Page 24 of Shame Me
Cy scowled. “Probably. But we’re too fucking soused to know. And how are we gonna explainthatto the cops, Zack?”
“Can they arrest you if you smell like alcohol but they didn’t catch you drinking?”
“I don’t know—but Idoknow they can have you take a breathalyzer.”
“I’m not driving.” Zack sighed. “This sounds stupid, but I say we finish cleaning up then lights out. We can have the lights on in our bedrooms, but if cops come to our door and don’t hear or see anything, what are they gonna do?”
Cy’s face was still turned down in a frown, but he pitched in as well—and soon the apartment was the cleanest it had been since we’d moved in. And off we went to bed.
As I lay there struggling to fall asleep, my mind kept replaying the evening’s events. Wes had gotten overly friendly with me, despite the fact that I hadn’t ever flirted with him, hadn’t been wearing anything provocative or baring an excessive amount of skin. It made me angry—not just at Wes but at the fact that I was weak compared to a man, and Wes had taken advantage of it. I knew my arms were in good shape thanks to drumming, but if a man chose to overpower me, I’d have a hard time defending myself.
But having male roommates and bandmates made me a little less apprehensive, and my thoughts softened as they turned to Zack. He’d ended this celebration for me. Forme. He’d spent money on it, had been laying the groundwork to get laid, had been eager to have some fun…and he’d ended it for me.
Maybe there was a part of him thatdidcare about me.
CHAPTER 7
Three nights later, we had a big show in a cool venue on East Colfax. There was a popular local band called Blame the Night who drew in a big crowd—and then there were not one or two but three supporting bands. And the backstage area was the nicest I’d ever seen.
But the best part? Since I was the only female in the bunch, I got my own dressing room. I wasn’t completely sure, but I was under the impression that each member of Blame the Night had a personal dressing room, but supporting acts had to share with their own band members—so Cy, Zack, and Braden had their own spot.
I felt almost like a princess. Or I would have if not for the assholes in the other bands.
None of the guys from Blame the Night bothered me, but the two smaller bands were populated with neanderthals. Actually, that wasn’t true. Neanderthals would have been preferable.
It started when we first arrived. I was helping haul in the drums through the back and two guys were standing in the hallway talking. But as we got close to the area where we were told to leave our equipment, the first asshole said to Zack, “How’d you guys manage to score a roadie chick?”
Zack didn’t have a chance to respond. I said, “I’m not a roadie. I’m the drummer.”
At first, I’d just taken it for a simple mistake—but his next words confirmed that he was, indeed, a jackass. Looking at the other guy he’d been talking to, he said, “Isn’t that cute? She bangs on the drums.”
All I could muster was “Fuck you.”
Zack, however, stopped, setting down the bass drum to look the guy squarely in the eye—and the rest of us froze in place. “She’s damn good. I’d put her up against your shitty drummer any day of the week.”
“Our drummer’s not shitty.”
“I’ve watched you guys before. You’re delusional if you think you have a good drummer.”
I would have sworn the asshole’s cheeks turned pink. “We got a new drummer earlier this month.”
“And without even hearing your new guy, I’d still put Dani up against him any time.”
The guy just shook his head. It wasn’t until we were walking away that I heard him, voice lower, say to his friend, “Aw, she even has a cute little boy name.”
I was relieved that Zack didn’t hear it, ahead of us a few steps, because he probably would have escalated it further.
If that had been the only incident, I probably would have forgotten it, because that kind of bullshit happened all the time, even when I proved my worth. But, when we were done getting our equipment in place, Cy and Braden stayed behind to tune their instruments while Zack and I headed back to our dressing rooms to find that the third band arrived backstage. When they came over to introduce themselves, I thought that was pretty cool, because we were getting to know more bands the more we played—and more connections might always mean more chances to be heard and seen.
“Zack, right?”
“Yeah. Jon?”
“Yep.” The two frontmen shook hands. Jon said to his bandmates, “This is the dude I told you guys I was talking with online. We’re thinking we might collab in the future.” His bandmates—a mixture of goth and punk types—seemed enthusiastic about the news, but then Jon had to go and say something obnoxious. “You’re doing way better than I thought. You already have a groupie hanging with you. I’m jealous.” He chuckled, eyeing me up and down like a piece of meat. I wasn’t wearing anything particularly provocative, because I was beginning to realize that it brought me the kind of attention I didn’t want. Instead, I wore a pair of ripped jeans, red Converse sneakers, and a black t-shirt with a picture of Slash in his top hat, shredding his guitar.
I glared—but this time, Zack beat me to the punch.
“She’s not a groupie, man.”
