by BB Easton
Was it because I was hiding my friendship with Jason from Hans?
Possibly.
Was it because of what Juliet had said about Goth Girl flirting with him?
Maybe.
Was it because my birthday was almost over and nobody had sung me “Happy Birthday” or bought me a cake that said Happy Birthday on it or given me a present wrapped in Happy Birthday paper yet?
More than likely.
I wriggled my skintight leopard-print velour pants down below my knees and sat on the toilet in a state of quiet, drunken self-reflection.
So this is adulthood, I thought as I pissed out at least three Solo cups’ worth of beer so cheap that it looked the same coming out as it had going in.
No more candles.
No more cake.
Just a keg full of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a house full of people I don’t even know. Woo-fucking-hoo.
I tore off three squares of Steven’s cheap single-ply toilet paper, and of course, as soon as my hand was between my legs, I heard my phone ring.
Shit!
I hustled to wipe, flush, and fish my Nokia out of my bottomless pit of a bag, but by the time I pulled it out, I was too late. I’d missed the call.
I hit a button to illuminate the screen and saw three words appear that drove a frozen stake into my heart.
Terminus City Tattoo, my caller ID said.
It was June.
Knight was home.
I swallowed and forced myself to keep breathing, staring at the words until the screen went dark.
It’s fine. You’re safe. If he’s calling from Terminus City, that’s at least fifteen, maybe twenty miles from here. He doesn’t know where you are. It’s fine. You’re fine.
Then my phone lit up again, all by itself.
Ding!
A voicemail.
Knight had only called me a few times from Iraq, but every time I’d deleted his messages without a single listen. I knew my limits. I knew I was weak when it came to him. I knew the sound of his voice was bad for me.
But it was my birthday, goddamn it. And if you can’t do things that are bad for you on your birthday, then when?
I held the hunk of glittery plastic up to my head with a shaky hand and held my breath with burning lungs. Then my thumb found the rubber Talk button and mashed it flat.
“Hey, Punk. I knew you wouldn’t answer. You never do…anymore. It’s cool. I get it. I just wanted to tell you happy birthday. You’re finally old enough to buy your own fucking cigarettes. If I ever see you again, maybe you can bum me one for a change. Hope you had a good day. I…love you.”
Click.
I immediately regretted my decision.
Knight’s words had been light, but his tone had sounded darker than ever. The waver in his voice when he’d said, “It’s cool,” the pause and swallow before, “love you,” it made me want to run to him. To soothe him. To ask him what had happened while he was away. To help him work through it, no matter how horrific.
But Knight was beyond help. I had known it the moment I saw him rip that bush out of the ground with his bare hands. I had seen it in his zombie eyes as he grabbed my face and twisted my frown into a fraudulent smile. And I’d felt it as he forced his way into my body without my consent. Perhaps I’d always known it; I just hadn’t wanted to accept it.
I still didn’t.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Everybody! Stop fuckin’ and get out here! We have an announcement to make!” Trip’s voice drifted away from the door, and I heard his fist pound on Maddie’s door just down the hall. “Bust a nut and wrap it up, motherfuckers! Major announcement in five!”
Dropping my phone back into my bag, I wiped the smudged mascara from under my eyes, washed my hands, re-spiked the ends of my choppy blonde pixie cut with my wet fingertips, pulled my shoulders back, and threw open the door. Just as I stepped into the hallway, Steven emerged from Maddie’s room, looking like a vampiric version of the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. His straw-like black hair was disheveled. His black vinyl wardrobe hung from his too-skinny frame. And, like the scarecrow, he appeared to be a little wobbly in the knees.
Following him was an equally cracked-out-looking chick with mussed scarlet hair and smudged black lipstick. Considering that Steven’s face was lipstick-free, my guess was that the rest of her makeup was smeared on his dick.
No wonder Goth Girl was feeling so needy.
Piece of shit.
We all filed into the living room where Trip, Baker, Louis, and Hans were standing in front of the entertainment center. Trip had opened the glass cabinet door and turned off the music in preparation for his “major announcement.”
