by Arden Powell
He returned to himself when he staggered backstage, disoriented and high on adrenaline. Setting his guitar on the couch, he dropped down beside it like his strings had been cut. His ears were ringing and his knees were weak. He’d never felt more alive in his life.
Coming in after him, Rayne was flushed and bright-eyed, his hair damp with sweat. He looked ecstatic.
“Did I do good?” Kris felt slightly drunk, like all the stress had whooshed out of him during the show, and champagne bubbles had sprung up to take its place.
“Baby, you did great,” Rayne said, hauling Kris to his feet to pass him around to the rest of the band like a party favor.
They all clapped him on the back and ruffled his hair, obviously exhausted and pleased with themselves. Lenny handed him a beer from the minifridge, and Kris cracked it open as they cheered him on. The audience had seemed to love the set and he hadn’t messed anything up too badly—not that he could remember, anyway—but it was the band’s approval he needed. He caught Rayne’s eye amid the group, and Rayne smiled like a cat. Kris let out the breath he’d been holding all evening. He wasn’t going to starve to death on the streets. He was going to play festivals and tour the world with a platinum-selling glam-punk band. It wasn’t his Madison Square Garden fantasy, but it was better, because it was real.
They went straight from the show to a party at Rayne’s penthouse in SoHo. Butch drove the band in a long black limo, slipping in and out of traffic as they left the venue behind. Sandwiched between Rayne and Stef, Kris wondered whether the never-ending somersault in his stomach was going to level out soon. It didn’t seem inclined to, but then, maybe it was his body’s way of telling him to stop drinking coffee and start considering solid food again sometime soon.
Instead he was going to give it more alcohol.
Rayne’s penthouse was bigger than any house in Kris’s hometown, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a balcony overlooking the city. Stairs led to an open-concept loft where the bedrooms were housed, and framed art pieces colored the walls. An Indian Buddha statue sat on a table in one corner, gleaming gold and surrounded by leafy houseplants.
A black girl with a huge halo of hair greeted them at the door. She had a bright smile and, like Rayne, was dressed to the nines, jewelry glinting at her throat and fingers.
“Angel, this is Kris, our new guitarist,” Rayne said, putting his arm around her and kissing her cheek as they crossed the threshold en masse. “Kris, this is Angel. She’s my best girl, and she’s coming on tour with us.”
“Nice to meet you,” Kris said.
Angel offered her hand for a shake. Her nails were long and painted with glitter, and she smelled like vanilla and sugar cookies.
“He’s a little bit drunk,” Rayne said.
“No, I’m not.” He was, a little. He’d made peace with his lightweight tendencies years ago.
“There’s food and drinks in the kitchen,” Rayne directed. “More people are going to show up within the hour, so if you want to eat, get in there.”
He shepherded Kris through to the kitchen with one hand on the small of his back, and Kris, pleasantly buzzed, let himself be steered. There was something reassuring about knowing he would never get lost in New York, because Rayne would never let him out of arm’s reach.
The kitchen island was piled high with trays of nachos, pizza, and fruit and vegetable platters. Bowls of chips and dips lined the counters, with bottles of soda and booze and empty cups standing sentinel behind them. Kris grabbed a paper plate and piled it high. He hoped getting some food in him would take the edge off the tipsiness, but suspected it was half excitement.
He spent the next three hours in a daze of company, food, and booze. Midnight ticked past and the party grew from the band to friends of the band, and friends of friends, and relatives Kris couldn’t keep track of. The girls were all flawlessly made up, charming and dazzlingly sharp, and the men all looked like models, nearly as made up as the girls. Rayne’s social circle wasn’t only model-beautiful, but beautifully androgynous too. Everyone wore designer clothes; even the punks looked groomed. Kris, used to faded denim and sneakers so old the soles were worn through, drank more and talked faster to keep up.
