by Rachael Wade
“Get on the damn bike, Grant.” She rolls one in front of me and climbs on the other, then takes off down the sidewalk. Is this girl really going to go up the hill on Denny Ave.? She’s not just exceptionally weird. She’s fucking crazy.
“Mira! Hold up!” I chase after her, hopping on the bike. Thankfully, she’s not entirely fucking crazy. We get off and walk the bikes up the hill, then jump on and sail down from the top. Mira’s laughing and I’m cursing behind her. She hollers at me over her shoulder, telling me to lighten up, and I tell her to watch out for buses and pedestrians. She falls and scrapes her knee when we come to a stop, and I fly off my bike and rush to her side.
“It’s fine,” she says, brushing the dirt off her torn legging. “Just a little cut.”
I move my hand to her knee and lean in to get a better look. “Are you sure? Let me see it.”
She pushes my fingers aside, shooing me away like a mother would a curious child. “Quit fussing. I’m fine.” My brow draws down as I still try and get a glimpse, hovering over her. When I glance up, she’s looking at me. I open my mouth, about to ramble on about band aids, bird poop on sidewalks, and other germs, but she leans forward, tilts her head, and brings her lips to mine.
I swallow my words and drown in the kiss, resting my good palm on the sidewalk to move in and accept the affection. I’m rooted to the ground; the city is a blur around us. Mira’s hair blows softly at her cheek as people walk by, and the blaring car horns and revving engines blend together faintly in the distance. All I feel is this girl’s mouth on mine; all I taste is her sincerity. She opens her eyes and her lips drift from mine. I don’t want them to leave, but I want to look at her. I want to listen to her.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
“What are you sorry for?”
She lifts a hand and runs it along my jaw, over my facial hair. The pad of her thumb makes contact with my bottom lip. “It’s been a while since anyone’s noticed me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Men. Since men have paid any attention.”
“Garrett pays plenty of attention to you.” Well, shit. So much for being subtle.
Her eyes widen a little and she smirks, glancing down at her busted knee. “That’s different.”
“I don’t see how. He’s a man, and he wants you. I think he’s made that pretty clear. So have I, yeah?”
“Garrett doesn’t really see me. I’m a project. A distraction. Something for him to focus on while he heals from the last break-up. The moment I actually give myself to him is the moment he’ll wake up and realize it’s not me he wants, after all.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’m never the one. I’m the one on the side. The dirty, little secret. The blind one.” Intensity sheathes her face and churns in her eyes. “But I’m not blind anymore. Garrett thinks I am, but I’m not.”
“What happened to you, Mira? Tell me.” I deliver a shot of equal intensity, unwilling and incapable of breaking eye contact.
“Come on.” She breaks it for me and stands, adjusting her dress as she steadies herself. “We’re going to be late.” She lends me a hand and I stand and join her. We pick up our bikes and quietly resume our ride, pedaling a few more blocks until we reach Capitol Hill. We bike down Olive Way in silence, pausing when we reach a dive bar on the edge of the next block. There’s a line forming outside the door, and excited chatter floats all around us.
“I should’ve known the groupie was taking me to one of her concerts.” I park my bike and wait for her to park hers next to mine. She locks them up and leads me to the side entrance, down a tiny alleyway.
“This band is going to blow up. Trust me, you’ll be thanking me in six months. Consider yourself lucky that you’re getting the chance to see them here, before we lose them to the Mainstream Gods forever.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?” She steps in front of a rusty old door and pounds her fist on it, waiting.
“You really were that kid in high school, weren’t you?”
“Let me guess. You were the kid who went sailing on your yacht and listened to Green Day.”
“What’s wrong with Green Day?”
“I was wrong. We can’t be friends.” Her head rolls back and she smacks her arms on her thighs.
“Whoa, whoa. Janet Jackson and Timbaland are sitting cozy in that stack of CDs in your bedroom, thank you very much.”
“I’m nostalgic.”
“Well, I’m nostalgic about Green Day.”
“No. You just have terrible taste.”
