Seven Minutes 'til Midnight

by Sunniva Dee

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I lie. I even arch an eyebrow sort of imperiously. I think. I don’t have a mirror.

  He believes me, chest rising and falling. “Is there anything I can do to help you decide? I really need to go, and I’d love to have you in my dressing room instead of…” A flick of his eyes toward the upstairs merch area.

  “What gives you the right to want me anywhere?” I ask, because that’s in me, right there. All of it. I can be cruel to the nicest guy who once misjudged a situation.

  “Nothing. I have no rights at all.” His chest rises and falls again.

  It’s the silent inertia of his left hand along his thigh that does it. Strong but helpless, it hangs there, waiting for my verdict. He won’t be free to bang out his passion in that room, and he won’t be giving a tight-packed arena his best if his mind is distracted.

  My lips are closed, and I don’t mean it when I smile, even as my heart works in strange patterns. My lips have traitorous corners that tug against gravity, and they inflict my eyes too.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say in no more than a whisper. It’s big, this, to give him reprieve over his worry for me. “I’m just going to check that it’s set up right. See if they have any questions up there. Hailey wasn’t exactly in charge the last time. I’ll be back down in a jiffy.”

  “In a jiffy, huh?”

  “Yes. To drink champagne with Zoay, you know.” I purposely pronounce her name like her husband does.

  “Of course.” Troy lets his teeth tug on his smile. Gaze lingering in a slow blink, he lifts his brows before his eyes, and he is heart-stopping when his head tilts back to watch me full on. “Do you need anything? Ice. Scrawberries,” he copies Emil too. “I’ll have it ready for you in his dressing room. Whatever you want.”

  “I’m good. Thank you.” It’s the first time I thank him for anything after The Hotel Room. “Actually, one thing.”

  “What?” His question comes out more eager than his cat-lazy ways should permit.

  “Blow my mind onstage tonight.”

  “Yeah? That’s what you want?”

  I bob my head, slowly like he does. “I dare you.”

  “Better get to work, then.” He jerks his head toward his dressing room, and I wave him off like I don’t care.

  I do though.

  I really do.

  AISHE

  The upstairs area is crazy. Forty-five minutes left until curtain, and it makes me wonder how many have already taken their seats in the Quicken Loans Arena. Marcelino di Baptista is singing his soul out inside. With a capacity of twenty thousand people and the house being sold out, I guess he’s still got a crowd.

  But here, on the second floor, concertgoers are bumping into each other between food stands, bars, the arena’s own souvenir shops, and our merch stand. Marcelino has one too—it’s freaking busy—but Clown Irruption’s?

  I blink, observing it all, from between the shoulders of a couple of swaggering dudes. I suspect they’ve had their quota of alcohol already.

  Our stand is set up nicely, about six tables long, and here too, we have a couple of helpers I don’t know. I don’t see Hailey, and the line is long, two people wide, directed at one of the girls working it. Her cheeks are hot with stress. She takes their money, smiles, packs up, and hands over their merchandise.

  I twirl my hair into a haphazard knot and tuck it into the back of my shirt. Then, I wind in between the customers until I’m at the side of the end table.

  “Hey. Where’s Hailey?” I ask the girl.

  “I don’t know. Bathroom, I think?” she puffs out.

  I stare at the line. The people at the middle of the row are showing signs of impatience, sending looks at the closest arena entrance. They check their watches, scroll on their phones, even tap the floor with a foot.

  “How long has it been like this?”

  “Ever since she left, pretty much.”

  That makes me frown. “Ever since she left” sounds like a while ago.

  “All right, is that her station?”

  The girl nods quickly. Of course, it’s the empty area with no customers waiting and t-shirts and hats in untouched, organized stacks. I walk down to it, open her money box, and find tons of change. Twenties, tens, fives, dollar bills.

  I grab a big t-shirt, duck behind the display board, and pull it over my head so I’m covering my regular, half-sleeved bodice. Then, I return to the stand.

  “What’s your names?” I ask the frantic girls.

  “Margaret.”

