Six months ago, Ryan’s dad had died, and Ryan had gotten super weird. He’d told Whitney that some monster that lived in another world had killed his father. He’d told her that he could travel between worlds and that he could visit other dimensions. He’d sounded nuts. Of course, it had been a tough time for Ryan. Both his brother and father had died within a matter of weeks of each other. That was a really difficult thing to deal with. Whitney figured Ryan had to retreat into his beliefs to deal with it. So, she’d humored him. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. After all, Whitney thought that was what people were supposed to do in a relationship. Accept each other. Love each other, weird beliefs and all. And for a while, right afterwards, they’d been so close. Sometimes, when they’d made love in those weeks and months following Ryan’s father’s death, Whitney had felt like their souls were melding into each other. She’d half-believed, sometimes, half-asleep in the afterglow of orgasm, that Ryan was right. That the world was all connected by mystical energy. That she and Ryan were god-like energies, hurling themselves through the cosmos.
Of course, Ryan’s new devotion to his psychic ability wasn’t all smooth sailing. Whitney was annoyed with the fact that Ryan was always throwing her tarot cards, or uncovering portents of what was to come in her life. She hadn’t wanted to share her annoyance at first, because she was afraid it would damage Ryan during his grieving. But eventually, when he’d “seen” certain doom for Whitney if she pursued the Shane Adams article, Whitney had lost it. They’d had a huge, huge argument. Whitney wasn’t sure sometimes if their relationship had ever quite recovered from that argument. She loved Ryan. She didn’t want to lose him. So, she tried to play nice. Sometimes, it was just hard.
It really bothered Ryan whenever she mentioned the article, or Shane Adams, or The Wrenching. He was sincerely worried about her safety. So, she’d told him that she’d given up on it. It hadn’t sold. The first magazine, which had purchased it before she wrote it, passed on it after getting her article. They didn’t even ask her to rework it. They said something about reorganizing the magazine’s focus and that the article really didn’t fit with the new direction they were heading in. She’d queried several other places with no better luck. This last rejection was the last straw.
Shane was emailing her every four days, demanding to know why the article wasn’t in print. The guy sounded mentally unglued. He was the obsessed one. He kept going on about the danger his fans were in and their needing to be warned. It was driving her crazy, because she didn’t know what to tell him. No music magazines seemed to want to publish a piece in which a rock star told his fans to go home. Whitney didn’t know why. She thought the scandal would sell it. She didn’t think magazines were in the position to be fluff-PR vehicles for musicians, but apparently, she was wrong. No one wanted a story that portrayed Shane Adams in a negative light.
So maybe Ryan was right. Maybe the article was destined to be a failure. To never be published. Maybe she should give up on it. Except...
“I’ve just been querying some places,” she said. “I mean, it’s already written. I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
“Right,” said Ryan, not turning around. “It’s no big deal. That’s why you’re banging around the kitchen and drinking in the middle of the day.”
“Ryan—”
“I told you. There’s something really bad about that article. Whenever I think about it, I just see this really dark aura.”
Whitney sighed. “Ryan—”
“I mean it. If you don’t believe me about anything else, just believe me about this. This article is changing you.”
“Look at me.” Whitney was regretting saying anything. She knew better than to talk to Ryan about this. He was irrational. She hadn’t meant to bring it up. Damn her temper. It always made her do things she didn’t really mean to do.
Ryan didn’t look at her. He didn’t turn around. He faced the sink. His voice was quiet. “You lied to me about it.”
“I didn’t really.”
“You said you gave up on it, but you didn’t. You’re still trying to sell it. So, you lied.” He turned around. He wasn’t angry. He was sad. It was written all over his face.
Whitney felt wretched. “Hey, I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t. I don’t want to—I’ve got to get out of here for a little bit, okay?”
“What?!” That wasn’t okay. That definitely wasn’t okay.
But Ryan didn’t answer. He just grabbed his keys from the rack where they hung in the kitchen and dove out the front door.
Whitney took a gulp of her drink and stared after him. Fuck.
* * *
Shane stood shaking in front of the crowd, gripping the neck of his guitar so hard his knuckles were turning white. His shirt clung to his body, drenched in sweat.
“One more!” shouted the sea of people.
It always amazed Shane, the way an enormous group of people could function like one mind at moments like these. Sure, they were individuals. Hundreds of people with their own lives and jobs and all going different places when the show was over. But for this moment, they were one mind, focused on one singular purpose. Getting him to play more music.
Shane wanted to do a line of coke. He could feel the itching in the back of his throat. It was an ache, a pressing need. He shot Chris a look over his shoulder. Chris had his head thrown back. He was soaking up the crowd. Fuck. Shane really didn’t want to do another song. He was tired. He was frightened. He hadn’t heard news of any more missing fans, but he knew it was only a matter of time before another one disappeared. His playing tonight didn’t help things.
Chris’ head bobbed down and Shane caught his eye. Chris shrugged, a questioning look in his eyes. They had an encore lined up.
Shane shook his head. He pulled his guitar over his head and started for the wings.
The crowd roared its disappointment.