“And you’re just a stereotypical, pretentious Capitol Hill music snob.” I step forward, bringing my forehead to hers. She backs up and I corner her, breathing down on her pale skin, daring her to kiss me again. Okay, more like begging. This girl seriously turns me on.
It’s a problem.
I level her with wild eyes. “You better bring me inside before I fuck you right where you stand. Don’t think I won’t.”
She bites her lip as she glares up at me, stifling a laugh. Her voice is timid. “I kind of like the sound of that.”
“Yeah?” My hands can no longer stay to themselves. This girl is a conundrum. Shy and bold at the same time. Her innocence sends me flying. I want to taste her, want to be inside of her so goddamn badly. “I can make good on that, if you want.” My hand flies up, palm to the wall behind her, ready to go.
She presses her fingers into my torso, letting them trail down, teasing the space just above my belt. “I want. But we can’t miss the show.”
The rusty door unlatches from the other side. Voices rustle as it opens, greeting us and welcoming us inside. “Look who it is! Our little Mira Pie!” A tall, pale geeky guy with glasses open his arms and ushers us forward. “And…friend?”
“Hey, Carter! This is Grant.” She smiles up at him and slaps my shoulder, pushing me off her. I reluctantly back up and let her say hello to her friends. Another crazy musician hops out from the shadows, stealing Carter’s glasses. He places them on the bridge of his nose and bows before us. Some weird, Cockney accent rolls off his tongue. It’s a really, really bad faux accent. God help this dude if he ever actually visits England. They’ll hang him.
“Bloody hell, what do we have here, ol’ chap? Mira and….friend?” He wiggles his eyebrows as he looks at me, then Mira. Carter snatches his glasses back and rolls his eyes.
“Dean,” Mira says sweetly, “this is Grant. I want you to treat him like you treat me. No judging his musical tastes, got it? Not in his presence, anyway.” She winks and nudges my ribcage. “Only I get to do that. Grant, meet Carter and Dean. Also known as The Hellions. They’re opening for Wolf Alice tonight.”
“Wolf what?” I blink.
“Wolf Alice. The headliner. The band that is about to take the world by storm.”
“You look confused,” Carter says, reaching out to pat my arm. “Don’t worry. Just roll with it. Mira knows what she’s talking about.”
“Indeed!” Dean adds, pointing a finger in the air. “The Hellions are not worthy to be playing with such royalty. See for yourself.” He waves his arms out and steps aside, gesturing for us to come in. Mira leans up to peck both him and Carter on the cheek as she slips past them, towing me by the hand behind her. Fire stirs in my chest as I watch the exchange. I exhale and get myself in check. She is not my girl. She is just a hotel receptionist. Just another chick I want to fuck.
“Thanks, guys,” she squeals, pulling me farther into the hall. The moment we’re fully inside, everything is louder. Evidence of weed, incense, and beer permeate the air. You can get a contact high off this shit. I cough and stay close to Mira, right on her heels, letting her guide me through the throng of people backstage. Other groupie types hang around the musicians, engaging in lively discussion while passing cigarettes back and forth. Mira is right at home in her element, saying hello to everyone she passes, greeting them by name. They kiss her, hug her, squeeze her, and occasio
nally pat her playfully on the ass. She laughs and returns the gesture, grabbing a guitarist’s hat as she sails by him. He shrugs and lets her prop it on her head.
The excitement backstage is nothing compared to the excitement breeding in the front of house. As Mira takes me through a side door to enter the main floor area, I’m nearly blown back by rowdy fans eagerly lining up against the stage. They slowly fill the space, shuffling in from the main entrance in steady droves.
“You doing okay there, Partner?” Mira asks, raising her voice over the noise.
“How many people can fit in this tiny space?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Should I get us something to drink?”
She turns around, squishing her body up against mine to let a group of people pass by us. “If you’re brave enough to fight your way to the bar, sure.”
I look around, scanning over the tops of peoples’ heads to locate the bar. It isn’t hard to find in a small place like this. “I think I can handle it. Where do you wanna stand?”
She laughs. “Stand? We’re not standing out here.”
“At the bar, then?”