I had no idea what it might be, which made me feel a little nervous, and Hans’s concerned face when I walked in made me feel even worse.
Glancing at the digital clock on the VCR, which said 11:58, Trip yelled, “Ladies and gentlefucks! I know it’s not a party without a performance from your favorite band of all time, Phantom Limb”—Trip spread his arms wide, gesturing toward his bashful bandmates as the partygoers cheered—“but this isn’t just any party. This is Party, Party, Party, Party. And Party, Party, Party, Party deserves a special, next-level kind of performance.”
Reaching into the cabinet behind him, Trip turned the large silver volume dial on Steven’s stereo receiver all the way up. The speakers crackled in protest as the voice of a radio DJ vibrated through the living room.
“Heeeeey, everybody! This is Rick Dixon, and you are listening to WATL, Atlanta Rocks Radio! It’s midnight, which means it’s officially Saturday. And what do we do on Saturdays? Weeeeee rrrrock!”
My eyes opened wide as they lurched from the stereo to Hans’s face. He rocked back on his heels with his hands in his pockets and gave me a mischievous one-dimpled smile. Baker blushed and stared at his feet. Louis stood there, looking bored. Meanwhile, Trip was holding an invisible microphone and opening and closing his mouth with every word the overly enthusiastic DJ spoke.
“On tonight’s show, we’ve got new singles by Creed, Papa Roach, Incubus, Limp Bizkit, and of course, Metallica! But to kick things off, we want to spotlight a local band who’s been burnin’ up the Southeast this year with their high-energy, high-octane shows. If you guys ever get the chance to go see Phantom Limb perform live, you are in for a treat. And ladies, if you wear your Phantom Limb T-shirt to a show, they’ll even pull you onstage for a kiss contest.”
With those words, my fluttering heart dropped into my bowels like a stone. I pictured a line of girls in Phantom Limb T-shirts waiting outside the Masquerade to buy tickets as the DJ made a loud, exaggerated kiss noise, just to drive the point home.
“This is their debut single, ‘Falling Star.’ Enjoy!”
I held my breath and stared at Hans as a melody I’d never heard before lilted through the speakers. It wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t one of their usual songs. It was…a ballad.
When Trip’s usually screamy voice began to sing the words that had been scrawled on Hans’s forearm, tears filled my eyes. When he growled about putting his celestial pet on a leash, I swooned. And when he keened with velvety sincerity about his delicate fallen star being an explosive supernova in disguise, I knew exactly what he meant because my heart felt like it was about to explode and kill us all.
When the song was over, all two-dozen partygoers screamed and jumped up and down and bum-rushed the guys in the band, but I got there first.
Leaping into Hans’s waiting arms, I wrapped my legs around his waist. I kissed his cheeks. I kissed his nose. I kissed his forehead, eyelids, and chin. Eventually, I kissed his mouth but not before saying, “Oh my God,” and, “I’m so proud of you,” and, “That was amazing,” at least a hundred times.
Hans smiled against my lips when they finally collided with his. “Happy birthday,” he cooed, just loud enough for me to hear.
“Happy birthday back,” I squealed. “Your song was on the radio!”
“Your song was
on the radio.” He bumped my nose with his nose.
“But how? You’ve never even played it for me before.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
I tightened my grip around Hans’s waist with my thighs and dropped my forehead to his.
“Did you like it?” he asked.
I nodded, causing his face to move up and down in sync with mine. “I loved it. I love you.”
“I love you too, baby.”
My heart swelled, as did Hans’s emotional boner, which thickened between us. He clutched my ass tighter, pulled my wet center closer, and kissed me like we were the only ones in the room.
The chorus to the best gift I’d ever been given played in my head as Hans carried me to Maddie’s room and kicked her door shut behind us.
I know it’s wrong to keep her.
She belongs light-years away.
I know it’s wrong to keep her,
So every day I pray.
Don’t let my falling star fade away.
Please let this falling star…
Fall for me.
