Rising (Blue Phoenix, #4)(3)
I open my eyes and meet hers, the lost soul behind them pleading with me not to make things worse.
“Hands off her and I’ll go,” I growl at the guy.
He snorts and pulls his hand away so she stumbles, and then he raises them in a gesture of surrender. The red-haired girl steps back and disappears through the nearby fire exit before I can ask if she’s okay.
The dickhead and me stand off against each other for a moment. He’s drunk, his eyes not focused on me properly. Man, he’d be so easy to fight. I open and close my fist, fighting down the Jem who’d solve things without words. Then I turn away, taking a drag from my cigarette. If the dickhead hits me first, I’ll have an excuse.
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, he doesn’t. When I resume the position against the wall to finish my smoke, I glance over and he’s gone.
Not my problem.
****
I leave the empty alley and return to the busy club, the contrast in sound pushing away thoughts about my weird encounter. The lighting in the space between the bathrooms and the door is brighter and girls queue outside. At least one of them recognises me. I hear my name whispered. Beneath the heavy make-up and long, black hair, she’s young. Too young for me. Wow, I’m maturing. I laugh to myself, no, just getting too old for f-ucking girls in darkened corners. Not my style these days. Any more than a glance toward a chick, and I’m asking for attention so I adopt my ‘don’t f-ucking talk to me’ stance and stalk back to the bar.
I order a Coke, again questioning my wisdom in surrounding myself with one of the drugs that f*cked my life up. Why? Because in these bars I’m at the beginning, before I became Jem Jones, lead guitarist of the stratospheric Blue Phoenix. Where else can I immerse myself in the raw music that reminds me of the early days before I got lost?
Suddenly, the band launches into their set, no introduction, just a jarring guitar pitching into a frenzied song.
Powerful. Arresting.
I turn from the bar toward the stage, encouraged I might be hearing something decent after weeks listening to wannabes who need to rehearse a lot more before they play in public. Bodies fill the sticky, wooden floor between me and the band; strobe lights pick out the band members.
Front of stage, mic in hand is the red-haired girl.
What the hell? Her voice cuts into the sound, an energy and depth to compliment the overpowering music. She has the crowd transfixed. I’m transfixed and that never happens. She’s f-ucking amazing. Beautiful. Intoxicating.
How can someone with the strength and presence holding the crowd by the balls, be weakened by the dickhead who was holding her throat outside?
The rest of the band members are guys and I smirk with recognition as I watch the lead guitarist. He’s good, not as good as me, but makes up for it in his presence. He shakes his blond hair from his face and picks out a girl in the crowd before turning on the kind of smile I used myself. Tag, you’re it. Yeah, there’s a fair few chicks fixated on this wiry, muscular guy with the looks to match his swagger.
The drummer is half-hidden but pretty damn good too, and the bassist is lost at the opposite end of the stage, intently focused on his performance. You get that, some people have no idea how to perform to a crowd. Blue Phoenix bass player, Liam, isn’t big into performing but he gets to hide behind his long hair; this guy’s short spiky black hair hides nothing, including the piercings covering his face.
The more I stay, and the more I hear, I know Ruby Riot is beyond special. The acoustics in the place are shit, some of their gear is crap, but with decent equipment and sound engineers, this band would rock the f-ucking world. The world needs to hear Ruby Riot and at that moment, I decide to make it my job to see that they do.
I close my eyes to see what colour their music is – I see music as colour, always have and I was pretty damn happy when I discovered I share this condition with Jimi Hendrix. I suspect the drugs are responsible for the synaesthesia becoming stronger over time, more damage to my brain, but in this case, I’m happy about it. This song is purple; red and blue melded into a vibrancy to match her voice.
I don’t let the girl see me. I don’t need to; she knows I’m here. Other nights, when bands knew Jem Jones was scouting them, it reflected in their performance. I scared them into mistakes and if that’s going to happen, they’re not ready to step outside their pubs and club circuits. This chick, no. If anything, I suspect she’s performing better.
I guess I’ll have to find her afterwards.
Toward the end of the set, I disappear outside for another nicotine fix and when I get back, Ruby Riot has left the stage. I head to the Green Room, hoping to hell Mr Muscles isn’t the band spokesperson. The flaking blue painted door is ajar so I walk in.
“I said I’m sorry,” says the red-haired girl as she turns. “Oh. You.”
Her face glows from the performance and she drags her hair above her head, twisting the damp tendrils into a ponytail. The movement is impossibly sexy, her flushed face and wide-eyes adding to the almost innocent attraction. Her plain black tank top is soaked at the front, perspiration slicking her skin. This chick is hot. I blink. And too young.
“You never told me it was your band,” I say.
“Thought you might leave if I did.” She reaches for a bottle of water behind her and when she wraps her painted red lips around it, I immediately picture them around my dick. Yeah, I guess some things will never change.