  “Rhonda.”

  “Aishe here,” I say.

  They both startle, really looking at me. I lift my finger to my mouth in a shh, and they bob their heads quickly.

  “So this is what we’ll do: we’ll work from the one line, but send your customers with cash to me, and I’ll take care of them. If my line gets longer than about ten, then wait. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Thank you… new friend.” One of them grins at me.

  It’s good. I feel safe. No one mentions Aishe Xodyar and her sex tape, and no one wants to pay for a date with me. The customers are too busy pointing out tees, measuring them and holding them up for their girlfriends or boyfriends. The tees cost twenty-five each, now, I notice, so more often than not, I take their bills, jot out a quick receipt, and off they go. I’ve got my own tally system—it’s in my fingers. For me, it’s better to do it while I go instead of taking the fight with inventory afterward.

  I sigh, happy. Relieved to be doing something after all. Until someone breaks through my line of cash-paying customers with a glare in her eyes. Hailey.

  “Oh hello, Aishe Xodyar,” she mutters. “I thought you were too busy being a groupie to work.”

  My heart starts to hammer. A quick look around me, and I see no reactions. At least, she didn’t yell out my name. “I came to check if the stand needed anything. Since you weren’t here, I jumped in to help Rhonda and Margaret.”

  “Who?”

  “The girls you were supposed to work with tonight.”

  “‘What do you mean? I am working with them. I was in the bathroom’s all.”

  Handing off a bag of t-shirts, I examine her. She’s got some sort of fake butterflies in her hair, made of feathers. Pretty. But— “Did you get hair extensions?”

  I trail my eyes down the length of her much thicker, dark mane. Still with the stripes of deep red and pink, it doesn’t have her natural straight consistency anymore. Now, there are waves in it too, and it reaches her butt, like mine. Wow, a lot about that hair is like mine.

  She pats it, rolling her eyes. “Just felt like a change, ya know, and I know this hairdresser in Cleveland. He’s like, ‘Wanna do extensions?’ and I’m like, ‘Sure, dude.’” She shrugs. “So anyway, I’ll take over now, thanks.”

  “Thirty minutes ’til the band is on,” I warn, looking at the lines.

  “And? I did this job just fine while you were gone, Aishe. Pretty sure I can still handle it.” There it is again. My name. She says it louder now, a warning to get the fuck out of here if there ever was one.

  I want to tell her people are impatient because they want to take their seats. She’d tell me she’s open through the concert and after, that it’s up to them what they want to do. I’ve said the same thing. But this line is the longest I’ve ever seen. I feel like warning the customers to come back during the break.

  It’s not my business, though. She’s the legitimate merch girl, here. And as I walk away, I hear a customer address her in much friendlier tones than I was addressed in Boston. “Excuse me, are you that girl from the video? The one with Troy Armstrong?”

  I twist to look. A flush crawls up her neck as she smiles. For a second, she fondles the tees in front of her. Sensing my attention, she flicks a look my way before returning to the customer. �
��No, I’m not. I get it all the time, because of the hair, I guess?”

  I’m annoyed as heck when I find the backstage entrance and leave this madness behind. She’s fully aware that she copied my hair, and in addition to my clothing it’s what people know me for. This is me.

  Existential crisis. You know what that is? Me, I’ve rubbed against it my whole life. When I first came to the U.S., I became a regular jeans-and-t-shirt girl to blend in. From the outside, no one could see my slumbering crazy, at least not until the Drago Fuoc took over.

  But I guess something good came out of chasing Emil too. I went back to our long skirts and medieval-style bodice tops—to our flair of jewelry and makeup—to get Emil’s attention. In hindsight, I see how it also brought me back to me.

  As I walk down the hallway toward Emil’s open dressing-room door, I think that I can’t change again. Yes, I’ve thought about it, especially after the humiliation in Boston, but if I’ve lost my job and my anonymity, I still have who I am.

  I am Aishe. I’m fire-born, and I’m a Gypsy.

  I’ll never blend into the masses.