And fall I did—onto Maddie’s pony-covered bedspread.
I might not have gotten a cake for my birthday or had any presents to unwrap. Nobody sang me “Happy Birthday” or presented me with eighteen tiny candles to blow out. But, as Hans crawled on top of me in the place where it’d all begun, none of that mattered. I’d already received the best gift I could have ever asked for.
And he’d written me a song.
July 2000
The second “Falling Star” started getting radio play, the band’s tour schedule ramped up dramatically. Not only were they being asked to join the summer rock festival circuit, but places they’d already played as an opening act were asking them to come back to headline. I was incredibly happy for Hans, but with me taking a full summer semester course load and still working part-time while he traveled, it seemed like the only time I got to see him was before and after his local gigs.
And his local gigs had seriously changed. Headlining brought with it a whole new experience. We weren’t drinking Jack Daniel’s in the loading dock, shooting the shit anymore. We were drinking Jack Daniel’s in green rooms while people came and went, asking for interviews and sound checks and photo shoots. So basically, I was drinking Jack Daniel’s by myself while Hans worked.
Headlining also brought with it a whole new caliber of fangirl—the groupie. Fangirls I could deal with. Fangirls were intense, but once they got their kiss, their hug, their autograph, they usually just giggled and ran away. Groupies, on the other hand, they didn’t just want to kiss my man; they wanted to fuck him, marry him, have his babies, divorce him, collect alimony for the next eighteen years, and then release a secret sex tape when the money ran out.
Standing in the pit waiting for Phantom Limb to come out always made me feel a little nauseous, but standing in the pit surrounded by grown-ass women whose Phantom Limb T-shirts looked like they had been shrink-wrapped onto their curvy bodies, made me feel more than sick.
It made me feel invisible.
At least I’d worn a dress that night. It might have been black with little white Jolly Rogers all over it, and I might have accessorized with combat boots, but it was the girliest I’d looked since the fifth grade.
When the house lights went down and the crowd rushed the stage, I found myself pushed at least four rows back before the guys had even made it to their places.
Shit. That was mosh-pit territory. I knew better than to stay put.
The front four rows were packed way too tightly for me to squeeze through, so I wriggled over to the edge of the crowd instead. I was on Hans’s side, only about ten feet back, close enough to see the panic on his face when he glanced at the front row and didn’t see me there. I screamed his name and waved my arms just in time to catch his attention before Trip began his opening banter with the crowd.
When Hans’s eyes found me, I swear to God, my knees went weak. His manager had convinced him to start wearing eyeliner to their shows, and the result was fucking panty-melting. I wanted to run up onstage and wipe it off.
He smiled at me with one dimple as those black-rimmed blue eyes twinkled in the spotlight. His tattooed arm draped over the body of his glossy red bass guitar flexed in preparation. A wide studded belt holding up baggy slacks glinted in a flash of movement. And then our connection was gone. Hans cast his gaze down as he began to play and kept it there for the remainder of the show.
Until the kiss contest, I assume.
I didn’t stick around for that shit anymore. That cancan music was my cue to get the fuck out of there. I’d go pee, smoke, flash my fraudulent ID at a bartender to get a drink, balance my checkbook, anything to avoid seeing somebody else’s lips on my soul mate’s. That usually meant I’d get a good groping on my way in and out of the pit, but whatever. I didn’t have anything for them to grab anyway.
After finishing their second encore with a killer cover of “Terrible Lie” by Nine Inch Nails, the guys exited stage right to the deafening sound of screaming and declarations of love from the crowd, which no longer included me. I was already clawing my way out of the pit, making every effort to get my scrawny ass backstage and into Hans’s pinstripe pants before my competition.
I ran toward security with my backstage pass thrust out before me like an FBI agent waving a badge. Sprinting through the dark corridors backstage, I got lost repeatedly before finally catching a glimpse of Trip through the half-open green room door. He was hovering over a table covered in snacks and cold cuts, eating a rolled-up slice of turkey while some grade-A groupie was on bended knee before him, massaging his balls with both hands through his leather pants.
