She gave me a wry look. “What is with you lately?”
“What do you mean?”
She nodded at the girls in the parking lot who were laughing, drinking, and oblivious to the thunderstorm that was hiding around the corner. “Where’s your confidence, girl? You’re gorgeous and you know it. Not only that, but you’re one fine writer. A double threat.”
“I’m just not slutty enough,” I mumbled.
Mel ripped off her sunglasses and gave me the stare down. She had won in the staring contest against my horse earlier—I was powerless. I looked down at my hands and dirty fingernails.
“Are you calling them girls sluts because of the way they’re dressed, cuz damn child you must think I’m a downright ho in my little booty boobie get-up here,” she said with full-on attitude.
“You’re not a groupie,” I protested.
“Who cares? I could be. What’s wrong with trying to get some rock and roll tail? Sex is sex, Dawn, even for the wrong reasons. I thought you were all for this women’s liberation shit and bra burning.”
I looked down at my chest. “I didn’t need those bras anyway.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. She wasn’t gentle. Mel could fly off the handle and you never wanted her on your bad side.
“It doesn’t mean you have to spread your legs if you don’t want to,” she told me in her I’m-a-year-older-let-me-lecture-you voice. “But let those girls be those girls. You be yourself, loosen up, and maybe, just maybe, if you try the groupie angle, you’ll end up getting the real story.”
I gave her fingers a quick kiss before shrugging them off. “You are a terrible influence Miss Melanie Jones.”
She laughed, throwing her head back. “And you need a good shag, Miss Dawn Emerson. You can’t have the rock and roll without the sex. And drugs. Speaking of…”
She brought out her saddlebag purse and brought out a joint from her slim cigarette case.
“What did I say about thinking clearly?” I reminded her. But I ended up taking a quick puff anyway. Pot was good for the musical experience and clearly I needed to loosen up a little. I felt as tense as the coming storm.
We got out of the car sufficiently high. I gathered my confidence, threw back my shoulders, and the two of us strode proudly toward the entrance to The Ripper. We were getting second glances from a lot of the guys. Naturally the sight of a short, curvy black girl and a tall redhead garnered a lot of attention in itself, plus there were Mel’s boobs swinging around in her top and that flirtatious smile of hers. If they could get past the mess of hair and the horse-shit boots, I knew deep down I wasn’t anything to sneeze at either. But was I “beat out the groupies and score an interview with a rock star” hot? That remained to be seen.
We showed our tickets at the door to a tricked-out bouncer, and after flashing him our IDs, he slapped a yellow band on our wrists, proclaiming to the world that we were of legal drinking age. I grinned despite myself. After years of watching the “cool” older kids have their drinks in the club, it was a relief to be able to do the same.
The club was packed even though half the audience still appeared to be tailgating outside. It was dark and blurry and reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. I felt like I was floating through the crowd, feeding off the energy of music lovers, intoxicated by the anticipation of a live show. I was in my element and the grass was working fast to mellow me out.
Mel did her usual thing which was to ditch me as soon as we got inside. She spotted a former flame of hers, this real creep from New York who thought he was a ghetto superstar, and took off to him like a moth to a flame. I didn’t mind. I liked to be alone during a concert, the better to feel the music and really immerse myself. Plus observing the crowd was a major tool to creating atmosphere in music reviews, and that was hard to do when you had Mel squealing in your ear, dissecting the size of the lead singer’s dick by the tightness of his pants.
I found a spot against the sweating wall to the left of the stage, conveniently close to the backstage entrance. I kept a deceptively casual watch on it to see if I recognized any of the roadies or managers who were going in and out. So far, none of them looked familiar and after ten minutes the area around the door became crowded with the frosted-lip chicks. I felt my chest tighten. Mel was right, something really was wrong with me. With family issues, my worries about Moonglow’s performance, and Ryan leaving me, it seemed like everything was stressing me out. Music was always the one thing in my life I could count on, the drug that took me away from reality and made me feel whole. Now, it just seemed like too much pressure to make something of myself.
I took in a deep breath of secondhand smoke and closed my eyes. I repeated a Zen mantra I had heard on a.m. television until I started to feel in control again. When I opened my eyes, Todd McFadden was standing in front of me. He worked with me on Big Ears and since he was into the same rock and metal as I was, I was always battling him for music reviews and shows. We were on friendly terms, but I really couldn’t stand his chauvinistic opinions, nor the fact that he always had one long nose hair sticking out of his right nostril.
“Hey Red,” he cooed. He placed his hand against the wall and leaned on it, thinking it probably made him look cool. It just made him look like he couldn’t stand up straight, and after getting a quick glimpse of his red-rimmed eyes, it wasn’t far from the truth.
“Hey Caveman,” I replied. So I may have lied when I said we were on friendly terms.
“Oh, you like the chest-beating type, admit it.” His smile was more reptilian when high.
“The only thing that should be beat is it,” I retorted and turned my attention back to the stage. “So, beat it, I’m trying to watch a show.”
“No show yet, babe,” he said, stepping in closer. “Are you here to write or just listen?”
“Both,” I said, crossing my arms.
He nodded but stood there, not really getting the hint. After a few awkward seconds he said, “Did you hear I’m interviewing Terry after the show?”
I tried really hard to not let that bother me. I failed. My eyes bugged out.
“What? How? For who?”
Todd shrugged. “Spokane. I got a job there for the summer. Beats the hell out of Big Ears.”
I knew it did. Man, that pissed me right off. Of course someone like Todd would be able to land a job like that—he stole half my potential stories anyway.