Shane stopped. Looked back at them, unsure of what he wanted to do. He weighed his options. Coke or screaming fans. He remembered that once all he needed to survive was screaming fans. He could have drunk their applause, eaten their shouts. It would have sustained him. Now...
Now, he was a stupid rock and roll cliché. Feeling disgusted with himself, Shane stalked off the stage.
Chris was right behind him. “That’s it?” Chris called after him.
Shane turned around. Faced his best friend. “I need a bump,” he muttered.
“We went on an hour late,” said Chris.
Which was Shane’s fault, even if Chris didn’t say it. Chris didn’t understand. No one understood. Not even Chris. He was killing these kids by playing for them. He tried to tell Chris, but Chris... Didn’t matter anyway.
“That crowd is gonna eat us alive if you leave the stage now,” Chris said.
Shane swallowed. The crowds were getting angrier and angrier these days. There had been one or two instances that almost qualified as a riot. Some expensive equipment had been destroyed. And everyone had blamed Shane, because he’d quit playing. Everyone wanted something from him. Well...too fucking bad. They couldn’t have him. He wasn’t going to play this game. He wasn’t going to be part of this mass slaughter.
“Sorry,” said Shane.
A roadie hurried over, having heard their exchange. He offered Shane a small silver coke spoon, heaped with the white powder. Damn it.
Shane took the spoon. Snorted the drug. He felt it course through him almost immediately, a lightning bolt to his brain. He should go back now. He should play another song. Give the frenzied monster of a crowd what they wanted. Even if it was killing them. Was it his responsibility to save them?
The crowd was chanting now. They knew what they wanted. “Hamelin! Hamelin!” chanted the crowd. Hundreds of mouths. One voice.
They wanted him. How could he resist it when they wanted him? Shane slung his guitar back over his body. He strode back onto the stage. Chris followed him.
As he approached the microphone, the cr
owd burst into fevered cheers and screams. Shane gripped the mike stand, glaring out at the crowd. “You know what happens to little children who won’t get the fuck out at the end of the night?” he demanded.
The crowd cheered again, beside itself in its ecstasy.
“They die,” said Shane, striking the first chord of “Get the Fuck Out of Hamelin.”
“Die, die, die!” the crowd screamed back at him.
If only he could really convince them all to go home.
* * *
It was cold, and Lark’s gloves had holes in them. She hadn’t thought she’d have to wear gloves this late in the year. After all, it was mid-April, and spring was surely just around the corner. But a cold snap had sprung up, and it was in the thirties that night. Her fingers were icicles inside her tattered black gloves, and she rubbed them together briskly as she spoke to the man who was surveying her “wares.”
“The dress is fifty,” she said.
Being on tour was expensive. The gas alone was ghastly, not to mention the food, the concert tickets, the booze, the cigarettes, and the occasional night in a hotel. (Matt sold drugs, so she never had to buy those.) In order to fund her trip, Lark sold clothing. She bought pieces at thrift stores and yard sales. Searched through giveaway piles at churches. Whatever she could get her hands on. Then she ripped and cut it. Sewed pieces together. Added embellishments. She set up a little table outside of Matt’s van after the shows and hung the clothes on racks. The dress the man was interested in was a floor length black lace gown. It had been a wedding dress, but Lark had dyed it black and added safety pins, zippers, and gauze.
His girlfriend hovered behind him, practically drooling over it, but she said, “David, it’s too expensive.”
“It’s handmade,” said Lark. Okay, so it was hand-re-made, but they didn’t know that. The two were yuppie scum. Casual fans of the band. Lark had no idea where the chick would even wear the goddamned dress. To work in her office in the city? Lark inwardly snorted at the thought of it.
“I’ll give you thirty for it,” said the man.
Lark hated dickering over prices. “Fifty,” she said. “It costs fifty dollars.” She clamped her mouth shut to keep her teeth from chattering. It was so damned cold.
“Do you really follow the band around?” asked the girlfriend. “Are you part of the Entourage?”
Lark nodded. “Yeah.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as sarcastic to them as it did to her.
“Forty,” said the man.
“Don’t worry about it,” said the girlfriend.
He turned to her. “You want it. I want to get it for you.”
“I don’t want you to spend that much money,” she whined.
The man glared at her. “You’re worth it,” he snapped, whipping his wallet from his back pocket and slapping a fifty-dollar bill onto Lark’s table. “We’ll take it,” he told Lark.
Lark smiled sweetly and took the dress down from its hanger. “Would you like a bag for that?”
They did. She bagged it up, pocketed the fifty, and watched them walk off. As soon as they were out of sight, she let herself start to shiver. Violent shakes overtook her body. She was going to have to pack it in soon. She couldn’t handle being outside in this frigid weather. Not that it would be so much better inside the van. They were sleeping there that night, and Matt wouldn’t waste gas by running the heat all night. Still, with all of them crammed inside, there would be body heat. Maybe she could convince Matt to turn the heat on for a little bit, anyway. A few minutes. He might do that. She wondered if he’d make her take those sleeping pills again. He kept talking about them. Asking her what she thought of them.
They weren’t awful. If that was what it took to get some heat, then that was what Lark would do. She was so cold.
