Page 149 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

The bouncer ushers us through the side entrance, and the narrow staircase groans as it carries us up.

Balcony smells like whiskey and sweat,

but it has a perfect view of the stage.

Below, label rats pause mid-gossip, eyes glancing up at me. A&R reps go still, hands frozen on their phones when they catch me in the box.

I knew they’d all come crawling. Every rat, every scout, sniffin’ around, needing to know how a garage band from Ashland, Wisconsin landed this stage.

But one look at me in the balcony,

and blood drains from their questions.

Now it makes sense.

Out there on the strip,

nobody knows me.

But in here,

rats, scouts, and managers know.

I’m the heart that wrote their anthem.

The pen that bought their cars, their houses, their rehab. The ghost who never signed her name, but bled hers into theirs.

The most famous nobody

from LA to NYC.

The server drops drinks on the sticky table. Early-2000s punk snarls through the speakers, hyping the crowd for what’s to come.

Jordan scoops up her drink, glossy crimson nails catching the light. “So when’s Malik showin’?”

“He's on his way.” Celie grins. “Gotta gas himself up. Big night ahead.”

“Don’t do it,” I beg her. “The rectum’s not designed for that. Objects are supposed to leave, not enter. It’s a one-way exit only.”

Celie slaps Jordan’s thigh with a cackle.

“See what I mean.”

“Dead serious,” I say. “And your vaginal canal? Right fuckin’ next door. Cross-contamination city. UTI, yeast, the whole shebang.”

Jordan laughs into her straw. “You really just said cross-contamination like it’s Chipotle.”

“Yeah.” I lean in. “Enjoy that with a cranberry juice IV in urgent care.”

Celie bursts out a laugh, drink spraying.

“Cranberry drip, oh my fuckin’ God.”

Jordan waves her hand between us. “Wait, wait—hold up.” Her eyes widen. “Not one man’s ever put his finger back there? Not even circled a tongue?”

“Circled a tongue?”

My stare falls deadpan.