  If my flair broadcasts my personality, I’d rather hide in hotel rooms than in plain sight encumbered by clothes and hair that aren’t me.

  “Twelve minutes!” Troll calls and stomps off to one of his emergencies.

  I’m on the threshold of Emil and Zoe’s party room when I see Troy in my peripheral. Slick with sweat and with drumsticks in one hand, he simmers behind his dreadlocks. When he registers me, his mouth lifts with ivory confidence.

  Elias is here. Waris is. Emil has thrown “Zoay” over his shoulder, and she’s kicking the air, scream-laughing for him to put her down.

  Nadia and Bo enter, inspiration radiating off Bo after his private jam session next door. The room glows with anticipation. I try not to look at Troy, who’s right behind me while I pull a Coke out of the ice chest.

  His scent of fresh sweat, manly, alive, and full of promise, mixes with his spices. He should stay away from me, not stand so close that I can hear the subtle tick of his drumstick against his thigh.

  I home in on my soda. Tip fizzy liquid into a paper cup. I do it with all the concentration I can muster while Troy murmurs quips with Elias. He makes Waris giggle.

  I wonder how it feels to giggle with him and only see humor. Then, I realize it’s what it used to be for me too. I used to be on tour with my friend, never experiencing anything but companionship. Or did I? No. No, all my crazy love back then was for Emil.

  The room is big. Troy doesn’t have to stand right behind me, but he always does. I chat a little with Bo and Nadia, my whole back to him so I don’t get tempted into checking if he’s put on a shirt.

  “One minute!” Troll rumbles his order to the guys. “Let’s get going.”

  I wave as Nadia and Bo walk back the way they came. I hear their embrace at the door, but I don’t turn. I’m too busy with my soda to look.

  The love he murmurs into her hair, how she tells him to “go get ’em.” Everything. She’s proud of him. He’s so lucky he has her. I don’t turn, but Zoe loves Emil too—much more loudly—and I think that sound is Elias groaning against Waris’ mouth.

  People start clearing out of the room while I chug Coke.

  “You’re not going to pull that shit again, are you?” Troll asks.

  “What shit?” Troy says.

  I turn. Watch him standing alone in the doorway, shirtless, bronze pecs ticking while he stacks his hard-as-fuck biceps over them.

  “We have nineteen thousand five hundred and eighty-three paying fans out there, and they all want your ass onstage a-fucking-sap. Now: what are you going to do about it?”

  I start forward motion, which isn’t good. It’s bad for me, and for Troy too because I’m only encouraging our weird symbiosis. But God, he’s cute over there, with his feet slightly apart in lax defiance. Also his stomach muscles are nice. Damn nice.

  He’s eyeing me slyly, and I keep walking toward him like he’s some siren man singing my name way too prettily.

  “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” I ask.

  “What are you talking about?” He actually winks at me.

  I step up close and watch him hood his eyes.

  “Here we go again,” Troll mutters, mimicking a gunshot to his temple. He still draws back into the hallway, giving us privacy.

  I’m braver this time than I was in Boston. I’m on my tippy-toes in seconds, take his jaw in my hands, and wait for his face to lower enough for my lips to find his. He bends to get to me. All playfulness leaves his eyes as he stares at my lips, waiting for me to let go of my own anxious little smile and do what he knows I will do next.

  “Troy,” I whisper against his mouth. “Just freaking blow everything out of the water tonight.”

  “I always do,” he says cockily.

  “Raw force. Animal-style. All the things they say you do.” I kiss his lips.

  “Yeah?”

  I kiss him again, and his eyelids droop, sending a sting of desire to the pit of my stomach. “Yeah. Do it.”

  “And do it today,” Troll fires from the hallway.

  “I’ll take him there,” I say. Braver than I feel, I form both hands around his lower arm and lead him toward the stage like he’s a big kid.

  His quiet approval is all around us, making me think of rebels who just need that woman to calm them down. He’s not a rebel, and I’m not that woman, but the Drago Fuoc is playing with me and making me burn hotter for each second I hold onto him.

