Marked By Fire

by Meg Ripley

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Let’s do it again,” Alex said, looking from Jack in the control room to the rest of us.

  “Fuck,” Nick said, bending over and plucking his pack of cigarettes off the little side table he’d left them on.

  “I think we’ve almost got it, guys,” Jack said over the intercom. “It’s just missing that little thing—that flavor.” I scrubbed at my face and grabbed the beer I’d almost forgotten about to take a gulp of it. Even though we had hundreds of thousands of dollars at our disposal, the band had decided to stick with recording in Miami; it was where we’d gotten our sound together, and it was where we all wanted to be. Ron, our manager, had tried to tempt us to go to New York or LA or even Toronto, but none of the paired-off guys in the band wanted to spend weeks away from their girls, and we had all always done better in our own environment. We’d flown Jack in after going over show reels for about two weeks; he’d worked with Kill Kill, Bacchus, and Minute Music Militia, who we all loved, and his ideas for the album based on the demos we’d put out there were the most like what we wanted to do.

  “Mark, think you can tighten up that part in the last verse? You’re losing the punch on the snare,” Alex said. Mark rolled his eyes a bit but sat back from his kit, examining the head on his snare. I took another sip of my beer and went through the bass run quietly, trying to see if there was a better way to play it—a faster chord change or a quicker progression. For a minute, everyone took a break, examining their instruments, and I could feel the ripples of tension in the room. Mark was having a good day, but Alex was right: the snare bit at the end of the last verse just wasn’t coming through like it should.

  We’d agreed that we’d work on the live recordings first, just to get a baseline and to get an idea of the shape of the album, and then move onto individual parts. For once, Alex was actually inviting contributions—songs—from the rest of us; we’d started out in rehearsals with about fifty songs between the five of us, which we’d narrowed down to about twenty. If we couldn’t pick and choose at the end of the recording process, it was going to be a monster of an album. But we all had a couple of tracks we’d put forward—which was different from the previous few albums, where almost all of the songs were written by Alex and Nick, with the rest of us filling in parts.

  I had a good shot at getting at least two out of four of my songs on the finished album, and I figured Jules had maybe three that were worth recording and including. Mark only had one that made the cut, but he’d only put in three, and he’d admitted the other two just weren’t there yet—maybe the next album. The rest either Nick and Alex had written together or separately; still, it wasn’t a bad ratio of songs for a finished album, and I had to figure that some of that had to do with Jules going off with his girlfriend to record a side project. The last thing anyone in the band wanted was to split up—together we were fucking magic, and if Jules’ work with Fran had lit a fire under Alex’s and Nick’s asses to pull more of the rest of our stuff into the loop, I wasn’t going to be a shrinking violet about it.

  Once everyone had settled in, we went back to work, playing through the song again. Mark nailed the last verse, but Jules flubbed one of the bits in the bridge. “Take a break,” Jack suggested. “Come back in ten.”

  I grabbed my phone, my beer, and my cigarettes and headed outside the studio; technically it didn’t matter where I smoked, since we’d booked the complex for the duration of the recording and we’d paid a deposit for cleaning specifically so we could smoke inside, but I wanted the air and the mega-watt South Florida sun in my face for a little bit. I sat down in the grass after I made sure there weren’t any ants, and lit up, unlocking my phone and opening Facebook while I lit up. The notifications told me I had five event invitations: Heather Brooks—who I only knew from tenth grade French—was throwing some kind of makeup party. Decline. Jonny had an event going on in Downtown Ft. Lauderdale the next weekend at Stache—that one I tapped ‘interested’ since it was a pretty good-looking show and I could always pregame a bit to save myself on the overpriced drinks the club served. A friend of a friend whose name was actually Jessica but who had decided to go by “Jezebel” after abandoning her husband and two-year-old son to try and become a famous BDSM performer had invited me to yet another fetish party at yet another strip club out in Plantation; I declined and then went to her profile page and took her off my friends list altogether. Going back to my events, there were two left: a pool party at my friend Hannah’s house in two weeks with a luau theme and a show up in Lake Worth at Propaganda, featuring Atreides, Jackal 5, Kingsroad and Heatkeeper; I accepted both invites and closed out the app.