He could play the hell out of a guitar, but surrounded by all these glittering socialites, all stars or stars in the making, he felt like a moth in the company of butterflies. His hair was a nondescript brown, his eyes much the same. His mom called them hazel, but she was being generous. He was small, skinny—“pocket-sized,” one of his old girlfriends had joked. Definitely nothing that would stand out in a crowd.
Just after 1 a.m., he escaped to the balcony, desperate for some fresh air to clear his head, and ensconced himself on the porch swing nestled in amid a throng of plants.
“Hey,” said Angel, approaching with a drink in her hand. “How you doing?”
“Hi.” Whatever her perfume was, it was intoxicating. “I’m good. I’m fine. I haven’t slept in forty-two hours, but that’s cool.”
“Rayne said he found you on a street corner this morning. This your first time at a dig like this?”
“This is my first time for a lot of things,” Kris said. “I’m breaking personal records for how many firsts I’ve had today. Do you want to sit?”
Angel slid onto the swing beside him and balanced her drink in her lap.
“Rayne said you’re going on tour with them?” Kris didn’t want to jinx it and say us without signing a contract first.
“I do makeup and wardrobe. Rayne says it’s my job to make everybody pretty.”
“Everybody looks pretty pretty already, from where I’m standing.”
Kris could tell when a guy was attractive, though he could never say that kind of thing back home. There, they took pride in their ruggedness, like moisturizer was an affront to their masculinity, and they’d rather die than get called pretty. Here the men preened like peacocks, and Rayne out-peacocked them all, with his earrings, heeled boots, and glittering makeup: the kind of beautiful Kris had never seen before but wanted to see a lot more of.
Angel hummed knowingly and took a drink.
“You going to make me all fancy for the shows too?”
“Yep,” Angel said.
“Clothes and makeup and glitter and everything,” he clarified.
“The whole shebang. You good with that?”
He thought about it. He didn’t know how he’d look, dolled up like the rest of the band was in their videos. Would he even recognize himself in the mirror?
Maybe it was time for a change.
Then again, he was a few drinks past tipsy.
“Sure.” He shrugged easily. “Sounds fun; why not?”
“You’ll be fine,” she agreed.
“He didn’t find me on a street corner, though. That sounds so trashy. I was on a park bench.”
“Ah, you’re right. That’s much more respectable.”
She bumped their shoulders together with a teasing smile, and Kris was almost drunk enough to think kissing her would be a good idea. The one sober part of his brain holding the fort cleared its metaphorical throat and suggested that if they were all going to be touring together, making a move on Rayne’s self-described best girl wouldn’t be the smartest move.
“You’re really pretty,” his mouth said, with zero input from his brain.
“Thanks.” She was still smiling. “You’re pretty cute yourself.”
“I told you so.” Rayne came out through the back door, his boots clicking against the balcony floor. “People told me you guys had hidden away out here. I came to make sure you were still having a good time.”
“I needed some air,” Kris said, smiling up at him. Rayne was as pretty as Angel, and just as kissable. Kris bet he knew how to moisturize.
“He was trying to decide whether to kiss me,” Angel explained.
“Whoops. Did I interrupt?” Rayne asked with a teasing grin.
“I wasn’t,” Kris said, and tamped down the urge to admit he
would consider kissing Rayne too. “I definitely was not. Also, I’m drunk.”
“You are,” Rayne said. “You want to come back inside? Maki’s making these mixed drinks that are, like, ninety percent sugar—they’re amazing. You have to try one.”
The sober part of his brain, rapidly drowning in alcohol, shook its head. “I should probably call it quits, actually. Try to get some sleep before morning.” Kris froze. “Um.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, I never thought about where to put you tonight,” Rayne said. “I should have got you a hotel or something. I’ve got rooms upstairs if you want to crash here.”
“Is that okay? I didn’t even think— I’m still all jet-lagged and weird.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He coaxed Kris to his feet, collecting his empty beer can from him as he went. “Go get some sleep.”
“Thanks.” Standing brought Kris a fresh wave of dizziness, and with it, the realization that he was drunker than he thought. “Bye, Angel. Night, Rayne.”
