Maya
It’s my twenty-fourth birthday, and I’m at a concert for a band I’ve never heard before, squished uncomfortably in a huge screaming crowd with friends who are tossing off their shirts like it’s Mardi Gras.
Except I know it’s not beads they’re trying to get, but a backstage invite and a hookup with whatever members of Accidental Erotica’s attention they can catch. Which doesn’t seem all that out of character for Leigh, honestly, but I’m a little surprised at Miranda’s enthusiasm—she’s usually more picky with her hookups.
Though when she wants something, she goes all in. Which in this case apparently means sacrificing her perfectly good shirt, despite my best efforts to stop her.
“Oh my god,” Leigh shrieks from other side of Miranda. “I let you borrow that!”
Scratch that. Apparently it means sacrificingLeigh’sperfectly good shirt.
Miranda gives her that determined, take-no-prisoners look I’ve grown used to over fifteen years of friendship. “It’ll be worth it when we’re backstage,” she yells back over the loud crashing notes of the song.
“Wooo!” Leigh says in mildly intoxicated agreement, and both Miranda and I laugh. I knew I should’ve tried to stop her from drinking that third margarita at Chili’s, but I honestly thought that my birthday celebration meant dinner and an old-fashioned sleepover at Miranda’s apartment, complete with horror-movie marathon. When Miranda announced there was a surprise change of plans and brandished three tickets to an Accidental Erotica concert she’d won from a radio contest that morning (“Front row, ladies!”), I didn’t have the heart to deny them their chance at rock-star-banging glory. And it suddenly made sense why the both of them had dressed up like they were going clubbing instead of having margs at Chili’s.
“We don’t have to go,” Miranda said. “It’s your birthday. It’s not too late to sell these—the show’s sold out.”
“She’s right. We really don’t have to go, Maya,” Leigh said, but I hadn’t missed the inadvertent little whimper she’d made when Miranda mentioned selling them.
“But it could be fun to try something new,” Miranda said with a knowing look, waving the tickets back and forth. “Something . . .out of your comfort zone.”
Shit, I thought. Because I’d just told her last week that I was feeling a little stagnant.
So here we are. And this isn’t actually so bad. Even if I may not be able to hear for the next week. Even if I think the whole thing is ridiculous and demeaning. Miranda is a badass, powerhouse law student, and Leigh is a sweet, selfless environmental activist. Both are gorgeous, too—Leigh’s got this sort of adorable Irish-pixie look to her, pale and freckled, with chin-length bright red hair, and Miranda is half Korean and half white, tall and model-graceful. And I’m the cautious, protective one who thinks they both deserve way better than entitled rock stars who require some sort of boob-quality assessment before determining their hookup potential.
But I suppose it’s not like they’re looking for life partners here. And, truth is, the guys are pretty hot.
I flick a glance back over to the lead guitarist, the lone black guy in the band. He’s looking right at me, and when he smiles, I feel a flutter in my chest. I eye him back.There’s no denying how good-looking he is—he’s got broad shoulders, toned arms, sepia-brown skin and his hair cut in a short fade—but if he’s hoping I’m going to toss my shirt up there to join Miranda’s (well, Leigh’s), he’s going to be disappointed.
He does have an incredible smile, though.
Miranda’s long, dark hair nearly whips me in the face as she dances in place.
“So are you going shirtless for the rest of the night?” I yell to her.
“If that’s what it takes.” She grins at me again, bobbing up and down so her boobs bounce.Thank god she’s still got her bra on, practically see-through though it is. Not that she wasn’t lifting that up earlier, too.
“Does this really work? It’s not like they’ve never seen boobs before.”
“They’ve never seen mine!” Leigh says, beaming.Though that statement stopped being true about half an hour ago.
“Did you see Shane laugh when I tossed my shirt?” Miranda asks. “We get back there, he’s mine.”This last part she yells to Leigh, who sticks her tongue out at her.
“Which one is Shane?” I ask.
This garners me one wide-eyed gape of disbelief (Leigh) and one long-suffering head shake (Miranda).
“I told you I don’t know these guys!” I yell. “Is he that blond white guy or the other blond white guy?”
The band has just finished another song while I was speaking, and I’m glad the screams around us are instantaneous, preventing me from shouting that awkwardly into some beat of silence.
Leigh giggles, still a little tipsy, and Miranda points at the bassist, a tall guy in ripped jeans, and with shaggy hair I’m sure was inspired by an old picture of Kurt Cobain. “Thatblond white guy. Shane Beckstrom.”
Admittedly, he’s the cuter of those two. And I know I’ve heard that name before, and not just from Miranda or Leigh.
My eyes dart over to the guitarist again, but I can only see his backside—it looks like he’s talking to someone just off-stage while the singer (other blond white guy) yells into the microphone about how he “fucking loves Denver” and the audience screams like he just announced he discovered the cure for cancer.
I want to roll my eyes, but I find them pretty hardcore focused on the guitarist’s backside.
