Page 58 of Revelations

The lead singer was hot with a capital H. Skin-tight faded blue jeans, a frayed white button-down shirt open to reveal a hairy chest and a sparkling gold chain, shiny cowboy boots, and a smile to knock the girls’ panties off…Rowdy Rick oozed sex appeal. Even the rough and tough Marines knew a man’s man when they saw him. Some glared with jealousy as he winked at the ladies, but others nodded with respect.

The rest of the band was comprised of lackluster players at best—mostly scrawny, young kids who had started out strumming guitars in their momma’s garage. Now they thought that they were in the big time playing rundown bars in military towns with a guy who could have been the lovechild of Hank Williams Jr. and Dolly Parton.

The only one not looking seriously impressed was Joe. “Not this dirtbag again!”

“What? You don’t like the entertainment?” She marveled at Joe’s keen ability to recognize bullshit when he saw it.

“Their stuff sounds like Bob Dylan and a drunk Garth Brooks collaborated on an album while smoking weed in a back alley full of feral cats.” He shook his head in disgust. “It just doesn’t work for me, but apparently I’m in the minority. All my troops love ‘em when they come to town. And the girls…don’t get me started on the girls. I’ll bet you twenty bucks that there will be at least one brawl tonight over who gets to bang Rowdy out back between sets.”

So, not a fan. Got it.

Joe was not wrong. Her ears ached from his loud butchering of popular country songs. When the band took their first break, sure enough, there was a scuffle right to the side of the stage as girls fought to get Rowdy Rick’s attention.

Greylyn took out her wallet and handed Joe a twenty dollar bill. Looking him in the eyes, she countered, “Double or nothing?”

“You got yourself a bet, Greylyn.”

They shook hands on it. As Joe ordered another round of drinks and finished off her chili-cheese fries, she excused herself for the ladies’ room.

“Careful back there. Last month, one of female recruits walked right in on members of that band and their groupies. Right in the bathroom, too. That just ain’t right.”

“Warning taken, sir.” She curtly saluted before pivoting around to bulldoze her way through the sea of bodies.

It was not a demonic band having sex in the lavatory that bothered Greylyn. It was more what else occurred in the process. Surely, she had not been summoned from the prophecy to lecture a horde of females on the benefits of abstinence or condoms.

No, that was the least of her worries. She had previously had a most unfortunate experience with something like this before, in the seventies. A disco band of demons screwed everything in sight, impregnating every woman with their own special demon spawn. Gestation for humans was typically forty weeks. Gestation, when carrying a demon embryo, was quite shorter; more along the lines of four excruciating days. Every victim died while giving birth.

Cringing at the recollection, Greylyn prayed that this was not the same scenario. By the time that she had eradicated that particular demon band, over twenty-five women had perished.

“Excuse me,” she repeated as she pushed her way through the throng. With her hand on the doorknob to the restroom, she startled when someone pulled her back away from the door. “I wouldn’t go in there right now, if I were you. There’s some…umm…special entertainment going on.”

The snippy way the girl said it, Greylyn suspected that she resented not making the first round of playthings for the band.

Shrugging the girl off, she pushed through, anyway. Not as bad of a scene as she had expected, but still, a blindfold would have been nice. The sink counter was occupied, and not by anyone washing their hands. By the ruckus coming from the last stall, she didn’t have to guess what was going on in there, either. The two sets of legs, one with jeans shucked down to obviously male ankles, and the other belonging to someone in three-inch stiletto boots, were a dead giveaway.

Not wishing to make a scene by overtly interfering with the festivities, but still intending to scout the band members for signs of trouble, she approached the last stall.

Here goes nothing.

Stumbling like she had imbibed too much alcohol, she pretended to trip into the stall door. Luckily, the occupants had not been too interested in securing the lock and the cheap metal door swung open, nailing the band member in the butt. Both tumbled toward the toilet. The girl ended up with her face barely missing the flushing mechanism while her tattooed arms splashed into the bowl. Two angry faces turned to glare at her.

“Oops! I’m so sorry. Thought this one was free.”

Greylyn slurred her words and swayed into the man. With his pants still down around his shoes, she tried not to cringe as she tottered into him.Gross.

His scowl transformed into a huge grin as his eyes roamed up and down her body. With a sickening leer, he reached out to steady her. “Hey, wanna join us? We could use another warm body.”

As unenticing as that offer was, Greylyn played out her role as the drunk. Grasping his arm, she expected to get that little demonic tingle. Nothing.

Relieved, she shook her head vehemently and repeated her sloshed act over to the sink. The intertwined couple on the flimsy vanity counter didn’t even notice her. A glassy-eyed stare reflected in the mirror from the dude with the ponytail. His hands were otherwise trapped under the girl’s jean skirt, indicated that there was more than alcohol coursing through his veins—but still nothing demonic when she brushed against him.

Zero for two, Grey.

The band’s break would not last long. That much she knew. Her time was running out to find the bad guy before the next set. There was really only the lead singer to go.

Where are you, Rowdy?

She gladly vacated the cramped bathroom. A quick scan of the smoky bar for signs of Rowdy Rick revealed that he was nowhere in sight.

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