“Hey,” said a voice.
Lark’s head whipped up. She’d been staring at her hands while she shivered and thought. Eric Micks was standing in front of her. He was a fellow member of the Entourage. He and his girlfriend Tina sold food after the shows. Standard cheap stuff, like hamburgers, hot dogs, veggie dogs for the vegetarians... It was how they paid for their gas. And Eric probably sold drugs on the side too, but Lark didn’t think he was as into it as Matt was. Eric and Tina were nice, though. Lark smiled at him. “Hey,” she replied.
Eric was holding a Styrofoam cup. Steam rose from its contents. “You want some hot cocoa?” said Eric.
Lark hesitated. Should she waste money on cocoa? What if she wanted those few dollars later? “Um,” she said.
“Free,” said Eric. “You look cold.”
Lark smiled again, gratefully. Sometimes people were okay. Like, they looked after each other. She’d heard that when other groups had followed bands, like the Grateful Dead, that people would take care of each other. But those were hippie bands, and The Wrenching wasn’t anything like that. So there wasn’t a spirit of camaraderie amongst the Entourage. Not really.
“Thanks,” Lark told Eric. He handed her the cup. “Um, do you wanna sit down with me back here?” She indicated a chair behind her table. Sometimes Rainey sat with her, but tonight Rainey had had a little too much to drink (probably because it was so cold) and was sleeping it off in the back of the van. Lark took a sip of the cocoa. It was hot, but not so hot it burned her tongue. As it made its way into her stomach, she felt warmth begin to spread throughout her body.
Eric nodded, came around the table, and sat down. “I wish we could just give hot cocoa to everyone,” he said. “But we can’t afford it, really. I saw you shivering over here, and so I brought it over.”
“Thanks,” said Lark. “It’s very good.”
“And you’re warmer?”
Lark nodded. “Definitely.”
“Good.”
Lark couldn’t think of anything else to say, so she smiled. After a few moments, she turned to survey the parking lot, to see if there were any other concertgoers who might want to buy some of her clothes. She didn’t see anybody.
“Well,” said Eric.
She turned back to him. “Yes?”
“I should probably—”
“THE WAGES OF SIN ARE DEATH!” interrupted a loud yell.
A tall man appeared, weaving in between the buses and vans, waving his bible frantically. He wore a dark suit. He had long, black hair and a long, black beard.
Lark rolled her eyes. Not this guy again.
There were a large number of various kinds of groups that didn’t approve of The Wrenching, from religious groups to women’s rights activists to racial groups. People got bent out of shape because they twisted The Wrenching’s lyrics around. Or they only listened to one song or part of one song. For instance, the women’s rights groups had their panties in a knot because of the lyric of one song called “Empty Inside.” The lyric wasn’t even written in the liner notes. It was at the end. Shane screamed, “If I hit you, you’d shatter like glass,” and then returned to the chorus. In the feminists’ minds, The Wrenching had now advocated woman battering.
Which was dumb. Lark thought it was dumb. He didn’t say he had hit anyone. He said if. And on top of that, it was obviously metaphoric, because no one shatters like glass when hit. He meant that this woman was so hollow that she resembled a glass vase more than a person.
Anyway, Lark knew a little about battering. And if she thought that The Wrenching was a band that thought that hitting chicks was okay, then she wouldn’t be following them around. But they weren’t that kind of band. They even had a song— “Little Sister”—which was about a guy beating up his girlfriend. And that song made it pretty clear that The Wrenching thought beating up your girlfriend was fucked up.
But the women’s rights groups weren’t the worst, really. The Christians were the worst. And the guy with the long beard was the worst of the Christians. He probably wasn’t really even a Christian. Most Christians probably would think the guy was weird. He was a fanatic. Someone who believed something so much, he’d devoted his life to it, no matte
r how ridiculous what he believed was.
They called him Death Man, because he was always screaming about death or hell or the lake of fire. He had one message for them all: “Go home.” Funny thing was, for a guy who thought that The Wrenching was the spawn of Satan, he sure knew a lot of their lyrics. For instance, right now, he was meandering toward Lark’s table, gesturing wildly with his Bible, and screaming, “Follow him into the woods, and you will all die! The wages of sin are death! Death, death, death! You’re thirsty for what he’s got! He’s got death! Do you want to die? Die, die, die little children?”
Lark stood up and began taking her dresses off their hangers. No one was going to buy clothes with this lunatic running around. “I wish that guy would go home himself,” she said to Eric.
Eric stood. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s real bad for business.”
“Thanks again for the hot cocoa,” she said, folding each of the dresses and placing them in the brown paper bags she kept them in. They fit into the van easier that way.
“Anytime,” said Eric. “Hey, um...”
Lark looked at him expectantly.
“It’s just that you’re a really nice girl, and Matt isn’t really a very nice guy, and I know what he’s been doing to you—”
“Matt’s not doing anything to me. He might be a little rough around the edges, and I mean, sure, he’s not Prince Charming, but he’s solid, okay? He takes care of me.”
“I could take care of you.”
Lark made a noise of disbelief and disgust. “What about Tina?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
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