Page 21 of Dirty Chorus

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.