“No. We’ll be back there.” She tips her chin back toward the door we just came from. “With the bands. I just wanted to see this. Isn’t it amazing?”
“Of course, we will.” I shake my head. “Yep, amazing. Okay, can I go get us drinks now?”
She tugs on the edge of my blazer. “You don’t really have to try and make it to the bar, silly man. Plenty of booze in the back. Come on.” She takes in the booming space once more, grinning widely with pride, then turns and redirects us to the backstage door. We squeeze on through the clusters of people, and claustrophobia begins to dig its claws into me. It mixes with irritation when I spot Garrett, heading straight for Mira. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see me at all. And knowing what she’s just told me about him, knowing he’s had her and I haven’t—or has maybe just been closer to having her than me—pisses me the hell off.
“Gina says hey,” Mira says to him as he approaches her, reaching down for a hug. She squeezes my hand tighter and pats him lightly on the back as he bends down.
“Tell her hey, back. She owes me for that thing, from that one time when that other thing happened.”
“Oh, that thing.”
“Yeah. I hated that thing.”
“I’ll let her know. You remember Grant, right?”
He finally looks at me. He finally sees it. Instantly, a challenge is ignited. I’m not one to fight for chicks. I sure as hell am not one to engage in a stupid fucking brawl at some dive bar in Capitol Hill. But the way this dude is spitting daggers at me with that broody fucking gaze of his right now, I just might make an allowance. Or two.
“Oh. Right.” He looks back at Mira. “You talk to Carter and Dean yet?”
“Yeah, they let us in. Haven’t seen them since, though. Think they’re gearing up for their set.”
“Well, when you see them, tell them to come find me. I have that movie they wanted. The BBC knock-off of that weird comedy thing from that one year.”
Mira’s forehead wrinkles. “No, that’s not confusing at all.”
“Nope. Not at all.” Garrett squeezes her shoulder before he slinks off. “Beer’s on the back table, there. Help yourself, Sweetheart.”
“You’re so good to me.”
“I try.”
Mira turns and raises her gaze to meet mine. “You don’t have to like him, but he just offered you free beer.”
“No, he offered you free beer.”
“Well, you’re my friend. And guest. So if I get free beer, so do you.” She swings around and walks us over to the table Garrett was talking about. The bottles are going fast. Mira swipes up two and hands me one, popping the cap on mine first before opening hers. She hands the bottle opener off to someone else and takes a healthy swing.
“Do friends kiss friends, too?”
“Some friends. I guess friends like us do.”
“Uh huh.” I take a sip of my own beer and vaguely wonder when—or if—this girl is going to clean up her banged-up knee tonight. I want to clean it up for her. Want to doctor her up just as she did for me the night I cut my hand in her apartment. Carina might have been the one to tie up the loose ends, but Mira was the first responder.
“It’s almost time. The Hellions are starting!” Mira jumps up and down, and I totally see the groupie in her come alive. It was obvious before, but it’s glaringly loud, now. She was probably a closet emo-hipster type since she was twelve. Apparently, she’s never outgrown the damn phase. Here she is, live and in the flesh at twenty-something, wearing those god-awful combat boots, while nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon in support of her favorite indie bands at some shithole in Capitol Hill. And the lame fedora she swiped off some poor soul backstage? Let’s not forget that one. I’m waiting for her to bust out the suspenders next.
On second thought, Mira in nothing but suspenders, with those boots and that hat doesn’t sound too bad. Sounds like a fucking dream, actually.
The Hellions tumble on stage with a bang, easily winning over the main band’s fans. With their goofy top hats and British bow ties, they’re charming. I’ll give ‘em that. But what I’m really blown away by is the main act’s opening song. As The Hellions exit the stage, there isn’t a long intermission. Wolf Alice is up there in a matter of minutes, jumping right into their latest single, “Moaning Lisa Smile”. All it takes is some fine tuning and a little set-up, and they’re rolling, reeling the crowd in with their grungy vocals and heavy riffs.
