Page 4 of The Devil's Tattoo
My phone vibrated in my pocket, saving me from staring vacantly at nothing. That’s what I disliked about going to shows on my own. Not knowing anybody and standing around between sets. I mean, what do you look at? I always ended up getting a drink, so I had somethingtodo.
The text that flashed up on the screen said,Look behind you. It was fromFrank.
Frank was the drummer in a punk band called The Deadshits, and to tell you the truth, he was the least deadshit ofthelot.
I turned around, and there was Frank behind me with four bottles of Bulmer’s apple cider balanced in his arms as he tried to launch himself onto me, laughing like a madman. He had a shaved head, wore an assortment of flannel shirts, and was totally buff—all muscle and then some. Tonight he’d donned a blue shirt with beat-up black jeans. Frank killed me, he really did, but I was glad to see him. He was one of the few souls who seemed to like me despite my anti-social restingbitchface.
“Thanks for the drinks,” I joked and took two from him before they ended up on the floor. “Why’ve you got so many? I didn’t think I’d seeyouhere.”
“Zoe, babe! I know this guy in the support, and he put me on the list.” He hugged me, slapped me on the back, and gestured to the bottles in my hands. “Keep ‘em and drink up.Onme.”
That was the thing I loved about Frank. He was hard as nails but over-the-top generous. He made everyone feel included, no matter where they came from. He stood beside me and called out to some guy who was walking past with his girlfriend trailing behind in her stiletto heels and tiny dress. I looked at her, and then I looked at me in my jeans, boots, and cut up band shirt. It was no wonder I got along with guys better if that was what theywanted.
To be honest, people at gigs kind of annoyed me. There were always groups of girls dressed up like they were going to a mainstream club, high heels and all, and somehow, I always stood behind the people taking the piss out of the support bands—bands that were just starting out and were just good enough to get a great slot. You could tell they were new by how stiff they were on stage. What I hated were people in the crowd trying to be funny about it and not giving them a go. Laughing and not listening. Plenty of times, I would hear these bands, and later on, they’d get headline slots and would become the next big thing, and the same people suddenly thought they wereamazing.
Despite the crowd, I loved to go and see bands. I liked to watch them play. I mean, really watch. How they played their instruments, and how they moved onstage. I liked to see what they did so I could try it when I got home. What I especially didn’t like was if the songs sounded the same as on their record, like they were miming to a backing tape. It was about the moment, wasn’t it? The feeling and emotion of whatever song they were playing, the little variations in the vocals, an added riff or drum fill that made it a unique experience.That’s what I loved. Theemotion.
As the curtains began to close on the support band, someone shoved me from behind. I turned around to glare, but they were whispering in my ear, “Zoe, sweet lips.Gimme a kiss,sugar.”
I got an eyeful of Dee laughing like he was a fucking comedian, and I slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “What are you doing here, smartass?” I yelled intohisear.
“Frank got me in.” He winked, taking one of my drinks, and I knew he thought I was here because of Will Strickland. What I didn’t admit was that he wasright.
“Hey!” I protested as he pried one of my bottles frommyhand
“Hey, yourself.” He elbowed me, took a swig, and offereditback.
“Eww.” I feigned disgust. “I don’t wantitnow.”
As much as I kept to myself, it was nice to have someone to talk to between sets and hang out with. Before long, it was time for the main act tocomeon.
The Stabs was made up of four guys—two guitar players, a bass player, and a drummer. They played straightforward indie rock, nothing overly complicated, but whoever wrote their lyrics was a genius. Each song played out like a story, and it was hard not to get sucked into them. The crowd was going nuts, and the people crammed into the mosh pit at the front were jumping so much the floor felt like it wasshaking.
What was also hard not to get sucked into was watching Will Strickland. My eyes glued themselves to him, and I couldn’t find it in myself to look away. I watched his fingers slide across the strings of his bass, and my mind wandered, imagining them doing something else. Something below the belt. I was suddenly horrified at the image in my head and forced myself tolookaway.
“That guy,” Dee whispered in my ear, “is Will Strickland. He’s bad news, Zo Zo. Wom-an-izer. Takes it and leaves it from what I’vebeentold.”
“I’m just looking,” I told him, because I was. The last thing I needed was an unattainable crush on a known manwhore, but it was already too late for that. A woman could dream a little, right?Right?
What happened then was Will Strickland, known bed-hopper, turned his gaze on me and caught me staring. A slow, lazy grin spread across his sexy lips, and he held my gaze like superglue while the band went on playing the song. Effortless…and hot as fuck. There was no way in hell he was smiling at melikethat.
The thing about someone staring at you when you regarded yourself as a mutant was you had an overwhelming urge to look around to see if there was someone better looking behind you. In this case, I was jammed between Frank and Dee and a few hundred people. I was pretty sure I was not thetarget.
I raised my eyebrows…and he raised his, making my heart stop beating for what felt like a full minute. Then I glanced away, embarrassed. You read about these kinds of things in soppy romance novels or in hipster chick flick movies. The lonesome plain girl in the crowd, and the handsome guy in the popular band chasing her despite all the forces trying to tear them apart. But this was the real world, and it was justalook.
The show was that good it was over before I knew it. The singer and drummer seemed to milk the encore a little too much, but I mean, who wouldn’t? As people started to mill around and file out the door, Frank shot off into the mass and left Dee and me to our owndevices.
“What did you reckon?” heasked.
“Pretty good,” I said. “Ilikedthem.”
“Why’d you comehere,Zo?”
I scowled at his question. “I wanted to seeaband.”
“Plenty of other bands on tonight,youknow.”
“Then why are you here?” Isnapped.
