I recognize the drummer from the last show—long, dirty blond hair, dark, uneven scruff along his jaw… His hazel eyes are glazed over with dark circles beneath that appear as if he hasn’t slept in weeks. He’s wearing a classic band tee and a plaid shirt over it, tattooed arms resting casually on the bar top as he sinks back another drink.
“—I think she’s wrong. All of his pictures on socials look different,” Mira goes on.
“Yeah, that’s because he uses more glamour filters than I do,” I mutter, having seen his socials. “I’ll be back,” I say as I push off the table.
“Wait, you’re going to talk to him?” Mira asks.
I frown at her. “Yeah. Why?”
Her mouth snaps shut; eyes wide with disbelief. “Ah…”
“I’ll be back,” I repeat.
I turn on my heel before she can say another word. The entire way over, I’m practicing what I should say. Yet even in the midstof my mind working overtime, when I reach him, I completely forget it.
I slide my elbows onto the bar and lean in, signaling the bartender for a drink. “Two shots of vodka,” I tell him when he comes over.
“One of those better be for me,” Rad says, and I glance his way.
“Yeah? Better put it on your tab then,” I reply as the bartender slides the shots toward me.
Rad scoffs and nods at the bartender’s questioning stare, and I shift over a seat. Rad takes the second shot, clanks my glass against his, and together we gulp them back.
“It’s Rad, right?” I ask.
He huffs in an annoyed way. “Right. A groupie. Should have known by the hair,” he says, reaching out for one of the neon green streaks in my blonde waves.
Did he really just touch my fucking hair?
The motion irks me.
“Not hardly, dude. You’re really not my type,” I say, and he takes a sip of his beer in response.
“Right, okay,” he says. “Let me guess… You sing? Hoping to get in on one of the tracks?”
“Wrong again,” I say. “I am a big fan though. The music is awesome. It’s hard to believe you guys haven’t scored a deal yet.”
“You actually like this shit?” he asks, and the sentence makes me squint.
“You don’t like your own music?” I ask.
“You know, I was once in another metal band back in college… Now, that shit. That was fucking music. Not this core crap,” he says.
The fuck.
“Real metalheads don’t shit on other people for their taste in music,” I challenge.
He eyes me. “Real women don’t talk back,” he says.
I almost laugh at how much I already fucking hate this guy.
God, I hope the rest of the band isn’t this shitty.
“Ha. Yeah, okay.” Because a guy like this isn’t worth getting into a fight with right now, even if I want to fucking deck him. “So, why are you here? If you hate Young Decay’s music, why bother?”
Rad takes another sip of his drink and glares across the room. My gaze follows, landing on a guy in a black mask that covers half of his face, and a taller, lanky guy with black hair beside him.
Mads Tourning and Reed Matthews.