  “Yo, Dan! Break’s over, man,” Nick said from the door.

  “Give me two seconds, I need to finish this,” I told him, waving the cigarette butt in his direction. I thought about Sophie, not for the first time since I’d seen her at Respects; as I took a last drag of my cig and stubbed it out, I wondered if she went to any local shows. Probably not—she’d get her fill of bands working at the club. I went back into the studio and pushed her out of my head.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Propaganda was fucking packed; I had to wait an extra five minutes at the bar to get my Jack and coke—and Kelsey the bartender knew me, and knew I tipped more than decent. But Mark was with me, and Nick and Olivia had even agreed to come out; Olivia had an article due about Atreides anyway, and thought she could get some good pictures at the show. It was so damned hot it felt like the walls were sweating, but of course Nick—a few feet away from me—looked like he might as well have been in a walk-in fridge, and Mark somehow managed to make “sweaty and red-faced” look like a legitimate fashion choice.

  I looked around the packed club while Heatkeeper set up, not at anything in particular but just to keep from getting bored; most of the people I saw were regulars—Lake Worth people, who practically lived at the club because it was a dependable place to go, and only a few blocks from their homes. It was about forty minutes away from my place in Deerfield, but Mark had already said we could crash at his brother’s place in Delray.

  As I was looking around, I spotted her. Sophie had her hair down instead of in pigtails, but her face in profile—and the deep, mermaid-green color of her hair—was instantly recognizable. She must have gotten her hair cut or something, because it looked shorter than it had when it was up, and it was half-plastered to her face with sweat; but she looked hot as hell in a tight, pink, old school Middle Class Brats tee shirt, a black and white plaid miniskirt and a pair of suspenders. I couldn’t see what kind of shoes she had on, but I didn’t care; just the sight of her, the shirt starting to go a little transparent from sweat, her tits straining the front of it, the skirt barely—barely—covering the curve of her ass, was enough to almost make me forget I was at Prop for a show. She was smoking a cigarette, pressed up against the bar, talking to Benny from Jackal 5; I looked around to make sure that Mark was busy, and slowly made my way in her direction.

  “No, you are not going to get Mel to make one of your specials for Ricky,” Sophie was telling Benny when I finally got within hearing distance. She flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette and shook her head. “The last time you came up with a special drink for him he spewed Jaeger and schnapps all over my fucking kitchen floor and I had to clean it up.”

  “Make him clean it up this time,” Benny said with a shrug. Sophie rolled her eyes and turned to look around. I hadn’t realized how short she was, the week before at Respects; up close, without the bar between us, she was something like half a foot shorter than me.

  “If he spews in my kitchen tonight I’m going to make you clean it up,” Sophie told Benny. Benny caught sight of me and grinned.

  “Danny boy!” I smiled at him. Sophie turned to find out who Benny was talking to and her eyebrows went up at the sight of me. I gave her a quick grin and set my drink down to fish my cigarettes out of my pocket.

  “Fucking packed in here,” I said, shaking my head. “Y
ou guys still play that cover of The Cranberries, Benny?”

  “Of course we do,” Benny said, shaking his head at me. “It brings down the fucking house—we can’t take it off the set list.”

  “Benny wants to feed Ricky some disgusting combination of alcohol to see what happens,” Sophie explained to me, clucking her tongue against her teeth. “Tell him no—since he apparently won’t listen to me, and I’ve heard all about how much he admires you.”

  “You admire me, Benny?” I put my hand over my heart, leaving the cigarette dangling out of the cover of my mouth for a second before I lit it.

  “She heard me wrong,” Benny said matter-of-factly. “I told her I admire your cock.” I rolled my eyes.

  “In fairness, it is nicer than yours,” I pointed out. “You ever get that enlargement surgery?”

  “Hey, hey, it’s not the size that counts,” Benny said, smirking.

  “It counts when you don’t know what to do with it,” Sophie countered. I almost choked on a drag of smoke and raised my hand for her to high-five me.