My stomach lurched. Not because of what I saw, but because of what it meant. If there was a woman desperate enough to worship over Trip’s weaselly, measly little pecker, then…
Hans must already be taken.
With a balled fist at the ready and my pounding heart in my throat, I took a deep breath and pushed the green room door the rest of the way open.
Sure enough, there he was, lounging on the couch across the room. Hans’s left arm was draped casually over the back of the sofa, and his sweet smile was trained on the bimbo with the bad Jennifer Aniston haircut sitting next to him. She was wearing a tank top so low-cut, he could use her cleavage as a beer koozie. Hans looked totally at home, his posture open and inviting, his attention fixed on the floozy who’d gotten there first.
I watched in suspended strike mode as Jennifer Skankiston handed Hans a Sharpie, then hooked an index finger into the top of her tank top. With a giggle, she tugged the stretchy fabric down, and just before her entire right breast sprang free, just as I reared back to launch myself at her, Hans caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye.
“Hey, baby!”
The smile that illuminated his chiseled face temporarily disarmed me as Hans leaped from his seat and rushed toward me. He’d gotten up so quickly that J. Skankiston had to hold on to the cum-encrusted upholstery with both hands to keep from falling on her stupid fucking face.
Hans snatched me up in a lung-crushing hug that I made absolutely no effort to reciprocate. Setting me back on my feet, he looked me over with a furrowed brow.
“What’s wrong?” Hans’s jovial mood turned sour at the sight of my scowl. His voice dropped an octave too. “What is it, baby? Did something happen?”
“Ugh!” I huffed and shook him off, stomping out of the green room and back into the labyrinth. The halls were lit at random intervals by red party bulbs, ominous shadowy darkness filling the stretches in between. It looked underworldly.
Fitting, I thought, seeing as how I was already in hell. I’d finally found the perfect man, and I was doomed to watch other women try to fuck him for the rest of eternity.
Following the exit signs, I eventually found an external door to thrust myself out of. Only instead of being revived by a crisp, invigorating blast of cool night air, like I’d hoped for, I
barreled headlong into the thick, hot simmering gravy that passes for air around here in the summertime.
I leaned over and placed my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath and stave off the angry tears threatening to spill, but the motion caused half the contents of my purse to spill out instead. Makeup, cigarettes, Jolene Godfrey’s driver’s license, and birth control pills rolled like dice across the finely ground bed of broken bottles and cigarette butts at my feet.
Awesome.
Just as I knelt down and began to collect my belongings, a dark figure knelt beside me. Five long, masculine fingers reached out in front of me and picked up the last item—a fat red envelope.
“Hey, you okay?” Hans’s voice was quiet as he ran his free hand down my back. Firm, not gentle.
I stood up straight and tall, rage boiling inside of me hotter and thicker than the July air, and snatched the envelope out of his hand. “No, I’m not fucking okay! That girl was about to pull her tit out, Hans!” I shoved the card into my purse and closed the flap, thankful he hadn’t seen his name scrawled on the other side. “I’m not fucking blind! Or did you just think that I was gonna look the other way, like I do with everything else?”
Hans didn’t stand up with me. He simply raised his hands in a pleading gesture. “Baby…”
“What if I hadn’t shown up tonight? What else of hers would you have signed?”
I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. My chest constricted as the mountain of things I’d been ignoring suddenly became too heavy for me to carry any longer. It wasn’t just about the girl. It was the question of whether or not his lips had been the kiss contest prize that night. It was the question of how many other girls had kissed him that I didn’t even know about. How many other girls had gotten backstage at how many other shows that summer and what had happened when I wasn’t there to break it up. It was the countless gray-area transgressions that just came with the territory. And they all crashed down on me at once in an avalanche of insecurity.
I took a step back, beginning to hyperventilate. “I…I can’t do this anymore.” I was shocked to hear myself say the words, but they were true. I couldn’t do it anymore. It was eating away at me. At my self-respect. At my sanity. I felt like I was going crazy.