The Red Hunter(47)

“How do you always do that?” he yelled over the din.

“Do what?”

“Just walk in like you own the place.” There was that goofy look again.

“I do own it,” she said. “In my mind.”

They both laughed at that, and he dropped an arm around her. At the bar, they just ordered Cokes, neither of them big drinkers. The crowd was pretty edgy—lots of ear gauges and tattoos, black leather. But it was the usual New York City mix—some people looked like they just got off work—loose ties and jackets hung over seats, silk blouses and pencil skirts. Some people were grunge, hair hanging and dirty looking, jeans ripped. Other people looked like they stopped by on their way home from the gym. One guy could have passed for homeless. In New York City, you fit. Even if you didn’t fit in anywhere else, you could find a place for yourself there. Not like the place her mother had dragged her. There you were one thing—blonde, pretty, tight-bodied, and rich—or you were a freak, an outsider. Not even a freak. You were nothing.

They found a spot by the stage, sipped their Cokes, and looked around. There was a throb, a deep pulse to the music playing over the speakers. Some of the band members were on stage, milling about, setting up equipment. She watched for him, Andrew Cutter, son of a rapist, her possible half brother. But she didn’t see him up there. In his photos he looked like an anime warrior, a mop of black hair, jet eyes, pale skin with an upturned nose and a cupid’s bow mouth. He had a mellow, easy voice and was a master on the guitar. There were some riffs from offstage, the drummer beat out a quick rhythm. The music on the speakers started to stutter, and then the rest of Trash and Angels burst onto the stage and immediately launched into one of their hard-rock jams.

He was standing in the rear, near the drummer, not lead vocal on this one. The blond, the one that called himself Charge, was hammering out lyrics about wanting someone and needing her and what was she doing to him. But Andrew—Raven had seen when she was Twitter stalking him that most people called him Drew, sometimes they called him “Angry” she guessed a riff on his @angryyoungman Twitter tag. He was deep, deep into his thing, head bowed over the strings, not looking up at the crowd, not interested in giving or receiving energy. It was the artist’s space, the one she could never seem to find, where you only care about the work before you, the rest of the world disappearing.

“Is that him?” Troy yelled, pointing.

She nodded. He looked up then, and she watched Troy’s face. Would he see it? How much they looked alike? Sort of. But Troy just shrugged, gave her an easy smile.

“He might look a little like you,” he yelled. “A little.”

They listened to the rest of the set. Drew never sang, never even moved to lead guitar. Once, she thought he looked at her, but it was brief. He could have just been glancing out at the audience.

“Okay,” said Troy, back by the bathrooms. “You’ve seen him. What now?”

“I’m going to try to get backstage,” she said. “Will you wait for me?”

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

“That’s not going to work,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said. “You’re a guy.”

He nodded, getting it. Alone, with a smile, she had confidence that she could open almost any door. Girls had that kind of magical power, didn’t they? Boys not so much. He would just be a tagalong anyway, her conscience, her better judgment. This type of endeavor could not be second guessed. Because it was stupid and impulsive and did not withstand scrutiny of any kind.

Of course, the muscle-bound Latino guy at the door let her right back to where the band was hanging out. And Drew was alone, toward the back of the room, reading. She felt eyes on her, the way men looked sometimes. She tried to make herself small. She wasn’t one of those girls. She didn’t want weird attention from boys and men; she didn’t vamp for it or ask for it. She didn’t blossom under it. You are the chooser, her mother always said. You are not chosen. They don’t get to pick and have you like a flower. They need to scale mountains and slay dragons. Then, maybe then, you might give them the time of day. Raven wasn’t interested in boys. She liked Troy, that was it.

“Hey,” she said. “Are you Drew?”

He looked up from the slim paperback in his hands. The Stranger, by Camus.

“That’s right,” he said. His face stayed still, a little blank. He cocked his head, seemed to take her in, every detail of her.

“Are you—?” he said.

“Butterfly dreams,” she said. She tried for a smile, but something about him made her nervous, self-conscious. “I’m Raven.”

She saw surprise flash across his face, a kind of angry startle. Then he seemed to shrink up. “What are you doing here? How did you get back here?”

It wasn’t exactly the reaction she’d expected. She thought, she didn’t know why, that he’d be warmer, nicer. That at least he’d be kind. She realized that everyone around them was laughing and partying, that they were in this dark corner, separate utterly from the group.

“I just wanted to—see you,” she said. Her voice sounded soft, stuttery. Her heart was a bird in a cage, flapping. “To see if there was a connection. I don’t know if Melvin Cutter is my father.”