  “You here for Atreides?” I nodded to Benny’s question, more than happy to abandon the topic of dicks for the time being. I’d been in a band with Nelson from Atreides before joining up with Molly Riot, and even though I didn’t have any real desire to work with him on anything, he was one of the most talented keyboard players I’d ever met. “Sophie’s sister Jess is the new bass player,” Benny explained, nodding in Sophie’s direction.

  “What happened to Chris?” Benny shrugged.

  “Family drama out in Cali. You know how it goes.” I nodded.

  “I’m going to run to the ladies’,” Sophie said, slipping away from the bar after stubbing out her cigarette. “Make sure Benny doesn’t order something disgusting for Ricky, will you?”

  “Why’s she so worried about what Ricky drinks?” I settled in at the bar, glancing at the little stage to check on the progress that Heatkeeper was making. They were starting in on sound check; Tom strummed a quick progression and looked over at the sound booth.

  “Ricky’s dating her sister, they crash at her place usually on show nights,” Benny said. “So, of course Ricky gets sloppy fucking drunk and pukes everywhere.”

  “And you’re helping him? Not very friendly.” I flicked ash off of my cigarette and gestured to Kelsey that I wanted another one.

  “It’s hilarious. Before the puking he gets all apologetic about being so drunk—hell, he apologizes for shit other people are doing.” I snorted, shaking my head.

  “You seem pretty knowledgeable about Sophie,” I said, leaning in a bit closer to Benny. “What’s her deal?” Benny shrugged.

  “She’s un-pull-able,” he told me. “You should know that right off the bat. Even for pretty boys like you and Nicky.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Nicky’s the next thing to engaged anyway,” I said. “He ain’t pulling anyone.”

  “I’m just saying: she’s unattainable.” I raised an eyebrow at that.

  “Why?” Benny shrugged again.

  “Maybe she’s into chicks? Who knows? All I know is I’ve been trying for like two years and her legs are as closed as ever.”

  “Two years? You need to move on, son.”

  “Oh, I’m not living the monk life,” Benny said, waving that idea aside. “Just whenever I see her, you know? Or I’ll text her sometimes. Funny as shit, hot as a five-alarm fire, completely un-pull-able.”

  “For you, at least,” I said. Kelsey brought me another drink, and I sipped. Heatkeeper was almost done checking sound.

  “For anyone,” Benny insisted. “I’m telling you, man: she just doesn’t fuck anyone.”

  “Is she asexual or something?”

  “Nah, she flirts, and Jess tells me she does fuck—just no one anyone knows.” Benny knocked back a shot of something clear—tequila or vodka I thought—and chased it with a sip of beer. “She’s sure as shit not fucking anyone in the scene.”

  Sophie came back and we started talking about something else—the sound guy, Dave, or something to do with what was going on down at Revolution in Ft. Lauderdale, anything but the woman in front of us. I thought about what Benny had said about Sophie, trying to wrap my head around it; obviously, she was in the scene—even if I hadn’t seen her at shows until that night—but she wasn’t hooking up with anyone in the scene. That was smart; but it didn’t leave a lot of hope for me to convince her to hang out sometime. Of course, it didn’t leave a lot of hope for Mark, either. You don’t even know if he remembers her, I reminded myself as Heatkeeper started to play. I pretended to almost ignore Sophie, not in some kind of strategy, but because I didn’t want to make it obvious that I wasn’t paying 100% of my attention to the band on the stage. She sang along with a little over half the songs the band played, and I couldn’t help occasionally glancing over to see her tits shaking and jiggling inside her shirt as she danced around.

  By the time Atreides started setting up, some of the people who’d only come for Jackal 5 or Heatkeeper had wandered off, and Nick and Olivia and Mark had found me where I’d camped out, next to Sophie and Benny, who had broken down at record speed after his band finished. I watched Mark flirting with Sophie and didn’t tell him about what Benny had told me on the subject of Sophie’s prospect of being picked up; instead I just watched as she flirted every bit as hard as Mark did, but without giving a single inch—it was like watching a cat with a cloth mouse: the cat’s obviously having fun, but has no intention of actually doing anything to the mouse or even killing it, since it can’t be killed in the first place.

