesley, or just Wes.”

This man has my heart racing and I can’t tell if it’s the adrenaline of the show or his godlike stature. “I’m Dahlia.”

“Like the flower. Dahlia.” He says it slowly like he’s tasting the words. “I like it.” I’m about to melt into a puddle. He nods down at my shirt. “That true?”

Puzzled, I look down only to remember my crop top says, “I PUT THE HOT IN PSYCHOTIC” in big red letters across my boobs. I drop a hand to my chest and laugh. “Maybe, depends who you ask.” I’m being unusually flirty, considering I won’t touch a relationship with a ten-foot pole. He’s cute though, and I deserve a little fun tonight.