Page 39 of Never Sleep with the Enemy

The Sin and Sand is packed.

The air crackles with energy, the crowd spilling over into every inch of space. Only standing room remains as I weave through bodies. Black and yellow leather, streaks of colorful hair, and the buzz of electricity in the air.

It’s showtime.

“Hey, Kat!”

Pam, the woman behind the bar, waves at me. She’s the owner of the Sin and Sand, and the first woman to ever book Criminal Records for a gig—a badge she wears with pride. Even though she’s pushing sixty, you’d never guess it by the way she dashes from one end of the bar to the next most nights. Gal’s still got stamina.

When I finally make it to the bar, a stool empties just in time.

I hop onto it, giving Pam a quick hug over the bar littered with old pretzel bits and peanut shells. “Hey, Pam!” I say as I settle in.

“How was the tour?” she asks, her voice rising to be heard over the noise.

“It was incredible!” I shout back, gesturing with a sweep of my hand. “Full house tonight!”

She nods. “There was a line around the building before I even got here!” she says. “People love The Electrics.”

“Looks like!”

“You nervous about the Battle?” she asks, the excitement in her smile reaching her eyes. I can only imagine the boost her business has gotten since the announcement that the two hottest bands in rock were going to battle it out right here, on her stage.

“Nervous? No,” I say.

“But you’re scoping out the competition, eh?”

“Uh... yeah.” I nod a little too eagerly. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

Pam laughs. “Don’t blame you, kiddo. You want a drink? It’s on me tonight.”

“Club soda, please,” I say as I rustle a few dollars out of my pocket and stuff it into the tip jar to pay her anyway.

She winks. “Coming right up.”

Pam grabs a glass from behind the counter, and I twist on my stool, taking in the place again. While she recognized me instantly, no one else has noticed me yet. They may not at all. I’m not exactly dressed like a rockstar. The more I blend in with the crowd here tonight, the better.

“Here you go, Kat,” Pam says, sliding the drink toward me. “Enjoy the show.”

“Thanks, Pam,” I say, turning to face the stage.

I sip slowly, feeling the unease in my chest. I can’t shake the feeling, like I’m standing in the hallway of the Botsford Plaza, a blue robe in my hands, asking myself why I’m about to knock on a door I know I shouldn’t.

Why did I come here?

Not to study the competition, as Pam thought. Not to kick back and relax with a cold drink and good music in a familiar place. I should be home, practicing my parts for the Battle of the Bands. Idefinitelyshouldn’t be counting the moments until...

“Ladies and gentlemen!”Pam’s voice rings out, booming through speakers mounted in every corner. Cheers explode through the crowd, nearly deafening. “Put your hands together and give a warm Las Vegas welcome toThe Electrics!”

The audience roars as the lights drop low. My stool shakes beneath me, the glass trembling in my hand like it’s bracing for an earthquake. The room falls into total darkness, except for the red glow of the exit signs.

A strum of an electric guitar cuts through the dark.

A spotlight flares, hitting Tesla stage right. She stands with her guitar slung over her shoulders, wearing a tight black dress torn in all the right places, revealing a yellow leotard underneath. Her blue hair falls in wild waves around her face, framing her intense focus as her fingers dance over the strings, plucking chords with effortless grace.

Then the drums. One sharp tap of the snare and another burst of light reveals Goldie behind her kit, her golden curls bouncing as she pounds out a rhythm that gets the crowd roaring. The lights flash, then flicker again, syncing with each beat, pushing the energy in the room higher.

The music swells, a perfect harmony of sound and light. Goldie wears yellow leather pants and a tight black corset—the one Tesla made me try on the other night—decorated with yellow ribbons and fringe. She strikes the drums with power and precision, her arms flexing, muscles rippling with each hit.

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