“You can think about kissing me next time,” Angel said with a wink.
“Nope,” Kris said. “Drunk brain. No kissing anybody.”
“Good night, Kris,” Rayne said, laughing. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
Kris gave them a sloppy salute before heading back into the warm buzz of the party. He waved to everyone he recognized as he passed them and then headed up the stairs to the loft, one hand on the rail for balance. Upstairs was quieter, unspokenly off-limits to the partygoers, and Kris shimmied into the first bedroom he saw, flopping face-first onto the mattress without bothering to remove his shoes, which dangled over the end of the bed. As long as he left them hovering in the air like that, he wouldn’t feel rude.
It was a good party, and he liked Rayne’s friends, even if they outpaced and outclassed him. Maybe he could sleep for an hour and then rejoin them, or at least help clean up after. But then, maybe Rayne was rich enough to have a maid. Maybe Butch did cleaning on top of security and chauffeuring.
Preoccupied by thoughts of rock stars and limousines, Kris tipped from drowsiness into sleep between one breath and the next.
He blinked awake, groggy and disoriented, when someone entered the room. The clock on the bedside table glowed soft and red, the numbers informing him it was 4:13 a.m. His mouth felt like something had curled up and died in it.
“Ughh?” he said.
“Sorry. I didn’t think—”
“Rayne?” Kris lifted his head and tried to find a face in the shadows. Everything looked blue and fuzzy. “Party over? Meant to come back downstairs. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Go back to sleep, Kris.”
“Am I in your bed?”
“I’ll take one of the guest rooms.”
Kris frowned. That wasn’t right. But before he could protest, Rayne was gone again, the door pulled shut behind him. Kris dropped back to the pillow and back into sleep, unconscious before Rayne’s footsteps had faded.
He woke with the dawn, feeling less zombie-ish than he had at four, but not by much. He shuffled down the hall in search of the bathroom, mentally noting which room was Rayne’s so he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. After, he headed downstairs, where he found the remnants of the party scattered over tables and counters, though the guests themselves must have left sometime in the night. He shrugged and found a garbage bag to shift greasy paper plates and food scraps into, moving from room to room as the sun rose. He helped himself to leftover pizza as he went, the cheese congealed but to his slightly hungover self, perfect. The remaining booze he capped and set aside, not looking at it straight on in case his stomach decided to object.
Keeping busy stopped his brain from overthinking things, like how he’d wanted to kiss Rayne the night before. Sober, he had more important things to dwell on. They were leaving for the tour the next day, and Kris still needed to sign a contract and learn the songs. Could he afford an apartment in New York after the tour was over? Would he even want to stay in the city?
He found a broom tucked away beside the fridge and started sweeping the kitchen, fanning out to the living room and then the balcony, just in case. That was where Rayne found him—Rayne, sporting an incredible show of bedhead and, judging by his bright eyes and easy smile, apparently unaffected by the previous night’s events.
“Hey, Kris,” Rayne said around a yawn. “Are you sweeping my balcony?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, cool. You want breakfast? Coffee? You can help yourself to anything in the fridge.”
“I had pizza, but coffee would be amazing.”
Rayne’s nose scrunched up. “The pizza that was sitting out all night?”
Kris shrugged. It wouldn’t kill him.
They returned to the kitchen, and Rayne got the coffee started—the machine was huge and chrome and insanely complicated—and Kris leaned against the counter as the smell filled the kitchen and made his mouth water.
“Sleep well?” Rayne asked.
“Like a rock. Sorry I took your bed. I wasn’t really on top of my game last night.”
“I noticed,” Rayne said, smiling easily. “It’s fine. Did you have fun at the party?”
“It was great, but I won’t remember half those people’s names.”
“That’s okay. Barely any are coming on tour with us.”
“About that . . .”
Rayne stilled. “You’re not changing your mind, are you? Because that’s not allowed.”
