“Yeah, that’s fine.”
She tapped an app on her phone and then pushed a buttonthat began recording. “I’m speaking with Dani Mankin on June twentieth. Dani’s the drummer for Once Upon a Riot. So, Dani, anything you say from here on out will be consideredon the record—meaning that, if there’s something you don’t want me to write about, you’ll want to explicitly say so.”
“Could it be as simple as asking you to turn off the recording?”
“I guess,” she said, unwrapping her veggie sub, “but it would be better if I kept recording and you explicitly told me what you were saying was off the record. That way I know exactly what’s off limits and I can remind myself.”
At first, I thought it might be a trap, because she would have me recorded as saying something, and she could use it against me. But, despite my initial dislike of Roxy, the more time I spent with her, the more I trusted her. When she’d interviewed us before and Zack had told her Braden’s confession to the two of us dating was off the record, she’d respected that. Besides, there was something about her that made me feel like I could rely on her to keep confidential what I asked of her.
Of course, I was not a good judge of character. My first best friend had been the worst—manipulative and always eager to share my secrets when it worked in her favor. My second best friend’s betrayal had hurt just as much but in a different way.
Roxy could potentially be the third strike—and if it turned out that way, I’d know I just wasn’t meant to have a close friend in this life and that my judgment of people was flawed.
We spent the first five or ten minutes covering my history with the band, a story I’d told many a time to interviewers—Roxy included—that of Zack recruiting his reluctant friend but then how I grew to love it and the career we’d chosen. Then she asked about our early days, and I had the opportunityto tell her how many times I’d been dismissed because I was a woman or, worse, weaponized because, as the men would say,sex sells.
“Jesus,” Roxy broke in. “It’s the same old story. Why can’t men just keep their junk in their pants?”
“Well, in all fairness, they weren’t alwayshittingon me—”
“Yeah, but I’m talking in the figurative sense. If they’renottrying to fuck you, they’re trying to tell you what to do or how to act. Their dick is their figurative scepter that they wave around, brandishing their authority.”
“I think you’re right,” I said, taking a bite of my BLT.
“This is great stuff. Are you okay if I talk about it? Without mentioning names, of course.”
“Yeah. I don’t think people realize just how much misogyny occurs in music.”
“Oh, Dani, I wish I could tell you it was just music. It really depends on who you’re dealing with and where you are. I’ve seen it some in publishing but, strangely enough, I haven’t had a whole lot of it working atFerocity. Once I got the tattoos and started driving a motorcycle, they—”
“A motorcycle?”
“Yeah. Cheaper on gas, too. But I think a lot of the guys leave me alone because they think I’m a lesbian.”
“Are you?”
“No. I mean…I’ve experimented, but haven’t we all?”
Ihadn’t—and suddenly, I felt like the rural Colorado bumpkin with no experience. Sure, I’d had a bit of a wild phase, but Zack—and maybe Braden—was the only man I’d ever loved, ever given myself over to, and my experimentation had only revolved around guys and drugs, and that phase had been short-lived. So I shrugged, letting her take my response and no words however she wanted.
“I love men—but I also love not getting hit on at work.”
“What about rock stars? Like the guys you interview? Do they make any passes at you?”
“Once in a while. I almost took a guy up on it one time—but I knew if I did, then the rumor would get around that I was easy, and I’d only be able to get a good interview if I gave a guy a blowjob first. I might be young, but I worked hard to get here and earn the respect I deserve and I’m not gonna blow it just because some good-looking rock star makes me feel a little tingly between the legs.”
“That’s so smart,” I said.
Roxy cocked an eyebrow and slowly grabbed for her drink. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“No, I’m serious. I let my heart get in the way all the time and I think that’s part of my problem.”
Relaxing, she gave me a soft smile. “I know. That’s hard—especially when the guy’s hot as hell and his lyrics make you feel like he’s bared his soul to you. You’re vulnerable right off the bat.”
I let her words slowly sink in. “Oh, my God. You’re so right.”
“Has that happened to you?”
“Yeah. Only worse.”