I’m sucked in, just like the crowd, as we watch from backstage. Mira positions herself in front of me, pressing her back against my chest, swaying to the music. Her arms come up and she hooks one around my neck, singing along as she intermittently sips her beer. She’s in heaven right now. It’s beyond sexy to see this girl so immersed in her scene, so completely in her own skin. I might not fit into this scene. I might not belong here. But for now, in this moment, I’m a part of the act.
Right now, Mira is the missing puzzle piece, and the world just makes a lot more fucking sense.
NINE
“Don’t move,” I say over Mira’s shoulder, as she unlocks her apartment door. “Spider. Near your head.”
“What?” She freezes and starts to squeal. “Get rid of it! Get rid of it!”
“What do you want me to do, kill it?”
“No! I mean, yes! I mean…no. Don’t kill it. Just brush it away, quickly!”
“Brush it away? With what, my bare hands? Are you crazy?”
Her hand is glued to the key as it hangs in the door knob. “I don’t know, use something. Anything!”
It’s then that my laughter breaks. Just like smiling, it feels incredibly unnatural. And if I’m honest, downright scary. But this girl’s face, and the way her voice jumped about ten octaves the moment I mentioned the word spider, is hilarious. “I’m only kidding.”
“What?”
“There’s no spider.”
She spins around to face me, her nostrils flaring and eyes on fire. “How could you do that? Why would you do that?”
I keep laughing. She smacks my chest.
“You’re suck a prick!”
“You’re inviting this prick inside, so…I can’t be that bad.”
“Forget it. I changed my mind.” She pivots and pops the door open, stepping inside.
“What’re you gonna do, make me ride my bike home?”
“It’s not your bike. Get a cab.” She shuts the door in my face and I wait, staring patiently at the peeling ivory paint. Seconds tick by. I can hear her storming around like an angry bear, cabinets closing, keys dropping, feet padding across the floor. Until finally, the knob jiggles and she peeks out, slowly pulling the door open. “Say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re lying.”
“I am.”
Her nostrils flare again, but she can’t suppress the smile that’s cr
eeping onto her lips. She yanks the door open fully and steps back, folding her arms. “I’m going to take a shower. Help yourself to water. It’s all I have.”
“Mmmm water. Yum.”
“Stay away from the carrots. And my knives.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She disappears into the bathroom and I’m left alone to twiddle my thumbs. I pour some water and scan her CD collection again, picking up various albums to pull out and study the art work. I remember these days. When the release of a physical album was the most exciting thing happening in the music world, next to live shows. When flipping through the insert and reading the lyrics was your prize for paying to purchase the actual disc. The covers I design nowadays are still important. They’re still crucial to the representation of the artists’ musical creation. But now their visibility is so fleeting. They flash on a screen as you scroll for new music. They’re there, on your iPod or phone or whatever the hell you use as a medium, but they’re not really there.
And that’s just sad.
I move to the little kitchen for a glass of water. Mail is piled up on one end of the counter. Bills, from the looks of it. All of them unopened. She’s not kidding. She must really be hurting. I lift one of the envelopes from the stack and eye it before chucking it back down. She could do so much better than this damn hotel. Not that it isn’t a nice place to work. It’s a respectable job, and she seems to enjoy the work. But the pay for all they expect her to do?
It’s downright insulting.
Then again, that’s the corporate machine. It’s how the wheels turn. It’s why if I ever had to give up what I do, I’d probably snap and pull a Chris McCandless. Burn all my money and take off for Alaska. Society can be damn depressing sometimes. When life is so short, so fragile, why do we waste one second of it doing anything other than what we want to do? It’s completely senseless. There’s no joy in that. No freedom. Only chains. And haven’t we been fighting various forms of slavery for decades, now? What about this kind? I think it deserves some damn attention.
I gulp down the last of my water and set the glass in the sink, stirring myself from my thoughts. All they do is trigger memories. Remind me just how urgent life really is. We can’t ever really slow down. There’s no such thing. Because if we slow down, we miss something. We miss all kinds of things. Isn’t that the scariest thing about life, in the very end? Not what we regret or the mistakes we’ve made, but the harsh realization that stares us in the face when we look at all the things we haven’t done. The mistakes we never even had the chance to make, because we never had the experience.