“Obviously,” both Miranda and I say at the same time, and she grins at me.
“—but you should at least meet him. I really have heard he’s so nice. And he likes you!” For all that he’s her “favorite,” she doesn’t seem at all bothered that he’s apparently (weirdly) into me. I don’t think either of them particularly care about which band member they hook up with; they just want to hook up with one of them.
It’s not necessarily the hooking up part I’m resistant to. I’m not much of a one-night-stand girl, but it’s not like I’ve never had one, or really regretted it when I did. It’s more that I’m not comfortable with the party atmosphere in general, and I’m also not comfortable with the notion that some guy thinks that just because he’s a hot rock star, he can pluck me from the pool of groupies for the honor of his presence, and I’m supposed to—what? Be giddy with gratitude?
I’m alsoreallynot comfortable with the little part of me that sort of is. Giddy, at least. I’m not sure about the gratitude.
“Unless,” Leigh says, her eyebrows drawing down in concern. “Are you feeling too tired? Like, was the concert too much? Do you think this would set you back?”
“You sound like my mom,” I grouse. But really, I appreciate it. Usually I’m the cautious one, but when it comes to my illness, Leigh in particular is always careful to check in about how much is too much, do I need to sleep some more, etc.
Okay, sometimes it’s a little stifling. But only because I do it to myself already.
Maybe it’s that concern that makes up my mind. I know my limits. I can be careful and cautious and still have a good time. And if it causes another flare-up, well. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last.
“I’m good,” I say. “And yeah, let’s do it.Though—” I add, narrowing my eyes and pointing at them when they both start beaming in excitement. “I reserve the right to leave anytime, without you guys. Just because I leave doesn’t mean you should miss out on what is clearly some life-goal fulfillment here.” I roll my eyes dramatically at the last part.
They laugh, and Leigh nearly knocks me over with a hug, and Miranda starts pushing both of us bodily against the flow of traffic and toward the backstage entrance. Our first stop, however—per Leigh and Miranda’s insistence—is the women’s bathroom for a makeup refresh. It’s pretty obvious that they aren’t the only ones with this idea, judging by the cluster of girls crowded around the sinks, wiping off mascara streaks and swapping lipstick and drying their armpits out with the hand dryer.
On principle, I want to refuse to worry about whether my (already minimal) makeup is still in place. But I find myself reapplying my lipstick anyway. Not that I need to. It’s just to give myself something to do while my friends fight for sink space.
We leave the bathroom, and as we head toward backstage, my nerves are ratcheting up.There’s a big bouncer guy blocking the entrance, and a whole crowd of girls begging to be let in, flirting with him, and I see him letting by a few of the most model-esque, scantily clad ones. Ugh.
“They don’t even have passes,” I say.
“Oh, they have passes,” Miranda says pointing at her own (still-shirtless) chest. But even she looks irritated by this. I doubt, though, it’s for the same reasons I am.
The bouncer takes a single look at our passes and waves us in, much to the chagrin of all the (many) girls who are being kept out. We head down a hallway, and find ourselves at the green room after-party.
I’m not sure exactly what I expected—a hip, LA club atmosphere? Naked Jell-O wrestling? Smoky orgy crack den?—but this is none of those things. It actually reminds me of the few college parties I’ve been to, minus the kegs.There are couches and armchairs around the room, several of which are occupied by laughing girls snuggled up to guys who I’m guessing are either friends of the band or their roadies. One couch is facing a big-screenTV on the wall, and a couple guys are playing some shooter video game.There’s no real bar, per se, but there is a counter in the back with bowls of chips and a fridge with a see-through front that contains various beers and sodas and, weirdly, Pedialyte.There are several people doing shots of whiskey from one couch, and there’s rock music in the background which I’m pretty sure isn’t Accidental Erotica. I can’t tell if it’s actually being played quieter than at normal college parties, or if I’m mostly deaf now.
My nerves are still on high alert, though, because I don’t see—
“Where the fuck is the band?” Miranda asks, narrowing her eyes.
“They’ll be here,” Leigh says, as if she goes to these things all the time (to my knowledge, she does not), and flits off to the bar to grab herself a beer. On the way there, in the space of about thirty seconds, she flirts with three different dudes in crew-member black.
Miranda may be determined to bag a band member—and no doubt will, because Miranda—but Leigh slips in like she’s the one throwing the party.
I shrug at Miranda, who looks to be plotting the best position for lying in wait, when suddenly one of the doors to the side opens—a dressing room, I guess—and the singer, JT, walks out with new clothes on and his short hair still wet, like he just got out of the shower.
The energy in the room instantly skyrockets. People cheer and yell for him to come join them. Girls abandon the roadies they were draped on to fawn over him. JT yells to some guy named Andrew who’s chatting up Leigh by the fridge, and Andrew tosses him a beer, which comes within an inch of clocking some girl on the head before JT catches it.
Everyone cheers like JT just won gold in Olympic Beer Catching.
And then Shane comes out of the room next to him—also in new clothes, looking very post-shower—and the whole thing ratchets up even higher and I swear someone turned the music up, as if the dude needs his own theme song.
I want to make a comment to Miranda, but she’s already shoving her way into the crowd of girls who suddenly feel the need to dance sexily to what I think is an old Beastie Boys song and not particularly made to club grind to.
What I should do is leave, because I’m getting more uncomfortable by the minute, and maybe I’m feeling tired, after all, and—
A tap on my arm makes me jump and spin around.
And there’s Kevin, who apparently snuck in. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, it’s—It’s fine.” I’m a little breathless, and I’d prefer to think it’s because of the whole crowded party situation and not because Kevin is actually hotter up close, his dark skin glistening a little with that post-shower damp.
“I’m Kevin Collins,” he says, and it’s unexpected to hear him announce his full name, but I like that he doesn’t automatically expect every girl he meets to know everything about him.
