I paused just long enough to answer, “I’ll finish it after I earn the championship this year.”
Then I moved, weaving past Mason, Tucker, Grayson, and the rest. Some were still in chairs, needles buzzing. Others lingered near the counter, inspecting fresh ink, snapping photos, laughing. I didn’t slow down. Didn’t excuse myself. Didn’t look for permission. I just left, the door swinging closed behind me, the studio fading behind the heavy drum of my heartbeat.
2
Sage
The bass thudded through the floor and up my legs as Ramona stepped into the mic and dragged the first note out of her throat like she meant to strip paint with it.
I was planted at my usual spot to the right of the stage, close enough to the speaker that the guitar vibrated through my ribs. Beer bottle in hand. Elbow tucked in tight so no one knocked it loose. The crowd pressed forward when the drums kicked in, bodies moving as one restless organism, and I stayed where I was, letting them surge around me.
On any other night, I would’ve been screaming the lyrics back at her, hair in my mouth, boots planted on the sticky floor while I shoved old high school friends out of my space.
Tonight I watched Ramona’s fingers fly over the strings and counted the beats instead.
A guy barreled into my shoulder, sloshing his drink across my forearm. “Sorry,” he shouted, already turning back to the girl grinding against him.
I wiped my skin on the side of my jeans and took a swallow of beer. It was still too full. That alone should’ve concerned someone.
Ramona caught my eye mid-chorus, eyebrow lifting in question. I lifted my bottle in salute and mouthed the words on cue. She gave me a grin that said she’d interrogate me later and swung back into the next verse.
The Static Dive pulsed around us. Tables near the back were packed with people yelling over each other, pitchers raised, laughter bursting between riffs. Up front, a knot of regulars moved in tight circles, hands in the air, boots stomping in time.
I stood close enough to the monitor that the distortion swallowed the loop in my head for half a measure at a time.
International tattoo convention in three weeks. Booth deposit already paid, but I had to come up with the rest soon. And a portfolio to speak of.
My mother’s voicemail from earlier sat unanswered in my pocket.
Someone tapped my arm. A girl with glitter smeared across her collarbone held up a vinyl sleeve. “Are you with the band?”
I glanced down at my Icy Veins band t-shirt—an OG from their first year on the gig circuit. “Do I look employed?”
She decided I was exactly who she was looking for, and stepped closer. “Can you get me their signed EP?”
“Stacks of ‘em at the merch table.” I hiked a thumb in the direction of stage left.
She wrinkled her nose. “Five bucks though?”
“Less than whatever you’re spilling out of that thing,” I said, nodding toward the solo cup tilting in her hand.
She rolled her eyes and melted back into the crowd. As they always do.
The guitar climbed into a solo, high and unrelenting, and I tipped my head back toward the speaker, letting it pour over me. My ears would ring tomorrow. Good. I wanted the noise.
Ramona moved across the stage with sweat darkening the neckline of her tank, voice pushing harder with every line. She lived for this part, the press of bodies, the lights, the way a room bent around her. Toward her.
I usually did too.
My phone vibrated against my thigh. I ignored it. If it was my mother again, she could leave another message. If it was the convention coordinator, they could email.
A second vibration followed.
I pulled it out, thumb hovering before I flipped the screen over without reading it. The band crashed into the final chorus, crowd shouting along, and I opened my mouth to join them.
The words came out thin.
Another body knocked into me, harder this time, and I stumbled a step toward the stage. A hand caught my elbow to steady me.