  We’re there early this time. The guys haven’t gone onstage yet, and the audience is hissing with bright anticipation.

  “Feel like getting onstage first, maybe, for once?” Emil asks.

  Troy tilts him a lopsided grin. “Maybe. You’ve missed it?”

  “Naw, I’m good taking your spotlight.”

  Troy turns to me again, and I hear Troll groan behind us, guessing what comes next before I do. So swiftly I’m not even sure it happened, he bends and presses a feather-light kiss on my lips. Then, he rises a hand in a V-sign, and strides onstage.

  The shriek from the audience is massive and dense as brick. I can’t see him from where I stand, but lord, do I hear him when he starts up.

  AISHE

  I feel like a human heater. It’s like I’m in menopause at the age of twenty-three, and it’s making droplets of sweat trickle between my breasts. I’m at the Cleveland meet-n-greet after the concert, assisting with signed photos and posters. I pass on fresh t-shirts for the guys to sign as the line snails past them one by one. Now that I’m taken off merch-stand duty, there isn’t much else I can do to earn my keep.

  The guys were against it. “Aishe. Are you sure? You know how people are. It could explode in your face again if they recognize you.”

  “Except it’s less likely,” Elias had cut in, making sense for once. “Because we’re there, and people are more interested in a moment with us than with bashing Aishe.”

  Whenever possible, the band does this—receives their fans backstage instead of in a more spacious, dedicated place like the shopping area upstairs. Bo’s smart; he knows the fans love being able to recount how they were allowed backstage at one of Clown Irruption’s concerts.

  As always, you’ve got your rabid, wide-eyed fangirls in skimpy outfits whose goal is physical contact. Others politely hold out items they want signed, the most interesting today being an old-school alarm clock, round and large, on which Emil is currently scribbling, “Emil says GET OUT OF BED!”

  The alarm clock owner squeals in happy falsetto and covers his mouth with his hand as I pass it on to Troy. Strong fingers brush mine, lingering for a moment before he accepts it. I feel his stare on me in the middle of the hustle-bustle, but I keep my eyes on the alarm clock and watch it slide from my grip and into his.

  T
hose hands. Drumming is what they do and should keep doing. Not the other things, the delicious, amazing things they did once. Free association is a bitch.

  The room is jampacked, groups of fans being guided into lines. Together they produce heat in here, but the droplets trickling between my boobs aren’t their fault. Neither is the fire that never leaves my stomach.

  I’m frustrated. Generally frustrated and sexually frustrated. Showers and soft sheets have never felt more soothing and more insufficient at once.

  “Wait… Oh-mi-God, Aishe and Troy!” Alarm Clock Boy says and covers his mouth on an inward breath. “Holy moly, that was so crazy! You guys are, like— Are you going to get married?” His chest heaves with exaltation.

  “Keep it down, man,” Troy murmurs. “It’s not what you think.”

  I step back, busying myself with stacks of postcards, ducking my head into a cardboard box on the floor behind us. With my back to the line, I still hear Troy’s short but polite commands while he tries to talk the fan down.

  “But I recognize her hair! Oh-mi-God, the way you looked at each other in that video. The sex was, like, not even the important part! You lo-o-ove her, right?” The way he sings it out between his teeth makes me cringe. “Just— Oh-mi-God!”

  Instinctively, I knot my mane at the middle and slip it inside my shirt. Yes, I’m wearing my bodice and my long skirt, but I don’t have feathers in my hair or peacock pendants in my ears. Defying the heat in the room, I’ve slung a cotton cardigan over my bodice too.

  “Here, dude. I’ll take the alarm clock,” Elias mutters. “You want something in particular on there?”

  “Whatever you want! Is your porn-star lady here too?” Alarm Clock Boy breathes, looking around. Wow, I’m relieved the rest of the pretties are chilling in the green room.

  “None of them are. They don’t actually work for us.” Troy forces a smile as he politely ushers the guy forward in the line.

  “But that hair! You are her, right?” He swings toward me again, and for a second, my mind goes blank.