“No! Not at all. I just— The contract?”
Rayne relaxed, though he looked faintly alarmed around the eyes. “It doesn’t tie you to anything further than the festival, but you do have to promise you won’t leave us hanging in the middle of nowhere without a guitarist. And Brian’s reserving the right to kick you out at the first sign of trouble, just in case.”
“Right,” Kris said. “It’s just, I’ve never signed a contract before. Should I get a lawyer to look it over?”
“Do you have a lawyer?”
“No?”
“The label’s lawyers will explain everything,” Rayne promised. “No tricks, no mind games. You play guitar, and they give you money. Speaking of!” He dug into his jeans’ pocket— They were plastered on so tight that Kris didn’t think they could fit anything in there at all, but Rayne proved him wrong and pulled out a wad of bills wrapped in an elastic band. “Here’s your cut from the show last night.” He handed it to Kris with a grin. “I wasn’t sure about your banking situation what with the whole, you know, sleeping on the street, so I thought cash would be safer.”
“I have a bank account,” Kris said faintly. “This is, like, two hundred dollars.”
“You should probably deposit it, then. We can stop and do that on the way.”
“The way to what?”
“Business first, and then the fun stuff. Drink up and get changed, babe. We’re going to make you famous.”
The trick to surviving a day of shopping with a friend, Kris had learned years ago, was to let that friend do whatever they wanted. Back home it had been his girlfriend, and all he’d had to do was stand around, tell her she looked good, and hold her bags.
Shopping with Rayne and Angel promised to be considerably more interactive. They walked from Rayne’s apartment into the heart of SoHo, where block after block of shops crowded the streets, all connected by roads thronged with pedestrians who had no apparent regard for the cars or bikes trying to eke their way through. Butch promised to come by later with the car to collect their bags, and Kris mentally prepared himself for a day of walking, shopping, and spending more money than he could imagine on clothes.
“We’ll start you with jeans and a tee,” Rayne said, leading him into their first store, a tiny boutique with a green storefront, ironically called The Emporium.
“I have jeans and tees,” Kris said.
“You do.”
“Is there something wrong with them?”
“No! Of course not.”
“You can tell me if there
is. I know I’m not up to your fancy rock star standards yet. That’s why we’re here, right?”
“We’re shopping for clothes that are a little more fitted,” Angel said, in an admirable attempt at diplomacy. “And black.”
Kris glanced down at the jeans he was wearing. They were a basic straight-leg denim wash. “You want a pair that’ll make my ass look good?” he guessed. “Because I hate to break it to you, but I don’t really have one.”
“We’ll work something out,” Rayne assured him.
After trying on five different pairs of jeans, Kris was feeling weirdly smug about it.
“Okay,” Rayne said. “You really don’t have an ass.”
Kris turned around like he was trying to see himself better in the mirror, but he was actually just flaunting his complete lack of assets. “I don’t know; you want to keep trying? I heard that girls have these padded butts they wear under their pants to make themselves bigger. You want to get me one of those?”
“You’re the worst,” Rayne said. “You’re like a couple of toothpicks propping up a pipe cleaner. You’re tiny.”
“I’m pocket-sized.”
Kris did like the jeans, though. They clung to his legs and made him seem even smaller, somehow; the back pockets were embellished with sequins and stones in little looping patterns. The stitches up the side seams were lighter than the fabric of the pants.
“Hey,” he said. “Are these girls’ jeans?”
Rayne and Angel glanced at each other.
“They fit better, don’t they?” Angel asked.
Kris looked back in the mirror. They really did. He actually had thighs and calves in them instead of the skinny, shapeless sticks his men’s-style jeans gave him.
“Huh,” he said. “Okay. What else they got in the girls’ section?”
They left The Emporium with him wearing one outfit and carrying two additional pairs of jeans and an armful of tops: tees, tanks, and what Kris was resolutely refusing to think of as blouses. They were silky and kind of see-through, sure, but he had to draw the line somewhere.