  Atreides finished setting up and started sound check and I watched a total change come over Sophie’s demeanor; she no longer even pretended to pay attention to Benny or Mark or even me, but instead started jumping up and down, screaming for her sister. It was adorable. “Oh my gawd, Jess Riviera! Have my babies!”

  “Bitch, that’d be incest,” Jess called back from the stage.

  “Not if you’re just a surrogate,” Sophie countered.

  “Find a sperm donor then!” It went on like that the whole time Jess, Nelson, and the rest of the band went through sound check; I wasn’t the only one enjoying the side-show, but I had the front row seat, so to speak.

  When Atreides started playing I actually did pay full attention to them, barely even noticing Sophie next to me. I sang along with Jason, Nelson, and Jess; I jumped when they told the crowd to jump. I grinned at Sophie during one of the slower songs and followed the chant. It was a good show—as good a show as any that Molly Riot have ever put on—and I was glad I’d come out to see it, even if I couldn’t get anywhere with Sophie.

  After the set was finished, I turned my attention back onto the bar. People started closing out their tabs, heading for the next spot on their evening out, but Sophie hung around, and so did Mark and Benny, so I had no reason to leave. Nick and Olivia took a few minutes to chat up the members of the band, and I was pretty sure that Olivia got whatever it was she needed for her article; they left after a quick drink to celebrate the show. Within thirty minutes of the show finishing, the crowd at Prop was only about a dozen people; it was the time of night I liked the best. Jess and Ricky were making out at one of the tables off in a corner, and Mark was talking to Benny about the studio. The air conditioning started to be better than theoretical, and I was more than ready to close the place out. I wanted as much of a chance to see what the deal was with Sophie as possible.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You don’t have to walk me home, you know,” Sophie said, listing slightly to the left as she turned to look up at me.

  “Someone got knifed in this neighborhood last week,” I pointed out to her. “I don’t want to log onto Facebook tomorrow and see a bunch of Respects bartenders paying tribute to their fallen comrade.”

  “They wouldn’t anyway,” Sophie told me, shaking her head. “They’d hold a benefit concert for me in a couple of weeks to help Jess and my parents pay for my funeral, and that’d be that. Apar
t from the help wanted ads.” I laughed.

  “They’re pretty efficient,” I agreed. “But I still don’t want to see it. You’re too cute for me to let anyone replace you at the bar.”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” Sophie said, rolling her eyes in disapproval. “Do you know how many times I’ve been told I’m cute?”

  “Far too many?” I reached out and corrected Sophie’s leftward reel.

  “Like…a thousand. In the past month.” Sophie sighed. “I know I’m short and I have fairy-hair, but the cuteness thing is getting old.” I chuckled, using the excuse of helping her to keep my hand on her shoulder.

  “If you don’t want people to call you cute, maybe you shouldn’t go around in miniskirts and Docs, or keep your hair in pigtails,” I suggested.

  “I put my hair in pigtails because it’s too short to put in a ponytail,” Sophie informed me. “Docs are solid footwear. Miniskirts…” she shrugged. “And anyway, why should I change the way I look for people to take me seriously?”

  “You think people don’t take you seriously?” Sophie shook her head.

  “As soon as something’s cute, it’s not serious,” she told me. “It’s…like…small, and funny, and a million other things. But never serious.” I thought about that for a moment as we turned the corner onto Sophie’s street.

  I’d volunteered to walk her home from Kelsey’s place where we’d all ended up; Mark had managed to pass out on Kelsey’s couch, so obviously, I wasn’t going to his brother’s place. Jess and Ricky had grabbed an Uber to their own apartment on the other end of Lake Worth, and Benny had wandered off at some point to another after-party.

  “Benny said you don’t date anyone in the scene,” I said, hoping my voice sounded curious but not nosy.

  “Nope,” Sophie said. “No scene folks in my love life. That’s the big mistake people make all the time.” She started to list right, almost running into me, but corrected at the last moment.